Before We Vote

We have learnt to be afraid
in ways our parents never taught us.

Afraid of a knock at the door.
Afraid of a phone call after midnight.
Afraid when someone says,
“I’m almost home,”
and the minutes keep passing.

We have watched our streets change.

Maandamano came,
and with them came teargas,
running feet,
raised hands,
young people shouting
for a country they believed could hear them.

Then came the names.

Names we whispered.
Names we posted.
Names we refused to forget.

Some went missing.
Some came back changed.
Some never came back at all.

And somehow,
the next morning still came.

We went to work.
Opened our shops.
Took our children to school.
Bought smokies on the roadside.
Laughed at TikTok videos.
Fell in love.
Got married.
Buried our dead.

Because what else does a Kenyan do
when the country is hurting?

We live.

But we do not live without fear.

Now another election is coming.

And if I am honest,
I am scared.

Not because Kenyans do not know how to vote.

We do.

I am scared because we have seen
how quickly politics can turn neighbour against neighbour,
how easily a rally can become a battlefield,
how quickly a young man can become a number,
a mother can become a mourner,
a missing person can become a hashtag.

I am scared because we have memories.

We remember.

We remember the tear gas.
The gunshots.
The bodies.
The disappearances.
The funerals.

And we wonder:

Will we have to survive another election
instead of simply participating in one?

Because I want a Kenya
where choosing a leader
doesn’t mean choosing who gets to be afraid.

Where a young person can protest
and still come home.

Where speaking your mind
doesn’t make you disappear.

Where our children grow up knowing
the word election means democracy—
not danger.

I don’t want to teach my child
which roads to avoid when politics gets heated.

I don’t want to teach them
how to recognise the sound of gunshots.

I don’t want another generation
to inherit our fear.

So before we vote,
before the rallies,
before the slogans,
before politicians ask us to fight
for people who will shake hands after the election—

let us remember something:

We are the ones who have to live here afterwards.

You will still meet me at the matatu stage.
I’ll still buy vegetables from you.
Our children will still play together.
We will still share this country.

So let us not destroy Kenya
trying to decide who gets to lead it.

Let us disagree.

Let us protest.

Let us vote.

But let us come home.

Because Kenya is not a prize to be won.
Kenya is home.