#OccupyHistory

The year is 1922. A large crowd of nearly 10,000 people gather around the Central Police Station in Nairobi to demand the release of Harry Thuku, one of Kenya’s pioneer freedom fighters and political mobilizers.[1] As the leader of the newly formed East African Association, Thuku has been detained for his political activism, which advocates for the economic liberation of Kenyan Africans, and an end to the exploitation of women and children in particular. What begins with morning prayers escalates into disgruntled murmurs, then ululations, and by the end of the day, twenty-one dead bodies are sprawled across the street.[2]

To fully understand this moment, which culminated in one of Kenya’s earliest mass killings in the twentieth century, one must situate themselves in the Nairobi of 1922; a city primarily structured around the exploitation of Indigenous African labour. On one side of the divide, wealthy European settlers sit on the balconies of whites-only hotels like the Norfolk, watching throngs of Africans walking past on their way to the nearby Central Police Station. Despite being a minority, the entire city’s infrastructure—roads, amenities, and utilities—are built to serve their needs. They likely dismiss the gathering, assuming it to be just another instance of disgruntled Africans who, by day’s end, will return home and resume their duties the next day.

On the other side, groups of African men and women from various parts of the country march together. They have abandoned their meagre, exploitative jobs as domestic servants in white households, as drivers, as sex workers, as government employees, to occupy a city not built for them, in doing so trespassing on lands taken from them. Some have travelled from as far as central Kenya, while many of those living in Nairobi have walked from the outskirts of the inner city, where they reside in underdeveloped, racially segregated neighbourhoods such as Pumwani, Pangani, and Kariokor. At this point, Kenya has been under British administration for twenty-seven years. Many from the central highlands have lost their ancestral lands to European settlers and have been forced into a system akin to indentured labour in order to afford the mandatory hut and poll taxes that have been imposed on them by the British colonizers.

At around midday, a group of men chosen to negotiate with the colonial administrators return and announce that Thuku is well but will not be released, as he is awaiting trial. They urge the crowd to peacefully disperse and return home. The people, who have been waiting for hours, are incensed by this lacklustre news. A lone woman angrily pushes her way to the front, strips naked, and shouts, ‘Take my dress and give me your trousers! You men are cowards! What are you waiting for? Our leader is in there! Let’s go get him!’[3]

This woman is Muthoni Nyanjiru. She is a woman pushed to the edge, in pain, and living an unbearable life under an exploitative colonial state. Her cry resonates with many other women in the crowd, who begin to push forward towards the gates of the station. The police, taken aback and unprepared for this turn of events, start firing indiscriminately at the crowd. Settlers who were dining at the Norfolk hotel also open fire.[4] People scatter and in the aftermath of the shooting, several bodies lie on the ground. Nyanjiru’s is one of them.

Over one hundred years later, it is not enough to say that history repeats itself. Perhaps a more appropriate statement would be that history mirrors itself in the most tragic of ways. When it does, we are compelled, whether directly involved in or bearing witness to events from afar, to #OccupyHistory—an approach that calls us to examine how struggles and sacrifices of the past echo in contemporary movements for justice and equality. One that reminds us that the writing of history is neither neutral nor organic; rather, it is an intentional act that shapes and prioritizes certain narratives over others. The tragic death of Nyanjiru, an unarmed woman resisting an unjust and illegitimate administration, poignantly underscored how little value the colonial and political classes placed on African working-class life—a heartbreaking loss and an event that would sadly resonate with those beyond her time.

On 25 June 2024, the lifeless body of thirty-nine-year-old David Chege lies on the ground outside parliament buildings in Nairobi. Chege has been shot in the head by a sniper. A flag is draped over his face as four other protestors stand over his body in solidarity. A few hours before his death, ruling party MPs, in the absence of the opposition, locked themselves inside the chambers of parliament and swiftly passed a controversial finance bill, despite the public’s outspoken opposition towards it.[5] Outside, tens of thousands of Kenyans march into the city through all major roads, with the main goal of converging outside parliament. By late afternoon, the number of protesters far outnumbers the police, and a group of citizens at the front line breach the fence surrounding the parliament complex. As they advance towards the building, a powerful physical and symbolic barrier is torn down. Parliament, once seen as an untouchable space and a domain for the self-ascribed elite, is now occupied by young men and women willing to risk their lives to make their voices heard. For Nairobi, a formerly segregated city, the storming of parliament is not just about trespassing across physical boundaries but socio-economic ones as well. This debasing of a space once considered sacred is met with swift retribution, as plain-clothed police officers operating within the grounds of parliament open fire at the protestors. By the end of the day, just as in 1922, several bodies lie on the ground. Chege’s is one of them.

