The long one-hour ride from Roysambu to CBD on Saba Saba day; a journalist's account

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, July 7, 2025.

After the government flexed its muscle, revealing a monopoly for violence that it was ready to unleash against mwananchi, I needed more than an hour, which is the time I have always used to find myself past Emali while heading to the land of Loitoktok, where I was raised.

The Mirema matatu stage is usually a chaotic scene as early as 6:30 am because of the energy emanating from Zuri and Super Metro conductors known as kamageras banging vehicles, as they compete for passengers.

Not even the snaky traffic jam on Kamiti road as school buses negotiate with the unruly matatu drivers was anywhere on the material day.

It was silence and an eerie grey caused by the drizzle, inviting a new way of commemorating Saba Saba. 

The tense morning had begun building up as early as 3 am 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 had been 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.

After a few back and forth with my seniors, it was agreed that the story of my day had already begun where I was since the security net around the city was the big story of the day.

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 his reflections about our kind of police who'd shoot a person before they knew his name or even ask 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, the producer for short videos.

A journey where I would normally pay Sh70 to town, this time cost me Sh1500. 

Donning my khaki press jacket on top of my grey hoodie, we embarked on the not more than 15-kilometre journey to the CBD, which began at 7:10 am.

A roadblock and a heavy contingent of police, 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, barricading 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 to the disturbed morning. 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, on the other hand, 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 me twenty minutes for my ride and me to negotiate my way through, with the police clearly frustrated and overwhelmed by motorists brandishing their job cards.

Tense confrontations began to brew as police interrogated commuters, demanding ID and job cards. Only ambulances, police vehicles, and a select few deemed "important enough" were allowed past the barricades. One officer, jaw clenched tight and sweat glistening on his brow, barked orders that clashed with the ones from his colleague just meters away.

Chaos reigned.

Just before the 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 aged officer strode to where I was taking photos, “Achana na hawa mafala, wewe enda na hiyo njia ya Karikor, unaeza penya huko,” he advised us.

This way we dug through the Ring road up to Kariakor market and opposite Mwariro market and 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 on 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. Several 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 and will on debt in their local pubs. They have not received any bribe)," my rider joked. 

Using Kijabe Street, we entered University Way from the Central police station, where I met my colleague Noah Kipkemboi, also on a motorbike, trying to access the CBD. By 8:42 am, I was in the CBD.

A Standard spot-check in the early morning hours painted a ghostly picture of Nairobi’s CBD. Streets were deserted, shops closed, and police patrols had taken over, some accompanied by canine units. Only a few fast-food joints on Moi Avenue opened partially, with far fewer customers than normal.

In one of the more dramatic scenes, a police lorry carrying plainclothes officers lobbed the first canister of tear gas at the Tea Room stage some few minutes before 9 am, dispersing a group of boda boda riders and bystanders in seconds. Several more rounds followed as security forces moved to break up any crowd formation.

The normally busy Koja and Fig Tree along Murang’a road were also an empty parking lot as public transport operators remained at home.

Lawrence Ochola, a boda boda rider operating in the CBD, told The Standard that he had managed only one trip all morning before police began chasing them from the city centre.

Zulpher Ahmed, a street food vendor, said she and other informal traders were pushed out of town before dawn. “The police came in force by 3 am,” she recounted, “even the homeless who sleep in the streets were caught up in the chaos.”

As Thika Road remained sealed off, thousands of workers and business owners were effectively shut out of the capital. Meanwhile, inside the CBD, security concerns led businesses to deploy their own protection.

Groups of men in reflector jackets, some from private firms, others claiming to be members of the "Nairobi Business Community Security"—stood armed with wooden clubs (rungus), guarding storefronts along key roads like Kirinyaga.

“Some of us are employees in these shops, and we were asked to help secure the premises because of what happened last time,” said James Ilkwana, standing vigil near a hardware store on Kirinyaga Road.

“Leo mboka imetulia na wale madingo wamezoa Mungu leta, leo hakuna chao,” one youthful petrol attendant told us. Mungu leta is the street lingua referring to being robbed during chaos.

We were headed back to Thika Road.

By mid-morning, the standoff turned volatile in some parts of Thika Road. At Allsops, where a crowd was building up, it happened in a flash as seven DCI Subarus tore down the road in tight formation, engines growling, lights flashing, with a sleek Mercedes-Benz gliding ominously behind them like a vulture in pursuit.

In a sudden screech of tyres, the convoy halted, and out sprang masked men in balaclavas, guns drawn, moving with chilling precision as they charged at startled youth who scattered in panic—some diving behind kiosks, others vaulting fences in pure terror.

With a thunderous roar, the convoy sped off through Garden Estate Road, disappearing as quickly as they had come, leaving behind nothing but dust, dread, and the stunned silence of those who had just witnessed the spectacle.

In Githurai, running battles erupted between riot police and groups of young protesters. Tear gas filled the air as officers tried to disperse growing crowds. It was to go on for the better part of the day.

More blockades sprang up further down the road at Kahawa Sukari and Kahawa Wendani, tightening the noose on Nairobi’s northern artery.