THE VOICES OF FREEDOM
Written by DAVID ODUOLA.
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[Location: British Basecamp, Nyeri, Kenya| Time: 0430 Hours, July 17, 1953]
The emergency room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a keystone projector. Colonel Matthews
had just read the itinerary for their sting operation on the Mau Mau group. The image of the
Aberdare forest glowed faintly on the cracked wall behind him. “…Take no prisoners. I repeat,
take no prisoners” Again, he paced the length of the podium, and stopped by the military map
pinned against a wooden wall, his index finger traced the jagged lines of the Aberdare forest- the
heart of the resistance. “This is where they are hiding, gents. You burn their crops. Torch their
homes. Crush their will to fight.”
A young lieutenant barely in his twenties shifted uneasily. One could tell he almost wasn’t sure
whether or not to test the waters of his own courage. “Begging your pardon, sir, but what if—
what if we don’t find them, sir? The Mau Mau, they’re well…” he hesitated, searching for the
right word, “Elusive, sir,” Matthews retorted sharply. “Then you burn the forest,” he leaned
further along the podium, “Make no mistake, these are not men we’re dealing with. They are
subhuman, savage beasts masquerading as men. You will show no mercy. Do you understand?”
The lieutenant’s throat bobbed as he nodded, “Yes, sir!” barely audible above the static buzz of
the rickety projector.
Satisfied. Matthews gave a curt nod. “Good. We move at first light.” He continued. “Dismissed!”
[Location: Aberdare village, Kenya| Time: 2100 Hours, July 17, 1953]
Fire had already eaten half the village before the Mau Mau group arrived. Flames licked the
thatched roofs with greedy tongues and painted the forest layout with orange tint. Njeri struggled
to crawl her way into a crumbling granary. All she could hear was the crackling sound of burning
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timbers. Somehow, a faint rustle that swept by made her peer out, her breath catching at the sight
of her father’s lifeless body sprawled in the dirt. His machete, the one he always carried, was still
clutched in his hands.
“Ni shetani gani angefanya hivi kwa aina yake?” a voice cried out nearby. “What devil would
do this to his own kind?” Njeri blinked hard, forcing the tears to stay away. Tears made you
weak, her father had said. Tears didn’t change anything. Her mother’s voice, once the loudest in
the market square, was silent. Her father, the man who could split a mango with a single flick of
his knife, was gone. Mournful wails of her neighbors slowly filled the air. “Nani atatuokoa
sasa?” another voice broke out. “Who will save us now?”
Njeri stood up with trembling legs. She joined in the tearful walk along the ruins left of her
village, which was nothing more than ash now. As they dragged their feet, a group of people in
the corner began to sing a soft, sorrowful song that in no time filled the lips of mourners. It was
the Mau Mau. The colonials called her people savages, rebels, animals, but Njeri knew they
were sons of Kenyan soil who, for truth, stood because they wanted freedom from the colonial
oppression.
Njeri stood beside a stranger, a woman whose name she did not know, who wrapped her in a
rough, worn blanket from her shoulders to her head. After walking for a little while, Njeri turned
for what she knew was the last time; the faint glow of flames reflected in the corner of her eyes,
and she watched with acute pain as the bodies of her parents disappeared into the ruins of what
had once been home. On the other side, the Mau Mau waited. And so did her destiny.
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[Location: Deep within Aberdare Forest, Kenya| Time: 0005 Hours, July 18, 1953]
It was midnight. The forest was alive with sound—the whistling wind, the chirps of insects, the
distant hoot of a few owls—but around the campfire, there was only silence. Njeri sat at the edge
of the circle, her knees drawn to her chest. She lowered her finger to sweep off the mud sticking
to the side of her left foot. She had walked close to five kilometers with the Mau Mau group.
Around her, the fighters—men and women alike—spoke in hushed tones, “Hata hatujui ni
salama huko nje,” a woman murmured nearby, “We don’t even know if it’s safe out here.” Njeri
was barely thirteen, yet the weight of their concerns and the rain drizzle inside the forest made
her feel as though she was decades older.
Soon, Kamau, the leader of the group, rose to his feet. His presence commanded silence. He was
tall, dark, and broad-shouldered. “The British think they can burn us out of existence,” he began,
his gaze running the circle. “But they do not understand. You cannot burn what you do not see.”
Who will redeem Kenya from the stories that had been tarnished and twisted by foreign hands?
The Mau Mau were not just rebels; they were the guardians of Kenyan heritage. They hoisted the
flag of hope, which people looked up to as a symbol of their freedom.
His gaze fell on Njeri. “You,” he said, “Uliona nini” “What did you see?” Her voice came out
as a whisper. “I saw them burn everything. My father, my village…” She paused, her hands
shivering from the midnight drizzles. Kamau’s jaw tightened. “And who do you think we are?”
Njeri slowly raised her head, with eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We are not animals. We are
the heart of Kenya. We ar…” She faltered and burst into tears.