The year 2024 will go down in Kenyan history as the year of a nationwide revolution against bad governance, corruption, impunity, and extrajudicial killings. In what many have called Kenya’s Gen Z uprising due to its youth-led nature, the country has been rocked by mass protests that have left a tone-deaf and arrogant political class humiliated and exposed. The protests, which began on 18 June, were sparked by the introduction of the aforementioned controversial finance bill, which was set to drastically increase taxes in order to service Kenya’s debt and ameliorate its burgeoning debt crisis.[6] To many tax-paying Kenyans, the proposal to increase and introduce taxes on a variety of products such as bread, nappies, and sanitary towels, when most are barely able to make a living, felt like a stab in the back. As one placard read: ‘You are threatening us with DEATH as if our current state of existence can be called LIVING’.[7] In the weeks and months leading up to the protests, Kenyans watched as legislators unabashedly flaunted their wealth on social media. They danced in front of luxury cars, shared videos taken on board helicopters and private jets, opened lavish dance clubs in their constituencies, and were seen casually walking around with millions of shillings in cash. Kenyan legislators, who are the second-highest paid in the world relative to GDP, displayed their illicitly acquired wealth with egregious arrogance.[8]

Equally shocking was their inability to clearly state the benefits of the finance bill they were pushing. In one instance, a nominated senator falsely claimed that the bill would only tax wealthier Kenyans while relieving the average citizen; her explanations were not only inaccurate but were also perceived by many to be incoherent and out of touch.[9] Despite promoting the austerity programme as the most suitable measures necessary for keeping the country’s economy afloat, many legislators would be exempt from some of the very taxes they were imposing.

Like a mirror reflecting a colonial past onto a neo-colonial present, the continued indifference and callousness of Kenya’s political class towards its people elicited widespread discontent. It also raised questions about the political class’s apparent allegiance to the IMF and the US rather than to its own citizens.[10] Collective discussions around the bill and the economic situation of the country played out in digital spaces. Decentralized civic education by citizens for citizens unfolded on X, TikTok, WhatsApp, and Instagram, galvanizing millions to push for a rejection of the bill.[11] The languages spoken were many but the goal was singular: to reject the finance bill in totality and demand that the government create a more favourable economic environment in the face of crumbling social structures.

As online and grassroots mobilization against the bill gained momentum, so did the government’s refusal to acknowledge the legitimate concerns of the people it represented.[12] Consequently, in the days leading to the passing of the bill, the topic of national conversation rapidly evolved from #RejectFinanceBill2024 to #OccupyParliament. If the MPs were not going to meet the people at their level, then the people were determined to meet them at theirs.

Following the storming of Parliament on 25 June 2024, the president addressed the nation, denouncing the protests as acts of treason and branding the protestors as criminals.[13] The same night, the army was unconstitutionally deployed against its citizens, and police invaded low-income neighbourhoods, indiscriminately shooting at businesses, public spaces, and homes. The parallels with history were uncanny and reminiscent of the state of emergency declaration in 1952 when, in response to the Mau Mau uprising, then governor Evelyn Baring deployed the full might of the Kenyan colonial police force and the British army against the people.[14] Hundreds of suspected Mau Mau supporters were rounded up in the dead of night and detained in camps, where they suffered egregious human rights violations. The British imposed strict curfews on the remaining population, instituting a mandatory passbook system, and forcefully resettling the Kikuyu, Embu, and Meru communities who made up the majority of the Mau Mau.

