Gitobu Imanyara

The story of June 25th, 2024, is not up for debate. It is not a myth. It is not a matter of opinion, of interpretation, or partisan spin. It is history—raw, brutal, and indelibly etched into the soul of our nation. And as many have rightly said, this particular history is not written in ink. It is written in blood.

It was on that fateful day that Kenya crossed a line. The events of June 25th are not hearsay or fabrications; they were witnessed in broad daylight. Those who marched in the streets, who raised their voices in protest, and those who sought refuge from teargas and gunfire—these people are living, breathing witnesses. They saw it with their own eyes. Others saw it unfold on television and livestreams—unfiltered and undeniable.

The screams, the violence, the use of live ammunition against unarmed civilians, the blatant disregard for the sanctity of democratic institutions—it was all real. We saw our Parliament turned into a fortress. We saw representatives of the people beaten and bloodied in the very house that is supposed to reflect the will of the people. We saw a peaceful protest descend into carnage. The silence of accountability since then has only deepened the trauma.

And now, thanks to the powerful documentation by #BBCAfricaEye in their #BloodParliament feature, the nation and the world have been reminded of what truly happened. This was not a riot. It was not a coup. It was a people’s cry for justice, crushed under the boot of state-sponsored violence. The documentary does not invent or embellish; it lays bare a truth that many would prefer we forget. Let no one tell you otherwise: this happened. It is both disturbing and unsurprising that some are now attempting to discredit the documentary. They speak not out of truth, but out of fear—fear of reckoning, fear of exposure. Their quarrel is not with the BBC. Their quarrel is with their own consciences. Because deep down, they know what they saw. And they know the role they played—whether by action or silence.

We cannot help them with that. But what we can and must do is speak up. This is not a time for polite amnesia. It is not a moment to turn the page. It is a moment to reckon with what our country has become, and to ask whether this is truly the path we want to continue on.

The use of violence to silence dissent, to ram through decisions, and to intimidate both elected leaders and ordinary citizens is a betrayal of everything Parliament stands for. It is a betrayal of democracy. It is a betrayal of the Constitution. If we allow this day to be rewritten—or worse, forgotten—we will have sent a dangerous message: that impunity is acceptable, that state violence is a legitimate tool of governance, and that power will always be allowed to override principle. We must reject that message—categorically and without apology.

Let us be absolutely clear: documenting the truth is not an act of sabotage. It is an act of service. It is not a foreign agenda. It is the most patriotic duty one can perform in times of repression. The role of journalists, filmmakers, activists, and ordinary eyewitnesses in preserving this moment is indispensable. Without their courage, June 25th would already be slipping into the quicksand of state denial and propaganda. Instead, it now stands preserved—painfully and powerfully—as both a warning and a witness.

Let us support more storytelling. Let us support more truth-telling—from all sides, from all angles. Because justice demands it. History requires it. And the future depends on it.

Already, we hear voices trying to shift the narrative—talking about monuments instead of lives, about property instead of people. They claim that the protesters wanted to defile Jomo Kenyatta’s tomb. Let us speak plainly: no one—absolutely no one—stormed Parliament to steal or destroy a monument. This lie is an insult to the victims. It is an insult to the nation’s intelligence. It is a shallow attempt to justify the unjustifiable.

People were not there for stone or marble. They were there to protect the constitution, to reject authoritarianism, to affirm that their lives and voices still matter. To twist that into a tale about a tomb is not only dishonest; it is dehumanizing.

And we must ask: since when did the Kenya Defence Forces become the National Police Service? Who gave them the mandate to police unarmed civilians? Who gave the order that turned Parliament and the streets of Nairobi into a battlefield? These are not rhetorical questions. They demand real answers. The KDF exists to protect Kenya from external threats—not to wage war on its own people. When soldiers turn their guns on taxpayers and civilians, the republic itself is in crisis. Let those who are uneasy with the truth take time to wrestle with themselves. Let them confront their own moral contradictions. But let them do so quietly. The rest of us have work to do. We have a duty to remember. A duty to speak. A duty to defend democracy. And most importantly, a duty to ensure that a day like June 25th never happens again.

We owe that much to the living. We owe that much to the wounded. We owe that much to those who died. Because the blood of June 25th cries out still—for truth, for justice, for memory.

And we must answer.

Gitobu Imanyara is a human rights lawyer, journalist, and politician. He is the Publisher & Editor in Chief of The Platform for Law, Justice & Society (www.theplatformke.co.ke)