Just a few weeks ago, the people of Kenya were back on the streets of Nairobi; protesting, chanting, and refusing to be silenced. It’s something they’ve become known for; not because they love chaos, but because in Africa, protest is an act reserved for the courageous. In many other countries on this continent, speaking up in the streets is a risk not many are willing to take. And for good reason—reasons we are yet to confront.

Just last week, a Kenyan teacher was arrested by the police and detained for publicising ‘false’ information about a senior police officer on a blog. He was locked away from the public eye, and only a few days later, he was pronounced dead. The official claim? Suicide; by banging his own head against a wall. Naturally, the public wasn’t convinced. There was no transparency. No evidence. And so, the people took to the streets, convinced that Mr. Ojwang Albert was yet another victim—not of suicide, but of murder, as was later proved in the courts of law.

As fate would have it, those very protests became the stage for another grotesque display of the same problem.

Now, Kenya is no stranger to dramatic protests. In fact, they’ve become a symbol of defiance across the continent. Protesters are known to throw tear gas canisters right back at the police, to dance in the face of state intimidation, and to make satire out of oppression. It’s a brave culture of resistance—one rooted in the knowledge that violence from police, though present, is often met with a certain degree of caution.

But not all countries have that reassurance.

Take Uganda, for example. Try to protest publicly and you’ll find yourself packed into a police truck before your chants even find rhythm. We’ve seen it time and time again—most recently, when medical graduates, demanding to be deployed for internship, were arrested mid-demonstration and had to explain their indiscipline from the police station.

But let’s go back to 17th June in Nairobi.

As the crowd swelled and chants filled the air, a street vendor selling face masks stood at the side of the road—minding his own, detached from the main protest. Suddenly, two armed officers approached him, roughed him up for no clear reason—and then shot him. At close range. In the head. In broad daylight.  Unprovoked. Walked away with gusto leaving Boniface Kariuki to bleed away on the pavement.

Why?

What goes on in the minds of such officers? Is this part of their training? Are such actions part of protocol? Were they under orders—or under the influence of something else? Are they well evaluated psychiatrically before being handed a gun and a badge? Because truly, what would drive two trained officers to attack an unarmed, uninvolved, and defenceless man trying to make enough to feed his family? It really makes you think.

These are the questions we must ask ourselves as Africans. Beyond protests, how are we to trust the very people meant to protect us when they are the ones suffocating us—literally and figuratively? What kind of military or police force sees its role as silencing rather than safeguarding?

We must drag these conversations into the open. These things are happening right under our noses. And while many of us may not be able to take our voices to the streets—let us at least use them with each other. Let’s speak, let’s write, let’s ask the hard questions.