In the weeks following the Gen Z protests, a number of young people were abducted, and numerous bodies were discovered mutilated and discarded in rivers and quarries.[15] The president’s harsh rhetoric and the government’s heavy-handed response, seemingly aimed at silencing critics and instilling fear among protestors, instead widened the gap between the political class and citizens and further escalated tensions within the country.

Beyond the immediate violence and loss of life, President Ruto’s actions also sparked a broader conversation about the state of democracy in Kenya. Citizens questioned the legitimacy of a government that resorts to such extreme measures to silence the valid concerns of peaceful protestors. This would not be the first time that Kenya’s post-independence democracy had been put to task. During former president Moi’s twenty-four year rule (1978–2002), enforced disappearances, detention without trial, extrajudicial killings, and media censorship were used to silence any form of opposition to the government. Student movements were delegitimized and the police and army regularly deployed to intimidate and harass peaceful protests and opposition supporters.[16]

On 26 June 2024, the day after parliament was stormed, President Ruto announced the withdrawal of the controversial finance bill and said that he was open to engaging in a dialogue with the country’s youth, a move which was seen as superficial in the face of the killings and abductions of young men and women across the country. As one protestor observed: ‘You can’t kill us and lead us!’[17]

As the actions of Ruto’s administration echoed the tactics of previous regimes, so too did the public’s efforts to resist political tyranny. Much like the 1990 Saba Saba protests against Moi’s authoritarian rule, the Gen Z protests represented a unified demand for greater accountability and competence from a political class that has long depended on tribalism, corruption, and dynasty politics to maintain power.[18]

Like a history lesson unfolding in real time, the Gen Z protests served as a lens through which to re-evaluate the intricacies of other resistance movements in Kenya’s history—using the complexities of the present to recontextualize the intricacies of the past. Online discussions, for example, touched on issues such as loyalty and betrayal within the Mau Mau movement, considering how individuals aligned with or opposed the colonial regime.[19] These discussions also explored strategies for sustaining momentum in the face of state violence,[20] and the role of social ostracism and economic boycotts as effective resistance strategies.[21]

These questions and reflections resonate deeply with the current generation, who view the past not just as a narrative to recite but as an arena in which that past can be unravelled, challenged, and learned from. Accordingly, this process must recognize that while the issues at the heart of the movement may bear similarities to those of the past, the unique context of the 2024 protests demands an examination of historical narratives that aligns with contemporary realities and aspirations.[22] This connection to the past provides a powerful framework for understanding and navigating the present. It demonstrates a desire to #OccupyHistory when previously the very writing of it has been the preserve of those who refuse to recognize the dignity and humanity of those they oppress.

In 1963, Kenya gained independence after a long and protracted struggle against colonialism. The state of emergency, which lasted for eight gruesome years, was finally lifted in 1960. During this period, hundreds of thousands of people were held in concentration villages and camps across the country. Historical records from this time, detailing human rights violations, state-sanctioned torture, and labour exploitation, were destroyed, dumped at sea, or shipped to the UK, where they remained secret until their presence was uncovered in 2003.[23] As these events demonstrate, history, much like politics, is a game of interest and power. The Gen Z movement, aware of the stakes, has harnessed social media to document their experiences, share their stories, and challenge official government and media narratives. This grassroots effort to reclaim and write history is not just about the present struggle but also about ensuring that future generations understand the true nature of their fight. In an age where information spreads rapidly and narratives are shaped in realtime, the struggle for historical memory is not just about narrative but infrastructure as well; what infrastructure is being used to preserve this history and who runs and controls it?[24] The tools and platforms that archive and disseminate historical records—whether they be digital archives, social media networks, or traditional media—play a critical role in how history is recorded and remembered.

Decisions regarding the creation, maintenance, and accessibility of these infrastructures can greatly influence which stories are preserved and how they are presented. Therefore, it is crucial to not only focus on the content of historical narratives but also to scrutinize the mechanisms that underpin their preservation. Occupying history therefore calls for a recognition of the inherent biases within the structures that preserve history and the need to innovate beyond them.

