When the Protests Came Home: Saba Saba Hit Our Compound Today

 Today, July 7th, was Saba Saba. For most of my life, Saba Saba was a story from history books, a memory of battles fought for the freedoms we now have. We’d talk about the bravery, the sacrifices. But today, the story walked right through our gate. It became a living, breathing, terrifying experience for my family, right here in our own compound.

This morning was meant to be like any other Monday, even with the talk of protests in town. But by late morning, the sounds started to get closer. Not the usual city sounds, but something sharper, more aggressive. Soon, our compound, the place where my children usually play freely, became a battleground.

Our Home Under Siege: The Chaos Unfolds

I was inside, trying to keep track of the news, trying to understand if it was safe to even step out. Then, the first crack. The unmistakable thud of a tear gas canister landing. It wasn't far. The acrid, burning smell filled the air instantly. It stung my eyes, my throat, my nose. My children, thankfully, were inside, but the fear in their eyes was immediate. They started coughing, their small bodies shaking. We quickly tried to block windows, but the gas was everywhere.

Then came the sounds of shouts protesters, police. And then, terrifyingly, the sharp, cracking sound of what could only be live bullets. My heart pounded against my ribs. I grabbed my children, pulling them closer, trying to shield them from the windows, from the sounds, from the reality crashing into our safe space. This wasn't happening on TV; it was right here, outside our door, inside our compound's air.

For hours, the standoff continued. The air remained thick with tear gas, making it impossible to breathe normally. My eyes watered constantly, and my throat burned. My kids coughed and cried, confused and scared. "What's happening, dad? Why is it burning?" they asked, questions that cut deeper than any tear gas ever could. How do you explain that your own government's police are firing weapons, including tear gas and possibly live rounds, into the very place meant to protect you?

The Invisible Scars and Tangible Losses

We are safe now, thank God. But the feeling of security, the peace of mind in our own home, is shattered. How do I tell my kids that the same people meant to keep us safe were involved in an event that filled our home with choking gas and the sound of gunfire? How do I explain that this chaos stemmed from people like us, fighting for basic needs, for food, for jobs, for a fairer life? The invisible scars of this fear will last longer than the burning in our eyes.

And the losses go beyond fear. Today was meant to be a day of earning. Like so many Kenyans, our daily lives are built on consistent work. Because of the widespread unrest and the direct impact on our compound:

• My own small ventures came to a complete halt. No deliveries, no meetings, no work done. That's a full day's income lost, directly impacting our family budget. The money I expected to put food on the table, to pay for school needs, or even just daily fare, simply isn't there.

• The boda boda riders who usually operate near our compound were nowhere to be seen. Their motorcycles, their only source of income, sat idle. They, too, lost an entire day's earnings, unable to ferry people or goods.

• The nearby Mama Mboga, who lives just down the lane, had to close her stall. Her fresh produce, her lifeline, will likely spoil. That’s her capital, her daily profit, gone.

• The construction workers on a site just two streets away, who are paid by the day, simply didn't get to work. Their families will feel that absence of income tonight.

This isn't just about big numbers on a national economic report. It's about millions of lost shillings, one household at a time. It's about the fear that now lingers in our homes, the struggle to explain the unexplainable to innocent children, and the painful reality that the pursuit of fundamental rights can sometimes turn our very homes into zones of conflict.

Today, Saba Saba 2025, showed us that the fight for a better Kenya is not just in the streets or in Parliament. Sometimes, it lands right at your doorstep. It leaves behind the smell of tear gas, the echo of gunshots, and the question: how do we heal from this, and how do we ensure such a day never hits our compound again? The answers must come from a shared commitment to dialogue, accountability, and putting the lives and livelihoods of every Kenyan, especially our children, above all else.