I received an 8 a.m. text from my Editor-in-Chief, Macharia Gachuru, just as I was wrapping up my live links and daring to believe I might finally catch my breath.
Turns out, paradise had other plans.
The Paradise Lost story was still very much alive. And so, unfortunately for my lungs and my nerves, so was my assignment.
Cue the familiar newsroom ballet: frantic calls, hurried arrangements, and the age-old question who’s available right now? Drawing from past experience and a healthy respect for chaos, I opted to team up with a fellow reporter.
Within minutes, luck or perhaps fate nudged us along, and we were wheels on the road.
A quick rewind. On my first visit, we met over 50 men, armed with machetes and crude weapons yet behaving with kind of calm that doesn’t reassure you, it unnerves you. The kind that whispers: this could turn to be ugly at any moment. They gave interviews and even sang the popular Kikuyu son “Kasarini”.
The second visit came days later, after allegations of physical and sexual assault surfaced online, claims tied to Paradise Gardens, adjacent to the disputed land. That time, the same men were more hostile, more watchful… but still not overtly explosive. Not yet.
Wednesday, May 6. This would become, without question, the most unsettling day of my journalism career.The mood in the car? Surprisingly light. A joke here, a chuckle there.
We confidently estimated we’d be in and out within an hour.We had no idea we were driving straight into a snare. At first, it was subtle. Small clusters of men, twos and threes, dotting the roadside. Watching. Waiting.
Our driver, Kioko, joked that they were informants, eyes on the ground, relaying movements inward. We laughed.We shouldn’t have. As we neared the fenced section, the numbers grew. About ten men lingered casually.
A Probox moter vehicle was parked nearby, all doors flung open like it was ready for a quick getaway. Then we saw him.A rough-faced man in a brown safari hat, black T-shirt, and blue jeans.
A walkie-talkie in hand. No introductions needed this was the man in charge.He stepped forward and stopped us.
“Mnaenda wapi? (where are you going?)”
“Paradise Lost,” we replied.
After a pause just long enough to feel deliberate he smiled and told us to drive ahead and make a U-turn. Oddly friendly. Too friendly for comfort.
As we looped back, we saw him signal about 15 men to position themselves on either side of the road. That’s when the jokes stopped.
Inside the car, a quick, tense exchange. We all understood the same thing at once: this could escalate into violence very quickly.
We agreed to drive forward since it was the only way out.Slowly, cautiously, we approached.
Then came the command: “Ekeni gari kando, haraka! (park the vehicle on the side, quickly!”
We obeyed. I rolled down the window, attempting calm.
“Kwani kuna ngori?(is there any trouble?)” The reply came sharp “Ngori na nyinyi ni media? Shukeni! Tokeni kwa gari tuangalie mmebeba nini! (You journalists are the troibe! Get out of the car, quickly!)”
My heart was no longer beating it was sprinting. Chaos, unfiltered.
Within seconds, we were surrounded. Five men descended on our driver, demanding the keys. When he resisted, they turned physical.
“Ee! Bro, mbona unanipiga kofi? (why are you hitting me?)” Kioko cried out.
That was the moment it clicked: This wasn’t intimidation anymore.This was an attack. To my left, our cameraperson wrestled with the “commander,” who was now forcefully grabbing our equipment.
Confirmation, WE ARE JOURNALIST.
Anger…. Vulgar language…. everything is happening at the same time and so fast.Voices rose. Tempers flared. Insults flew. Five men on the driver.
Others on my colleagues. And suddenly, three men at my door, yanking it open, trying to drag me out. I froze.Instinct kicked in, I clung to the door handle like it was the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
Then came another order: “Tokeni hapa ama tuchome hii gari! Haraka! (Get out of there or we shall burn this car)”
Escape… And then somehow a break. A split-second gap. Enough.The car roared to life. Tires screeched. Doors still wide open as we sped off.
No one spoke. For five, maybe seven minutes, there was nothing but the sound of the engine and the heavy silence of survival.
Finally, breathing returned. Words followed. “What just happened?”
Reinforcements
I called the Editor-in-Chief, Macharia Gachuru.To his credit, he didn’t hesitate. Within minutes less than ten he arrived. On a boda boda. Urgent, determined.
He quickly engaged authorities.Officers from Kiambu and Thindigua Police Post responded swiftly confronting the group, recovering our camera and equipment, and arresting the man found in possession.We recorded statements at Thindigua Police Station.
Our equipment? Returned. Intact. Not a single item missing. Aftermath Credit where it’s due, the officers handled the situation with professionalism and urgency.
And, perhaps most importantly, humanity. Even as adrenaline drained and reality settled in, they found a way to lighten the mood.
“Muthoni sasa ataandika police walikuwa wanatembea na goons side to side (Muthoni, we hope you will not report that police and goons were working in cohorts),” one joked.
And just like that we laughed. Because sometimes, after staring chaos in the face, laughter is the only proof you made it out.
What started as another assignment became a stark reminder: journalism isn’t always about telling stories from a distance.
Sometimes, you walk straight into them. And sometimes they nearly swallow you whole. One question still lingers though, whose goons, are they? Daring, intimidating and bearing all that smells impunity!