As the Gen Z movement evolves, it becomes clear that the power to shape history lies not only in the hands of those who wield political power but also in the collective memory of the people. To define one’s place in history is also to trespass the corridors of power and to shift the trajectory of memory-making and knowledge production. This understanding became profoundly evident when Kenyans gathered on 9 July to lay David Chege to rest. Surrounded by family, friends, colleagues, and comrades, his coffin was lowered to the ground draped with the Kenyan flag, the same one he fought for and died believing in. He was buried beside his grandfather and great-grandmother. A moving tribute from Catherine Kiiru read ‘The govt took him away from us but He is now in safe hands, where they cannot hurt him. Thank you to everyone who grieved, loved & supported David & his family in this journey, God bless you’.[25]

At the heart of it, the demands for a better Kenya are about fighting for that very place that Catherine envisions for David and, by extension, all those who lost their lives in the protest. A place where we are safe from impunity and injustice, a place where we cannot be hurt by those who have built their empires on our pain. The Gen Z movement stands on the shoulders of the movements before it. It carves out space where none has been allocated, and it threatens the foundations of power structures that have hidden behind illusions of respectability and invulnerability. It teaches us to occupy time as much as we occupy space, reminding us that sometimes making yourself welcome is far more important than being welcomed in the first place.

 

 

This text was first published in the reader Forgive Us Our Trespasses. Of (Un)real Frontiers, Of (Im)Mortalities, and Other Transcendences (Berlin: HKW & Archive Books, 2024), 113–129. A German edition of the reader is also available.  

 

 

 

[1] Audrey Wipper, ‘Kikuyu Women and the Harry Thuku Disturbances: Some Uniformities of Female Militancy’, Africa: Journal of the International African Institute 59/3 (1989), 300–37, doi.org/10.2307/1160230.

[2] Wipper, ‘Kikuyu Women and the Harry Thuku Disturbances’, 316.

[3] Wipper, ‘Kikuyu Women and the Harry Thuku Disturbances’, 315.

[4] Harry Thuku, Harry Thuku: An Autobiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970).

[5] Nation Team, ‘Kenyan MPs pass William Ruto’s Finance Bill amid national street protests’, Nation (25 June 2024), nation.africa/kenya/news/kenyan-mps-pass-william-ruto-s-!nance-bill-amid-nationalstreet-protests--4669130.

[6] Daniel Mule, ‘Update on the Status of Human Rights in Kenya during the Anti-Finance Bill Protests, Monday 1st July, 2024’, Kenya National Commission on Human Rights (1 July 2024), https://www.knchr.org/Articles/ArtMID/2432/ArticleID/1200/Update-on-the-Status-of-Human-Rights-in-Kenya-during-the-Anti-Finance-Bill%20Protests-Monday-1st-July-2024

[7] maliks 14/09/15/21 [@maliks_88], ‘You are threatening us with DEATH as if our current state of existence can be called LIVING’ [X post] (26 June 2024), x.com/maliks_88/status/1805859283302568262.

[8] Al Jazeera English, ‘Helicopters, cars, and cash: Kenyan politicians face sudden scrutiny’, Al Jazeera Newsfeed [video] (uploaded 12 July 2024), youtube.com/watch?v=f6OlWIy4eoA.

[9] Kenneth Gachie, ‘Karen Nyamu was asked her opinion on Finance Bill 2024, her answer threw everyone off’, Citizen Digital (28 May 2024), citizen.digital/ news/karen-nyamu-was-asked-her-opinionon-finance-bill-2024-her-answer-threw-everyone-off-n342967.

[10] Fadhel Kaboub, ‘Why are the US and IMF imposing draconian austerity measures on Kenya?’, The Guardian (10 July 2024), theguardian.com/commentisfree/article/2024/jul/10/kenya-finance-bill-protests.

[11] ‘The #Reject Revolution: When Tweets Take to the Streets. The Story of 25 Million Posts Powering Kenya’s #RejectFinanceBill2024 protests’, NENDO (8 July 2024), nendo.co.ke/post/the-reject-revolution-kenyan-rejectfinancebill2024-protests.

[12] Josphat Thiong’o, ‘Kenyans express anger as Ruto MPs force disputed finance bill down throats’, The Standard (n.d.), standardmedia.co.ke/politics/article/2001497563/kenyans-express-angeras-ruto-mps-force-disputed-finance-bill-down-throats.

