On Tuesday evening, the room was quiet — not because there was nothing to say, but because we had just witnessed something that left us shaken. As the lights dimmed and the BBC Africa Eye documentary “Blood Parliament” played, the space at Coffee Bar transformed from a casual gathering to a collective reflection. A documentary meant to inform became a mirror. And no one left the same.

The film took us back to June 25th, 2024 — a day burned into memory. The chants, the defiance, the blood. Students, shopkeepers, Sunday school teachers — ordinary Kenyans whose lives were cut short in a moment meant to redefine democracy.

As the credits rolled, the conversation started. Slowly. Then all at once.

Many participants confessed that watching the documentary reopened emotional wounds. Some shared that it brought back haunting memories of being on the ground during the protests. “It could have been me,” one said. Others sat in silence until they could finally say, “It still hurts.”

Some felt the documentary succeeded in capturing the emotional weight of the moment, but lacked a solid call to action. Names like Rex Masai were painfully absent. “Where was the mention of those who became the faces of this revolution?” someone asked. “How do you spark a movement and then leave out its symbols?”

A few felt the timing was right — a powerful reminder ahead of a crucial election cycle. But others felt it came too late, too clean, too… safe. “The revolution already happened. Where was BBC when the fire was burning hottest?”

There were also sharp critiques of accessibility and reach. With most grassroots communities lacking smartphones or stable internet, some argued that the people most affected by the protest and its fallout may never even see the documentary. “It won’t reach the mama mboga who lost her son. It won’t reach the youth still healing in silence.”

One participant boldly said what many had only implied: “At the end of the day, BBC is a business. They’re selling stories. Not justice.” Others questioned the choice of voices in the film. Why were some individuals featured who hadn’t been visible on the frontlines? Why weren’t the families of the deceased given space to speak?

The fear was real. “I don’t think I’d march again,” one Gen Z participant said quietly. “This time, I watched the ambulances take away politicians while the wounded bled out. What’s the point?”

The room was heavy. But it wasn’t hopeless.

The conversation closed with a shared truth: our systems have failed us. The political class — regardless of side — has united in survival, not service. But so have we. In anger. In truth. In hope.

Someone said it best: “Come 2027, we drain the swamp.”

Coffee Bar isn’t about answers. It’s about awakening. And this week, we woke up to a reality many wanted to forget. Now that we remember, the real work begins.