Beyond Memorials

As patriotic Kenyan citizens, June 25th is etched into our collective conscience as a symbol of pain, defiance, and awakening. It marks the day a generation stood up and some never returned home. Young Kenyans blood watered the roots of a tree of justice, dignity, and freedom that are yet to see bloom.

Tomorrow, as we mark that dark day's first anniversary, there is a conversation unwinding: 

What exactly is this day about? 
Is it a memorial or a protest? 
Is it a call for justice or a chaotic display of conflicting interests?

These questions are not new and they are not unwelcome. In fact, they reflect a nation beginning to interrogate the soul of its resistance. One comrade, a seasoned human rights defender, is questioning us: 
Where are the clear demands? 
Who are the institutions targeted? 
Could this be a hijacked moment, one that benefits ‘carrier activists,’ tribal gatekeepers, and political opportunists?

This is a fair concern. After all, the streets have seen many marches that promised revolution but delivered visibility for the few. They are legitimate critiques rooted in love for the struggle. And yet, I respectfully and passionately differ because in moments of rupture, clarity is not always immediate. Pain is not linear, grief doesn’t come with bullet points and what we are witnessing in this season is not confusion but the awakening of a people who have long been silenced. To reduce the cry of an entire generation to the ambitions of a handful is to erase the truth of what June 25th represents.

When the state slaughters its children, the first duty of the living is to remember not just in silence, but in resistance. A memorial without action is a eulogy to impunity. If we say “No More Killings,” it must be a demand made not in whispers, but in the collective power of protest  in the streets, in statements, in songs, in theatre, and in every space where conscience breathes.

Tomorrow’s protest is the raw, urgent, unfiltered grief of a people who are tired of watching justice rot in silence. It is the deep cry of mothers who buried their sons without answers. The fury of youth who have learned that dignity is not something you request but demand.

It’s true that our constitution offers avenues for redress, and comrades have used them with courage. But what happens when those channels become clogged with bureaucracy, deaf ears, and elite indifference? What happens when institutions designed to protect citizens become complicit in their oppression? A protest is not the absence of structure, it is the presence of conscience. It is not a sign of failure, it is a signal that the people are alive, awake, and no longer willing to wait for the perfect moment.

They say June 25th should be a memorial and I agree. But in our African tradition, we do not mourn in silence. We drum. We dance. We wail. We gather. We raise the dead by raising our voices. Hence we will mourn and we will march. We will weep and we will demand. Because silence does not honor the fallen, action does. Let us not confuse decorum with respect. True respect is refusing to let the sacrifices of the dead be in vain. It is ensuring that the bullets that felled our comrades become the seeds of transformation, not fear.

To those calling for a clearer agenda: you are right. We must channel this fire into focused flames with structured demands, named institutions, and strategic targets. But don’t mistake the current multitude of voices for confusion. They are the echoes of pain that this country has tried to silence for too long. It is our duty to harmonize them, not dismiss them.

To those who walked before us; your skepticism is needed. Your wisdom is valued. But let it not become a gate that blocks the youth from rising. Let it be a bridge that supports their growth. If the movement lacks structure, bring your organizing skills. If it lacks clarity, help sharpen its focus. But do not retreat into cynicism. For nothing benefits the oppressor more than when comrades fall silent out of disillusionment.

June 25th is a mirror that reflects who we are, what we’ve lost, and what we must become. Let it be a moment of memory, yes but also a moment of mobilization. Let us not be paralyzed by the fear of imperfection. Let us show up messy, angry, grieving, hopeful. Let us demand justice for our slain siblings.

Let us call out opportunism, tribalism, and tokenism without throwing out the spirit of resistance. Let us question leadership without abandoning the cause. And let us remember: revolutions are never clean, they are forged in the mess of people’s anger, love, confusion, and dreams.

So tomorrow, we will gather not just to light candles, but to carry the torch forward. 
Not just to remember, but to reignite. Because our comrades who fell did not die for us to fold our arms. They died demanding a Kenya that works for all, thus we, the living, must make that demand louder, bolder, and more strategic.


The revolution is not coming. It is here.