I  happened to be in Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, attending a conference, on March 4, 2014, when the city’s taxi operators embarked on a globally reported city-wide protest against higher parking fees imposed on them by the authorities. That fateful day, public transport was paralysed, and many people were forced to walk to work after roads were barricaded – so even private vehicles could not move. In the well-organised protest, the then Nairobi governor, Evans Kidero, was forced to walk about half a kilometre to his office when his motorcade was blocked.

It was a self-sponsored trip, and like I usually do, I would lodge in a location close to the venue. It became an advantage. When I walked into the street from my hotel to take a taxi to the conference venue for the second day deliberations, there was none in sight. The streets looked deserted, and the few vehicles on the kerb were at a standstill. The journalist in me prodded me to walk further down the road to find out, instead of simply going back to ask the hotel reception. I sauntered down the skyscrapers-dotted Central Business District, and within a few yards, I saw what I was looking for.

It was an exotic spectacle of mass action, most of them dressed in black, reminding me of soldier ants mounting a prey or food. The way they organised in phalanges made the CBD impassable. On the fringes of the human ring were bikers, all kitted up menacingly. I could feel the aggression even from yards away. No one needed to tell me it was a protest or a riot in the making. I did not panic, because I knew the way to walk around the epicentre onto the road that led to the Sarova Panafric Hotel, the venue of the Off-grid and Renewables Conference. At the hotel, I would discover that some participants could not make it to the conference that day as they were cut off by the protest.

That evening, in an email chat with an acquaintance who could not make it to the conference, I jokingly signed off by twisting the classic greeting that was popularised by the James Bond movie, From Russia with love, by typing, “From Kenya with aluta.” In my mind, that day’s meeting was spoiled by what we like to call ‘Aluta’ (aka struggle) in Africa. It is a term lifted from the Portuguese axiom “A luta continua, victoria ascerta”, translated to mean, “Struggle continues; victory is certain.”

That day, I was left with the feeling that Kenyans were a special breed when it came to struggle. From the Mau Mau uprising of the 1950s which forced the British to grant the East African nation self-rule, to post-election demonstrations that have roiled the country once in a while, I cannot help this inner sense that Kenyans know how to organise their protests. The most recent is the ongoing riots by young Kenyans which started as a demonstration against the Finance Bill, culminating in the invasion of the Parliament. On that action-packed day back in 2014, as I trekked for about two kilometres to my meeting, the idea crystallised in my mind. What I saw and what I felt made me realise that for the Kenyans, social protest was somewhat a culture.

In hindsight, I can appreciate how effectively they organised. It was after I saw the protests that I then recalled that the taxi and bus drivers were actually organising on the previous day right before my nose. I could remember seeing the men stand in clusters of three to five, and at that time I thought they were reading newspapers or discussing the news. There were uniformed armed personnel, patrolling every corner of the CBD, and I remember wondering what these ‘soldiers’ were doing on the streets. The Matatu Drivers Association worked like a well-oiled machine, and I could not put the pieces together until the next day when they struck.

So, now that their young ones, the scions of Aluta Kenyans, are on the streets, I expect no less. When, on Wednesday last week, they began trending the hashtag #tupatanethursday (a fusion of Swahili and English meaning “see you on Thursday”), I knew they were not making empty threats. I have seen their fathers protest. Their president, William Ruto, will regret not taking these ‘children’ seriously from the get-go.

I went through the tale of my Nairobi experience just to make a point. What we see in Kenya today should not be taken as “one of those youthful protests.” Those guys mean business. And because their demands resonate with other African youths whose leaders are performing below par – misusing and abusing the enormous potential in Africa – they could start a regional conflagration that no politician would be able to quench. For emphasis, the protesting Kenyan youth embodies the spirit of the time, which almost found expression in Ghana (during the ‘Yentua’ anti-E-levy protests) and Nigeria (during #EndSars), but which dissipated before finding the energy to metastasise.

Interestingly, I read some Nigerian commentators who think that over here we are too docile to protest like the Kenyans: that we have accepted whatever our leaders dole out to us, and have resigned to fate. I understand that these analysts have come to such a conclusion because of what is happening in our clime at the moment. A Nigeria where the leader takes its citizens for granted, living like kings and partying like drunken sailors while the citizens scrounge like paupers. Yet, they tell us to endure – to tighten our belts while they loosen theirs to accommodate more gluttony.

Well, those who think we cannot do anything about it should remember that revolution never knocks before kicking in the door. And when it wears the boots of hunger, woe betide the guard that stands at the gate when it comes knocking. Alas, Nigerians are hungry, and anything can happen!

There are many similarities between the Nigerian and Kenyan situations. Kenya is burdened by alarming public debt; so is Nigeria. It has spiralling youth unemployment; same with our country. Inflation bites hard; the Nigerian side is abysmal. Ruto’s government is accused of profligacy; Tinubu’s extravagance is phenomenal. In fact, most indices considered, Kenya is a kindergarten case in comparison to Nigeria. Yet, we cannot afford for such upheaval to hit our cities before we do the needful.

President Bola Tinubu can preempt the angry Nigerian youth by borrowing a leaf from Ruto’s concession, which read in part: “In this regard, I direct immediate further austerity measures to reduce expenditure, starting with the Executive Office of the President and extending to the entire executive arm of government. I direct that operational expenditure in the Presidency be reduced to remove allocations for the confidential vote, reduce travel budget, hospitality and purchase of motor vehicles, renovations and other expenditures. I propose that equally, parliament, the judiciary and county governments working with the National Treasury also undertake budget cuts and austerity to ensure that we do what I have always advocated, that we live within our means.”