I’ve never been to a demonstration before. Now I’m standing at the back of the crowd, my heart pounding with every explosion. I’m terrified. My hands are shaking and I get goosebumps every time we run away from the tear gas the police fire at us.

The day is very bright, but that’s because the country is burning. It’s been simmering for weeks, since the publication of the Finance Bill 2024, and now it’s reached boiling point. It’s funny what you see when people finally get fed up with the crap that’s being fed to them. It’s almost as if there’s a collective consciousness and everyone thinks what everyone else thinks, so even the words they form sound the same.

I’m not a political person. And I’m not a money person. My embarrassing lack of knowledge on both of these subjects – subjects that actually dominate the world – is, well, embarrassing. Every time someone starts talking about politics or money, it’s like my ears are blocked and all I hear are muffled voices that act as a soundtrack to my thoughts.

So why am I, someone who is completely naive about these issues and constantly afraid of everything, standing here with thousands of other young Gen Z people, occupying the entire Uhuru Highway?

Very simple. It is all thanks to friendship. You see, I am not alone here. I am accompanied by two of my best friends. Before we came here, we spent an hour painting the protest T-shirts that we are now wearing. On one of them were posters with slogans like How do you tear gas a bad guy? And A MauMau in my soft girl era.

This is what the government has done to us. Instead of meeting over cheap drinks and man talk, we are here, meeting in our collective anger at the government. But if we are being completely honest, I still feel like I am not angry enough, even though I am standing here, shouting out our collective anger, running the same collective race.

This can be attributed in part to the feeling that I don’t know as much as the other people around me. Knowledge. It all comes down to sharpening the mind, and in this regard, my mind feels like a blunt object, barely able to cut through the noise and truly understand the deep issues that lie beneath the surface.

I feel stupid, that’s what I’m saying. I feel stupid standing here, as someone who was barely able to go through and understand the articles of the bill. I feel stupid, as someone who has never really been able to concentrate on a political speech for more than a minute. I feel stupid, as someone who hasn’t got his finances in order and whose money and life choices would put the devil himself to shame.

I feel stupid, and yet here I am. When one of my best friends – whose courage can only be described as extraordinary – suggests we go closer to the front, I take her hand and we wade through the crowd. We are the bad guys, in tights, protest t-shirts and armed with masks, glucose, tissues and water. This is not the time to show my weaknesses.

We approach the front line and here the collective noise is louder. We hold up our signs, raise our voices with the others, take photos and selfies to post later on social media and laugh at the group of protesters standing on a blue Clean water Trucks and water spray to minimize the effect of tear gas.

But we don’t take our eyes off the policemen walking along the highway above us. Every now and then, when they’ve had enough of our shouting or are just bored and want to see something dramatic, they throw tear gas grenades right at us. Of course we run, and as we run we try to resist the bitter burning in our eyes and nose.

Apart from firing tear gas shells, the police seem to be keeping their distance. They are not doing much except supporting us in this game of cat and mouse. But considering that this protest is taking place on the heels of the killing of Rex Maasai – who was shot dead by a police officer during a peaceful protest – and the unlawful arrest and abduction of numerous political influencers, there is no denying that fear is running through our veins. Fear and anger. These are the two ingredients that drive us to return when the tear gas is cleared from the air.

Later, one of my friends suggests we cross over to the other side of the highway. The plan is to find our other friends, and as we hold hands again and run as fast as we can across the street and under the highway, with the cops hovering over us like some kind of angry god, something clicks in my head; maybe it’s just anger coursing through our veins, and not fear.

We reach the other side of the street and hear the news. The parliament has been occupied. The people across the street, guys our age, are mobilizing each other to join the protests in the parliament. We want to join them and continue to show our courage. Of course. But even I, as politically stupid as I am, understand that this is war now. If the parliament has been occupied, it is only a matter of time before the police stop keeping their distance.

We look at each other and decide to lay down our weapons right then and there. The fear is back, a powerful fear that with just one stroke of bad luck, something could go terribly wrong. We head back across the street and as we walk through Uhuru Park, the only sounds we make are those demanding safety.

We come home exhausted and hungry, still seething with anger. We turn to social media and watch numerous videos of protesters shot outside Parliament. We listen to the President call us criminals and terrorists on live TV. And when we sleep that night, we dream of a country where we would be less afraid.