Lucy Mwelu | The Sound of Freedom

There’s something in the air.

I can see it in how the women are darting their eyes as they heckle for customers. I can see it in how the women quickly concede to haggled pricing. I can see it in how the women begin to assemble their goods, throwing them aggressively, almost recklessly in large, dirty sacks.

Then I hear it. We all hear it.

Panicked running.

Screams.

Breathlessness.

Gunshots.

These sounds marry each other in the air, making it harder for us to breathe, to see, to move. It takes me a minute to realize that my eyes are watery, my nose painful, my mouth dry and distasteful. I then see it through the smoke, the canister, hissing and quaking, like a hungry child. I flail my arms, waving the smoke, trying to locate my sack of goods.

Someone bumps into me. I lose my balance. I stumble backwards but catch myself.

Another shoves me from the back. I stumble forward, use one foot to steady myself. Pride swells within me. Yes, those years I played msongesho as a child are paying off…

Suddenly the world is tipping. I hit the ground with a thud. The connection is immediate and painful. I blink rapidly in confusion, frustration and pain. I want to scream but the smoke will assault my mouth.

Wait, is it easier to breathe down here? Yes! My nose is no longer as irritated, my vision is becoming clearer. The first thing I see are trampled tomatoes. My heart sinks. Hadn’t Mama Jemo said that they were meant to last her two weeks? Hadn’t she mentioned that the money would be used to clear her child’s fee balance? Hadn’t the money she had used to buy the stock been a loan from Mama Jerono?

My thoughts come to a halt; a child is crying. Their cry is piercing, laced with fear. I frantically swivel my head, my not-so-clear eyes searching for the child. I finally see them, lying flat on the ground, their head raised up, their face contorted in pain. I start crawling toward them, their cries getting louder, sharper. As I get nearer, I notice why they are wailing. Multiple feet are stepping on them as they panic-run. I start screaming for them to stop. Can’t they see? Can’t they see they are stepping on a child’s back?

No one hears me.

They can’t hear me.

They don’t stop.

They keep on stepping on the helpless child.

I stand up after realizing I was the only one who could see the child but I don’t stay upright for long. A few seconds later my face connects with the hard ground, a small scream escapes my mouth at the contact. I momentarily forget the child as pain sears throughout my body, as blood begin pouring from my forehead. By the time I’m remembering them, they are no longer there.

I swivel my head once more, searching for them in the dust-filled, smoky environment. Negative. They are not there. I remain still, my ears cocked, ready to collect any crying sound waves. Negative.

The child is gone. Perhaps their mother located them and scooped them to safety? A good Samaritan? The police?

But what if, what if someone had taken advantage of the chaos and ferried the child to a life of misery? What if the child had been a recipient of a stray bullet and their body, unmoving, was somewhere lost in the scuffle?

I shudder at these thoughts as an image of my own child surfaces in my head. Njala was at home. I had sternly warned her against joining her peers on the streets. She had shown me videos on her phone. Children with masks and cardboards. Children with menacing faces and fists. Children shouting and singing about freedom and rights in the street.

All children.

All so young and fragile.

Njala spoke with excitement in her voice. With a spark in her eyes. She showed me her pink cardboard with the words “Fight For My Future” neatly written on it with a black marker pen. She showed me some other things. A pink whistle. A pink mask. A pink water bottle. She called them weapons for justice.

Then I saw her. The woman on the news. She was screaming when I saw her. Those throaty screams that make your stomach queasy when you hear them. I saw her pain, heard her grief and felt her loss even before the reporter gingerly placed the microphone in front of her.

I knew she had lost her child before she announced it to the world.

I had switched off the TV, grabbed Njala’s cardboard and torn it into two halves. She looked at me with bewilderment, as if she had no idea who was standing before her. I had then slapped her hand and watched as her weapons for justice flew across the room, landing in accordance to their weight. We had then stared at each other, youthful defiance raging in her eyes, nine months of carrying her in my stomach raging in mine.