[13] State House Kenya, ‘Protests: Statement by President Ruto on 25th June 2024’ [video], YouTube (uploaded 26 June 2024), youtube.com/watch?v=SP_BLorJXaY.

[14] The Mau Mau uprising, also referred to as the Kenya Land and Freedom Army, was a grassroots guerrilla movement primarily composed of communities from central Kenya. Active between the late 1940s and 1960, the movement demanded land reform and sought liberation from British colonial rule. Their struggle not only highlighted broader anti-colonial sentiments, it also played a significant role in shaping Kenya’s journey towards independence.

[15] Police Reforms Working Group (PRWG), ‘Ruto must take responsibility for protests’ gross human rights violations’, Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC) (26 June 2024), https://khrc.or.ke/press-release/ruto-must-take-responsibility-for-protests-gross-human-rights-violations/.

[16] ‘Ruto’s red line: Why Moi tactics wouldn’t work today’, Nation (24 July 2024), nation.africa/kenya/news/ politics/ruto-s-red-line-why-moi-tactics-wouldnt-work-today--4700606.

[17] noah muhindi [@noah_muhindi], ‘You can’t kill us and lead us! #RutoMustGo https://t.co/oxcxu0boSg’ [X post] (July 23 2024), x.com/noah_muhindi/status/1815697614509129738.

[18] On 7 July 1990, civil society groups, unionists, and individuals across the country mobilized to demonstrate against Moi’s one-party rule and advocate for political reforms and social justice. These protests were part of a broader movement aimed at addressing issues related to democracy, governance, and social inequalities in Kenya. Known as the Saba Saba protests, they served as a catalyst for multiparty democracy ushering political reforms that would eventually lead to the promulgation of a new constitution.

[19] South B’s Finest [@brendawambui], ‘Don’t be so quick to move on without imparting consequences on sellouts, friends. There is a reason the Mau Mau (and many other freedom movements) didn’t “move on” from collaborators. To make sure that everyone knows it is costly to betray liberation movements/reduce the odds.’ [X post] (5 July 2024), x.com/brendawambui/status/1809215183950115293.

[20] Edd [@wakilinomad], ‘Been asking myself what was going on in the minds and hearts of Mau Mau after the might of the British Empire and its homeguards descended on them. When many had been killed, detained, wives raped, in the most brutal ways, did any think of surrendering? Giving up?' [X post] (20 July 2024), x.com/wakilinomad/status/1814713158168113405.

[21] Abu Iman [@Mr_Guantai], ‘Some more Mau Mau history to draw parallels with what is happening. The man who shot Dedan Kimathi was known as Ndirangu Mau. From the reward he got from his actions, he bought a lorry that he intended to use for transport business. No one ever used it.’ [X post] (5 July 2024), x.com/Mr_Guantai/status/1809253771115176235.

[22] Justus Ochieng‘ & Elvis Ondieki, ‘Saba Saba: Old script for new challenges in fresh youth campaign’, Nation (7 July 2024), nation.africa/kenya/news/saba-saba-old-script-for-newchallenges-in-fresh-youth-campaign--4682152.

[23] Ian Cobain, Owen Bowcott, and Richard Norton-Taylor, ‘Britain destroyed records of colonial crimes’, The Guardian (18 April 2012), theguardian.com/uk/2012/apr/18/britain-destroyed-records-colonial-crimes.

[24] Imaginary Friend [@ItsJust_Lynn], ‘As we saw that Rachel & the Ford Foundation article taken down, and know the fickle nature of the internet/service providers (including X), we should start thinking about archiving outside of these sites and on physical media too. #RutoMustGo’ [X post] (23 July 2024), x.com/ItsJust_Lynn/status/1815792119711203708.

[25] Catherine Kiiru [@CatherineKiiru], ‘David Chege was buried next to his grandfather & great grandmother. The govt took him away from us but He is now in safe hands, where they cannot hurt him. Thank you to everyone who grieved, loved & supported David & his family in this journey, God bless you @inkosi_ quest https://t.co/32fVKT0gsG’ [X post] (10 July 2024), x.com/CatherineKiiru/status/1810926754967535636.