NAIROBI, Kenya- Before the first teargas canister is fired, before the crowds begin to swell at city squares, and long before the media start their rolling coverage, a different kind of struggle is already underway — one that rarely makes headlines.
It begins in the cramped, aging barracks that house many of Kenya’s police officers. Rooms meant for bachelors now squeeze in families. Broken plumbing, cracked walls, shared toilets.
Some officers send more money to rural homes than they keep for themselves, their households kept afloat by side hustles, informal loans, or spouses’ wages. But there are no off days when duty calls — especially on protest days
At 4:30 a.m., while most of the city sleeps, the officer is already awake suiting into riot gear. His breakfast? Sometimes just tea and mandazi.
Officially, officers are not allowed to express political opinions, and certainly not to sympathize with protesters.
But behind closed doors, they discuss it like any other Kenyan: the rising cost of living, the inflated fuel prices, the rent that’s due.
Some even nod in quiet agreement with the protesters’ demands. Yet once they step into uniform, they’re expected to embody the law — whatever that law happens to be on that particular day.
Leave days are routinely denied around protest periods. Any form of illness or injury that’s not life-threatening is often met with suspicion.
Medical coverage is minimal, and even approved sick-offs must be justified repeatedly.
Officers on medication, or recovering from past injuries, are still expected to stand guard in riot zones.
Once at the station, the day’s orders come swiftly and without negotiation: identify key protest hot spots, block routes, prepare for dispersal. Riot gear is issued— along with teargas launchers, batons, and sometimes live ammunition.
There is no real briefing on de-escalation tactics, mental preparedness, or safety. The assumption is: you are a weapon, not a person.
Officers are deployed in groups, packed into government trucks like cargo. Sometimes they’re sent to unfamiliar towns, where the language is foreign and the hostility more immediate.
There’s little consideration for who just pulled a 12-hour night shift, who hasn’t seen their family in days, or who was hoping to attend their child’s school meeting that morning.
By 7:00 a.m., they are on the streets. Civilian foot traffic mixes with the early stirrings of organized protest. The officers form a line. Helmets on. Shields up. The directive is simple: hold the line.
What protesters often see is the surface — men and women in uniform, unflinching and unfeeling. But behind those visors are people running on low sleep, low morale, and suppressed fear. They brace for impact long before anything is thrown — because when things turn, they turn fast.
They are shouted at, spat on, called thieves, murderers, dogs. And some, admittedly, have earned those titles through past abuse of power. But today’s officer may not have touched a soul in anger. Still, they must stand still, absorb the rage, and wait for the command that signals retaliation.
Teargas clouds the air. A rock flies. A colleague falls. A warning shot is fired. The crowd scatters.Then charges. The line breaks. And now, the officer is sprinting — not out of aggression, but survival.
No one tweets about the officer’s sprained ankle or the open gash on his cheek. No one trends a hashtag when he/she is pinned between two cars while trying to retreat. There’s little sympathy for those who wear state-issued power, no matter how powerless they might feel inside it.
They work without body cameras, without legal support in the event of lawsuits, and often without adequate medical attention afterward. If a protester dies, an inquiry is opened. If an officer dies, it’s a line in a press release.
Lunch, if it comes, is a bottle of soda and a bun, taken while crouching in a shaded alley. Many go without. Bathrooms are a luxury.
The day stretches into the evening. In between surges of violence, the officer is forced to simply wait — standing for hours in the heat, dehydrated and dizzy, swaying on tired feet.
Fatigue sets in, not just in the muscles but in the soul. Especially for those with young families at home, or parents to care for, or hospital bills still unpaid. There are officers with ulcers, with chronic back pain, with anxiety — but few ever seek help. Vulnerability is not encouraged in the force. Strength, even when it is a lie, is expected at all times.
By the time the officer returns to the station, the protesters are back home, some already posting TikToks or uploading photos from the day.
Others are nursing wounds or mourning friends. The officer is silent, too exhausted to speak. There’s no therapy debrief. No mental health check. Just gear return and a nod from the superior: “Well done.”
Dinner is eaten in silence. The protest still echoes in the head — the chants, the screams, the boom of teargas. Another alert buzzes: tomorrow might be another demonstration. Another day of duty without thanks.
To be a protester in Kenya is to risk your life for your beliefs. To be a policeman is to risk your soul for your survival. Both are on the streets. Both are frustrated. Both, in their own way, are victims of the same broken systems.
But one holds a baton, and the other holds a placard. And so, the public decides whose pain matters more.
