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Kenya held parliamentary and presidential elections on Thursday, December 27, 2007. They followed a short but intense month or two of campaigning. Every forecast was for free, fair, and quiet elections in Kenya, Africa’s shining jewel of democracy, and with that in mind I returned to Kenya from holiday in Europe the day before elections. Election day was uneventful, but in the hours and days after the closing of the polls, Kenyans witnessed their fragile status quo shatter into many sharp and deadly pieces. Accusations (and increasingly more proof) pointed to the incumbent’s rigging of the election so as to gain a second term, causing massive riots, demonstrations, and killings, many on the basis of tribe, at the urging of the main opposition candidate (and probable winner of the presidential election).

Fujo, Swahili for loud noise, is the catch all used to describe the events that begin immediately after the polls closed and continue to the present moment. The fujo has touched every corner of Kenya, killing hundreds and displacing thousands, all the while plunging Kenya into a decline it will not soon recover from.

I was in Mombasa until the morning of January 1st. In the days of the fujo I witnessed things I had only previously only glimpsed on the movie screen or documentary footage. I saw hundreds of women and children chased down my street by an angry mob in fast pursuit while throwing large stones. I saw government troops fighting riotous mobs in the street. I saw a vibrant city known for its relaxed air and freewheeling fun die in a heart beat. And what I saw is nothing. Men were burned alive a few blocks from where I had taken refuge. Churches were burned with hundreds inside. Cars were stopped, and their passengers lynched if of the offending tribe.

Throughout this, 99% of the stores and shops shut down. The price of bread has now more than doubled, and most are without cooking gas yet alone food. The banks are closed, and so the populace goes without both money and food.

During a lull in the violence a friend, no, a brother, of mine and I braved one of the most affected neighborhoods in Kenya to get to the airport. Leaving when I had the opportunity to was one of the hardest decisions I have ever been forced to make. While Kenya is not my country, in the few months I have lived there, mother Kenya drew me into her warm embrace and I described Kenya as the place I lived, not just worked. And so, in leaving, I not only left behind my home but countless friends who cannot or will not leave. I am overcome by a deep sadness and an unforgivable guilt, two emotions I look forward to overcoming upon my eventual return to Kenya.

During the days and nights of the fujo, as the battles raged nearby and with the constant symphony of angry cries, gun shots, and tear gas canisters, I spent a few moments now and then writing. Below are a few excerpts. I share them with you, not as a testament to what I survived, but as a reminder as to what is still taking place. The story, the headline, the news is no different than hundreds of other similar occurrences throughout the year that we glimpse as they scroll across the bottom of our television screens, but I bore witness to the all too real situation on the ground. My thoughts and prayers continue to be with my friends and loved ones enduring the fujo and the rapid demise of, what was, one of Africa’s remarkable success stories.

Helpless
The night is quiet. Too quiet. Long periods of utter stillness are interrupted by flashes of violence. Mobs of young men parade through the street showing their political resolve and demonstrating their commitment to their ideal of democracy. Their vision is clouded by their lust for violence, justified by their desire for justice. Justice at any price. Innocent pedestrians have been stoned in the streets. Shops have been looted. Houses are being reduced to ashes.

In the midst of this impending chaos we have nothing to do but sit and wait. Every flight is full. Many of the roads have been closed by mobs burning tires and anything else they can get their hands on. The situation will get better. There is no doubt. But it is equally certain that it will get much, much worse before any improvement is seen. No matter the content of the announcements made and election results revealed, a significant portion of the population will be angered.

The most threatening factor is that, as it appears now, those who will be the most upset are also those with the least to lose. A man with nothing to lose is the most threatening. Many have declared that truth over the centuries. I have always believed it. I only hope I do not learn the lesson first hand.

I am in a compound in a wealthy, residential area of the island of Mombasa. This area is off the beaten path of Mombasa’s main roads, and in theory, of the riotous mobs sharpening their machetes as I punch these keys. The family I am with is not scared. They have based their faith of a safe outcome in two seemingly opposed sources of strength: Allah and firearms. No matter what happens through the night, they will head the call of prayer, just as the mobs will follow their leaders’ calls to violence. Failing divine protection, there is a robust collection of guns and ammunition in the compound. and an over abundance of men skilled and ready to use them, should the need be.

Sadness
Sadness weighs me down like the pangas and machetes in the hands of the men in the streets. It is a burden to be sure, but I unwillingly shepherd it, unlike the men who dance with glee as more fuel is poured on the fire. The city, closed and shuttered, is teeming with thousands of men with nowhere to go and nothing to do. These same men have scores to settle and bloodlusts to sate. They may be lulled into a daytime stupor, but their collective rage will continue to simmer until it boils over with the setting of the sun each night. Until the politicians, nay, the riot provoking talking heads, fundamentally alter the status quo with concrete steps towards reconciliation, the country will continue to tear itself apart, tribe by tribe, city by city.

The violence yields no progress, only death, pain and death. The violence will know no end until the leaders of these warring factions make genuine attempts to put out the fires they have so methodically been stoking. For the opposition to acquiesce is nothing less than an outright acceptance of an election so obviously rigged by the incumbent that his methods were reminiscent of cheating on a primary school exam, rather than a presidential election. And the incumbent, acting more and more like a dictator with each passing day, will not make any concession, as any step in that direction will b e perceived as a tacit admission of fraud.

Fireworks
The ground vibrates with the almost rhythmic boom, boom boom of distant explosions. The sky is aglow. A faint orange interrupted every so often with bursts of violent red. I know that the city is at war. The people are looting, fighting, killing each other. They have been at it for days. Yet, I have hope. It is January 1st, and it has been this new day, this new year, for but a few minutes. I hope with all my heart that the rumblings felt throughout my body, throughout my being, are the same that all my brothers and sisters are feeling as they usher in the new year around the world. Fireworks, symbolic of celebrations and joy, would be wholly out of sync with the blood in the streets, but completely appropriate considering the calendar. I hope that the glow in the sky is of fireworks being launched in celebration and exploding with joy, instead of marking the loss of yet another house and home for a family caught in the crossfire.