By Nyang’au Araka
Where I come from, we are told that if the village is on fire, you do not run to rescue your neighbour before rescuing yourself.
Yet, as a region bound by history, culture, and fate, Kenya cannot pretend not to notice the smoke billowing from across the border in Tanzania.
While we, too, are grappling with our own national storms: poor leadership, high taxation, foreign borrowing, and the growing menace of forced disappearances; it would be reckless to ignore the disturbing turn of events next door.
In Tanzania, President Samia Suluhu Hassan seems determined to walk into a general election without an opponent.
The country’s main opposition leader, Tundu Lissu, languishes in a maximum-security prison, silenced and shut out of the democratic process.
The state machinery has been oiled to perfection: only Suluhu’s campaign materials flood the streets and social media feeds, all branded with the slogan “Kazi iendelee” (Let the work continue). But whose work is this, and at what cost?
Lissu’s story alone should trouble every conscience.
Years ago, he was shot sixteen times in a brazen assassination attempt; and even now, one bullet remains lodged in his body, a grim souvenir of the price of political courage.
Doctors have warned that removing it might kill him. So, he lives daily with pain, a literal reminder of the risks borne by those who dare to speak against oppression.
It is tragic that in the same region where independence flags once rose amid jubilation and hope, fear now rules the hearts of citizens.
Many Tanzanians have resigned themselves to silence, convinced that there is nothing they can do to change their fate.
In the streets of Dar es Salaam and the markets of Arusha, political conversations happen in whispers, if at all.
The freedom to dissent, to criticise, to hope aloud; these have become luxuries.
And yet, just across the border, Kenyans still argue, protest, and tweet with reckless abandon.
Our streets may at times be filled with teargas and our activists may face the wrath of the police; but the spirit of defiance, the audacity to question power, remains alive.
Two of our own activists are currently missing after travelling to Uganda, and that, too, should remind us that the path to freedom is never smooth.
But even in our moments of fear, the embers of resistance continue to glow.
Kenyans must never take for granted the rights they now enjoy under the 2010 Constitution.
Freedom of expression, assembly, and the press did not fall from the sky; they were bought with sweat, blood, and tears, won through the courage of those who were detained, beaten, and sometimes killed for daring to imagine a freer Kenya.
The young generation, many of whom were born after the dark days of one-party rule, must not let comfort breed complacency.
We may be disillusioned by corruption and disappointed by leaders who have turned public office into personal enterprise; but despair must never lead us into silence.
Apathy is the enemy’s greatest ally. The moment citizens stop caring, democracy begins to die.
So, even as we demand that President Suluhu releases her political opponents and restores Tanzania’s democratic dignity, we must look inward.
Our own village, too, is smouldering. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance, and every Kenyan—young or old—must become a guardian of that flame.
Let us not wait until our voices are muted, until our rights are shredded, to realise what we once had.
For when silence finally falls, it will not distinguish between the complacent and the courageous.
Kenya’s democracy, fragile though it may be, is still a light in a darkening region; and if we wish to keep it burning, we must protect it jealously, fiercely, and always.
-The author is a member of the Kisii Press Club