In the end she had stomped off to her room. I had yelled that I wanted supper ready by the time I got home from the market.

At some point I had battled feelings of guilt. Shouldn’t a mother be proud of a daughter who wanted to fight for a better world? No one wants a cowardly child. We all want brave children like Joseph and David from the Bible. Esther and Ruth too. Yes, brave children who are ready to fight for what is right, for others. Their parents must have been proud. I would have been proud.

If I was being honest, I was a little proud. Njala was a quiet girl. She locked herself in her room, blasting songs that were popular in her generation, songs I didn’t understand. She was dispassionate about everything except her phone. Once it had fallen into a basin full of water while she was doing dishes and she had screamed so loudly I had rushed to the kitchen with a nyahunyo ready to strike her assailant. Turns out she had been watching videos while doing dishes. Seeing her passionate about politics, about her future and that of her peers…how could I not be proud of her?

In this moment, however, lying on the ground, with blood gushing from my forehead from the wound that had materialized from my face, the guilt that had been gnawing at me earlier vanished.

A gunshot blared through the air. I remain still as feet shuffle around me. As fresh screams surround me. A yelp escapes my throat as something heavy falls beside me. Slowly, I shift to my side to regard the heavy thing. I get distracted mid-turn, there is something warm, wet and sticky under my leg. My own urine? I wouldn’t be shocked honestly. The body has a way of betraying you when it is alarmed…

Blood. It is blood. A scream forms in my throat. The heavy thing. The heavy thing that had fallen. No no no no. My heart beats rapidly as I turn to look.

It is a body. Closer inspection reveals it is the rapidly bleeding body of a young man. 19? Younger? Poor boy had his whole life ahead of him. Poor mother is somewhere waiting for this young boy to go home. The scream finally leaves my throat through my mouth but it is inaudible, drowned by a staccato of noises around me; screams, gunshots, sirens, shoes and boots successively hitting the ground…

I am about to place a hand on the writhing body when someone lifts me off the ground. I am still thinking of the dying boy when I am roughly pushed into the back of a sketcher. I am still thinking of the boy’s mother when we are aggressively pulled out of the police vehicle and led to the police station.

My pensive state vanishes when I feel myself shaking. Except I am not the one doing the shaking. A dark, surly looking, well-built man is holding me by the shoulders, yelling we mama repeatedly. My eyes regain focus and I see that we are many, all disoriented, some injured, some weeping, some seated on the floor of the station, some standing against the wall. My eyes move to the small TV on the wall. A woman is screaming in it again and I find myself unconsciously looking for a remote.

“We mama what is your name? Do you know you’ve broken the law by participating in the demos?”

I look at the man then look behind me. Surely, he isn’t talking to me, is he?

The screaming on the TV is getting louder. I look around for a remote.

“All of you are going to pay for being in the streets today.”

Like selling on the streets? Am I not meant to make an income? If I don’t sell my potatoes, how will your wife make you mukimo?

The screaming on the TV changes to chants. The image of the woman vanishes and in its place is the image of young people holding cardboards.

“Now look, you could have stayed home with your children but you decided to join them in the streets…”

My eyes can’t move away. So many children with masks, water bottles, whistles and cardboards. Girls and boys, matching, chanting. Fearlessly. Angrily.

“Do you know how many lives have been lost today because of you?”

Me? What did I do except arrange my potatoes in stacks and wait for someone to make eye contact with me so that I could tell them the prices? What was wrong with me wanting Njala to finish her university studies, something I hadn’t managed to do?

Someone gasps and points at the TV. Another one wails. My attention goes back to the TV. A young girl is lying still on the ground, her eyes open and lifeless. Next to her is a stained pink cardboard, dirty pink whistle, crinkled pink mask, broken pink water bottle.

At first, it all looks familiar. Then it is an unsettling coincidence. Then realization dawns on me and my legs give in. I sink to the ground and open my mouth.

I scream and scream and scream until all I see, is darkness.