Nairobi on lockdown: A journalist's tense journey through police barricades during Saba Saba

Whenever I leave my humble abode in Roysambu, I spend only 30 minutes getting to Nairobi’s Central Business District. That was not the case on Monday.

When the government flexed its muscle, revealing a monopoly on violence which it unleashed against mwananchi, I needed more than an hour.

The tense morning had begun building up as early as 3am, when unsuspecting motorists and commuters using Thika Road were met with a sudden police roadblock at the Roysambu overpass that brought traffic to a grinding halt.

Matatus were forced to park by the roadside, and early risers hoping for a regular workday were left stranded in the grey cold. A sense of despair and frustration hung around them, many counting their lost day as they opted to go back home.

I called my boda boda rider, Jemo—who is always on speed dial—and he did not disappoint. His signs of hesitancy were caused by reflections about our police, who’d shoot a person before they knew his name or even asked for it.

Jemo was excited to be part of my “crew”—a unique one indeed, especially because I was everything in one: the photographer, the writer, and the producer for short videos.

A journey where I would normally pay Sh70 to town this time cost me Sh1,500.

Donning my khaki press jacket over a grey hoodie, we embarked on the no-more-than-15-kilometre journey to the CBD.

A roadblock and heavy contingent of police, just a walking distance from the Roysambu underpass, greeted us as hundreds of agitated commuters whose journey had also been halted complained. Engines idled. Horns blared in fits of impatience.

A swarm of irate police officers in full riot gear, eyes blazing under visors, barricaded the road like a human dam. Their boots thudded against the asphalt as they waved motorists back with wild, sharp motions, batons tapping on bonnets like impatient knuckles on a door that would never open.

The cold was already unforgiving, adding more tension. Drivers leaned out of their windows, pleading, reasoning, even cracking awkward jokes, but their words evaporated in the chilly air, ignored like background noise in a storm.

Boda bodas and pedestrians were allowed to squeeze in between the mounted road spikes.

After we crossed, a second roadblock appeared at the Allsops turnoff, where another battalion of police officers was turning back anyone heading to town. It would take my rider and me 20 minutes to negotiate our way through, with the police clearly frustrated and overwhelmed by the motorists brandishing their job cards.

Just before Guru Nanak Hospital, after the Pangani underpass, another roadblock was mounted. Negotiations? A cruel joke. Every attempt to talk was met with barked commands or stony silence. “Hapana! Rudisha gari!” was the anthem of the moment. You could show your license, your job ID, even a Bible—nothing pierced the iron wall of fury and frustration.

“Wewe mtu wa press, shuka ama urudi na hiyo boda boda yako,” a female officer barked her orders.

I was not in the mood to relent, but another officer strode to where I was taking photos. “Achana na hawa mafala, wewe enda na hiyo njia ya Kariakor, unaeza penya huko,” he advised us.

This way, we dug through Ring Road up to Kariakor Market, and opposite Mwariro Market, we came to another stop... another barricade.

It was less a traffic stop and more a standoff. Groups of people exchanged helpless glances, knowing they were going nowhere.

And still, the officers shouted. Still, the barricade stood. Still, the road—like reason—remained closed.

On to Ngara Road we rode, and at the junction where the road meets Murang’a Road, another stop—but here, there was little action.

At the Globe Roundabout, a police lorry was parked across. A number of vehicles that had passed through Kipande Road came to a halt.

One motorist tried diplomacy, stepping out with his hands raised in weary surrender. His calm tone quickly drowned in a sea of shouting—three officers descended on him with wagging fingers and spittle-laced warnings, sending him stumbling back into his vehicle.

“Wewe mtu wa media, usitupige picha. Enda na Kijabe, wachana na sisi tuko kwa baridi kali. Ukipata kitu utukumbuke,” one of them told us.

“Leo polisi watalala njaa na kukopa tei kwa local. Hawajaokota kawaida yao,” (“Today the police will sleep hungry. They haven’t received their usual bribes”), my rider joked.

Using Kijabe Street, we entered University Way from Central Police Station, where I met my colleague Noah Kipkemboi, also on a motorbike trying to access the CBD. At 8:42am, I was finally in the city centre.