I Fled Kenya's Anger

I fled Kenya on January 1, 2008, leaving a country that was tearing itself apart in the confusion, anger, and disappointment following the contested presidential elections held on December 27, 2007.

I had been living and working in Mombasa, East Africa’s largest port and a thriving coastal city known for its laid back attitude and Swahili culture. I was there to coordinate the development of large scale public infrastructure projects for The Student Movement for Real Change, a DC-based non-profit. Life in Kenya had been challenging, yet satisfying; every day brought new opportunities and even more conundrums, as only life in the Third World can.

Election day was quiet and relaxed, as Kenya’s farmers and bankers, herders and consultants, queued and voted at polling stations throughout the picturesque country, enjoying their day off and their ability to participate, unhindered, in their thriving democracy.

For some time Kenya had been Africa’s shining jewel of successful democratization and development, epitomizing what strong stances on graft and governance could do in raising a country up, out of the ashes of greed and into the realm of equal opportunity. This is not to say that Kenya was without serious inequities and injustices, but on the whole, especially in comparison to its puckish neighbors, Kenya was on the move, and the direction was inspired by progress.

On the day after the election I was enjoying yet another public holiday, and reading contentedly in my flat in the center of Mombasa, when I received an ominous call from a friend, advising me to stay inside, as trouble had been reported in town. I curiously peered out my third floor window facing Haile Selassie Boulevard, one of Mombasa’s main commercial and social arteries.

The street, normally crowded with stalwarts of the informal economy, sidewalks covered in everything from hosiery to fruit, DVDs to crafts, was being abandoned faster than the time it takes for a policemen to exact a bribe.

Hawkers abandoned their wares and fled, along with everyone else in sight, with a speed and urgency so primal, so instinctual, that it jarred me just watching.

The street emptied in a matter of moments, pedestrians diving into shops and restaurants, as shutters and doors were slammed shut behind them, blocking out the chaos of the street and the imminent danger quickly trampling this normally bustling town.

A moment later the confusion was clear to me. I watched the scene unfold from above, as if watching a Hollywood movie or documentary footage, except that this was live, real, and dangerous.

An angry and riotous mob of men, mostly young, and all African, came tearing around the corner onto Haile Selassie Boulevard brandishing stones and sneers, while making their presence and anger known to all on the island. Their pinkie fingers, stained purple with ink from the voting booths, were quickly covered in the blood of their brothers.

Men, women, children, even the neighborhood cats all fell victim to the mob if they happened to be in the street when the mob turned that corner, and I witnessed things I shall never be able to purge my memory of.

Fujo, Swahili for loud noise, is the catchall term used to describe the events that began after the polls closed and continue to the present moment, a month later. The fujo has touched every corner of Kenya, killing hundreds and displacing hundreds of thousands, all the while plunging Kenya into a decline from which it will not soon recover.

In the days I spent in the midst of the fujo I saw government troops fighting riotous mobs in the street. I saw innocent people fall victim to the mobs. I saw a vibrant city, known for its relaxed air and freewheeling fun, die in a heartbeat. And what I saw, was just the view from a third story window.

Men were burned alive a few blocks from where I had taken refuge. Churches were burned with hundreds inside. Cars were stopped, and their passengers lynched, if they were of the offending tribe. Civility became hostility in the blink of an eye.

During the days and nights of the fujo, the battles raged and were accompanied by the constant symphony of angry cries, gun shots, and tear gas canisters. New Year's Eve was marked by my inability to distinguish between the sounds of gun shots and fireworks, explosions and celebrations. I share these memories with you, not as a testament to what I saw, but as a reminder of what is still taking place.

Mombasa is an island, and as such, my escape routes were limited. During a lull in the violence a friend, no, a brother of mine, and I braved one of the most affected neighborhoods in Kenya to get to the airport. Navigating roads filled with broken glass and burnt tires would have been enough evidence of the fujo, but the lone road leading to the airport was also filled with hundreds, if not thousands, of young men carrying machetes, stones, and any crude implement that was hard and/or sharp enough to be useful in a rapidly destabilizing east African country.

Luckily, we had chosen our timing well, with the fighting having come to a temporary lull, but in passing through whole neighborhoods reeking of hate and overflowing with chaos, it was not hard to see how the slightest provocation could result in the pictures seen on television screens everywhere.

To leave when I had the opportunity was one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make. While not my country, in the few months I lived there in Kenya, I was drawn into her warm embrace. I described Kenya as the place I lived, not just worked. And so, in leaving, I not only left behind my home, but countless friends who cannot or will not leave.

I am overcome by a deep sadness, and a sense of loss; both Kenya’s stability and my innocence were sacrificed to the riots caused by the electoral irregularities. My innocence is something I can certainly do without, but until there is a meaningful and recognized reconciliation in Kenya, the fujo will continue to rage on, further condemning Kenyans to a fate they did nothing to instigate and can do nothing to end.

This, in what was once Africa’s touted example of democracy and stability, Kenyans can certainly do without.