A murmur of approval rippled across the circle. It was as though the scene had woken the warrior
spirit within them. It started from claps to percussive ululations. People gradually rose to make
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rhythmic stamping sounds with their feet. This continued until a tiny voice broke out the
“Mūhūthī wa Gūkū" (The Protector of This Place): a song calling on ancestors to protect their
land and people. It was Njeri.
If the gods had peeked from the skies on that day, they’d hear this poetic, solemn melody voiced
by hundreds of the Mau group, deep at the center of the Aberdare forest.
“Tūrī nī twī Mūthaka wa wīra, twāhinga thīna tūkūra Uhuru. (Here we stand, the warriors of toil,
overcoming suffering to claim our freedom.) Ngai wa maūndo ni twī hamwe, maitho maitu ni
maramīte thī. (The God of our ancestors is with us, our eyes fixed firmly on the land.)”
As the song went on in the background, Kamau stepped in. “This is our truth,” he said. He rolled
out a dated piece of wooden tablet upon which was written a pledge to fight until the end for
Kenya. “The British called us beasts, but here is the story they cannot erase. For every life they
take, we sing their name into the wind. And for every village they burn, we rise stronger from the
ashes.”
By this time, the song had grown louder. “Remember this moment” he said. “Remember what
they have taken. And remember what we are fighting for.”
The weight of these words felt heavier than Njeri had thought, but as she looked around the
circle, she saw the faces of her people—a people whose conviction was boldly written upon their
faces—strength and honor! Kamau raised his machete amidst the chants in a way that made his
blade catch the faint light of the moon. “Tonight, we do not mourn. Tonight, we fight. And when
the sun rises tomorrow, it will rise on a people who refuse to be forgotten.” The group echoed
their response, “Kenya ni nyumbani kwetu!” this time, accompanied by a low thunderstorm
rumble, “Kenya is our home!”.
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Njeri, whose clothes were now drenched in a mix of sand and rain drizzles, could feel her heart
pounding loudly as though it were about to break out of its cage. She was no longer a girl from
Aberdare; she was not just a witness, but it became her shared responsibility to tell a tale.
[Location: British basecamp, Nyeri, Kenya| Time: 0700 Hours, July 18, 1953]
The mood at the base was tense. Colonel Matthews leaned over the table with a cigarette perched
between his lips; he was visibly choking on the tobacco scent curling around his face like it was
an Arab fragrance.
The lieutenant from the emergency meeting had hesitated at the tent’s entrance. He carried a
folded piece of paper, which also doubles as a field report from the scouts sent to comb the edges
of the Aberdare forest. “Well,” Matthews coughed without looking up.
“They’ve… they’ve vanished, sir,” the young officer stammered. “the scouts reported no trace of
them in the vicinity of Aberdare village. Just carvings left behind on the trees, sir.”
Matthews’ head snapped up. “Carvings?”
“Yes, sir. Symbols, phrases in Kikuyu—something about freedom. The men believe it’s… a
warning.” “A warning?”
Matthews crushed the cigarette into a dented tin ashtray. “Superstitious nonsense, hahaha! Burn
the whole bloody forest!” He thought for a second, “No, not yet. We’ve got two animal types in
there, innit?” He let out a sarcastic laugh.
The lieutenant hesitated again. “Sir, permission to speak freely?”
Matthews gestured impatiently, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
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“The men are… uneasy. They say the forest feels alive, like the Mau Mau are watching from the
shadows.”
Matthews raised his eyebrows. “Then we flush them out. Oioo! Double the patrols. Set fire to the
undergrowth if you have to. I want them haunted like the dogs they are.”
“Yes, sir!” The lieutenant saluted and retreated his steps hurriedly.
Matthews stared at the map again. He muttered to himself, “Shadows don’t win wars.” His
laugh, harsh and hollow “Rifles do.”
[Location: Several miles from North End, Nyeri River, Kenya| Time: 1405 Hours, July 18,
1953]
Kamau halted abruptly, immediately throwing his hands in the air to silence the group. Ahead of
them, sunlight streamed through the break of trees. He signaled the group to break into different
tree stands as he turned around.
“This,” Kamau said, as he took a few steps towards the tree in front of him, “is our history.
Every battle we have fought, every life we have lost—it's all here.”
He then drew a knife from his side pocket. The group watched in reverent silence as his blade
danced across the bark. When he had finished, he shifted his stare to Njeri, who had been by his
side the whole time. “Now, it’s your turn.”
Njeri stepped around the timber and slowly, she carved a single word: Uhuru. Freedom. While
the group looked on, the faint sound of distant gunfire echoed through the forest. Kamau’s
expression hardened.
“They’re coming,” he said.
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He cut out the carving, hurriedly put it in his pouch bag, and handed it to Njeri.
“You know what to do,” he said.
Njeri’s eyes widened. “But—”
“No,” Kamau interrupted, his voice firm. “Your task is more important than any fight. Take this
and ensure it survives. If we fall, the story must live on.” Tears filled Njeri’s eyes, but she
nodded. She took the bag, turned, and ran until the forest swallowed her frame.
[Location: British Basecamp, Nyeri, Kenya| Time: 2030 Hours, July 18, 1953]
The sun had set. Matthews stood outside his tent, staring at the distant forest. Smoke still filled
the air from the day’s attempt to capture the Mau Mau.
A scout approached, his face pale and hands trembling. “Sir, the carvings… They are
everywhere. Trees, rocks, even in the soil. It’s like they are mocking us.”
Infuriated. Matthews clenched his fists, “Then, we burn the entire Forest down.”
The scout hesitated. “But, sir, the forest… it has animals and other life forms—” “Do it!”
Matthews roared.
[Location: Aberdare Forest, Kenya| Time: 2200 Hours, July 18, 1953]
Njeri had just arrived at a south cave designated as the Mau meeting point. Inside, a small group
of Mau fighters were racking crates of spears for defense. She sat at the cave’s entrance, staring
out at the forest. The flames would come, she knew.
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[Location: British Broadcasting Corporation, Manchester, United Kingdom| Time: 2:00
GMT October 21, 1960]
Multiple radio announcements relayed the final suppression of the Mau Mau rebellion in British
Kenya by the British troops. The capture of the new group leader Lari Wangari. Reports stated
the casualties and losses, which included {12,000-20,000+} killed—half of them were children
aged ten or below (including 1,090 executed). 2,633 captured, 2,714 surrendered.
A reporter posited that more than one hundred thousand Kikuyus may have died in the
concentration camps and emergency villages due to starvation while ninety-five British military
personnel died in the conflict.
[Location: United Nations Headquarters, New York| Time: 2:00 GMT August 9, 1998]
The room erupted into applause as Njeri Saliba, the director of the World Trade Organization,
stepped onto the stage. A fair-skinned woman in her mid-forties, her pouch slung over her
shoulder. One could tell the weight of the occasion was felt in the corners of the General
Assembly Hall.
She paused, allowing the applause to settle. Then, gazed across the faces of dignitaries—each
one humbled in the solemnity of the International Day of Peace.
“Today,” she began, with a clear and steady voice, “we celebrate peace. But peace is not merely
the absence of war. It is the presence of justice, of truth, of dignity.” Slowly, she reached into her
pouch, pulled out an old piece of bark, and held it out for the audience to see.
“This bark,” she said, her voice filling the hall, “was carved by my guardian the night before he
was killed. He knew he would not survive the attack, but he wanted our story to live on. It is
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because of him and the collective courage of many others who walked that impossible distance
and dared to make meaningful contributions towards creating a different future that I stand
before everyone today, with the weight and honor of growth, able to say, in truth, we are free men
of Kenya”.
The room, so used to polite applause of diplomats and choreographed speeches, now seemed to
hold its collective breath. Njeri folded the bark back into her pouch with care.
“Stories,” she continued, “can break the dignity of a people. But stories can also repair that
broken dignity. As we step out from the hall, let us remember this: when we tell the stories of our
nations, our communities, our lives.”
For a moment, silence enveloped the hall. And then, as though released from a spell, everyone
rose to their feet, the applause returned, this time thunderous and unrelenting.
“Thank you,” she said with a wide smile as she waved cheerfully at the ovation.
[EPILOGUE. Location: Uhuru National Park, Nairobi, Kenya| This day]
The sun hung low over Umuru Park, casting a golden glow on the swaying Kenyan National
flag. A throng of people stretched as far as the eye could see—it is Kenya’s independence day.
The makeshift stage stood empty now. The play had just ended.
Families sat on blankets spread over the damp grass—they were spellbound. Elders nodding
quietly, younger faces alight with a mix of pride and emotion, chills down their spine. The
president stood tall at the podium.
“This day,” his voice swept across the open-air park, “we celebrate not only our independence
but the truth of our struggle. For far too long, our stories were silenced, our heroes forgotten—
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but thanks to the tireless work of individuals like Njeri Wanjiru, we have reclaimed our history.
We now stand, not on the shadows of others, but on the foundation of our own truth.”
The national anthem began to play. Njeri, who for the first time in years, made her first public
appearance, sat in the front row. Her silver-streaked hair tucked beneath a brightly patterned
headwrap. Tears streamed from her face freely over her pouch. Hard to take in, but she did not
wipe them away. They were not tears of grief; she had cried so many years ago in the ashes of
her parents’ home. These were tears of triumph, tears that carried the stories of her people—her
father, her mother, the forests, the rebels, and even the silence that once threatened to consume
them all; of the younger generation now walking taller, knowing they came from a people who
had fought for their freedom.
“…build this nation together,
And the glory of Kenya,
The fruit of our labour…”
As the anthem neared its final note, Njeri opened her eyes and turned her gaze towards the
horizon. The future was vast and uncertain, but for the first time in years, it did not feel like a
void—it felt like a continuation. And she, like her nation, was ready to walk into it.
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