In the tumultuous aftermath of a thunderous protest that surged through the hallowed halls of Parliament, I found myself trapped in the maelstrom, a lone figure stripped of my dignity and liberty. As the frenzied mob breached the barricades, a cascade of surging bodies swept me off my feet, carrying me like a helpless leaf caught in a raging storm. Moments later, I stumbled to my feet, disoriented and bewildered. My shirt had been torn from my body, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. Panic surged through me as I realized the gravity of my predicament. The protesters, fueled by a righteous fury, had taken over the building, and escape seemed impossible. Fear propelled me forward as I dodged and weaved through the chaotic crowd. Protesters hurled insults and threats, their voices a cacophony of rage. With every step, the realization dawned that I was trapped in a nightmare. As I reached the grand staircase, a group of protesters spotted me and blocked my path. Their eyes blazed with hostility, and I knew that any attempt to resist would be futile. Desperation gnawed at me as I frantically searched for a way out. Just when all hope seemed lost, my gaze fell upon a small, open door hidden behind a tapestry. Without hesitation, I dashed through the opening and found myself in a narrow corridor. It was a service passage, usually reserved for cleaning staff, and it offered a glimmer of salvation. I raced through the shadowy passageway, my bare feet pounding against the cold stone floor. With each turn, the sound of the mob grew fainter. Finally, I reached a door at the end of the corridor. It was locked, but desperation fueled my efforts as I searched for a way to pry it open. To my astonishment, I found an old crowbar lying on the ground. With trembling hands, I inserted it into the lock and heaved with all my might. With a resounding crash, the door swung open, revealing a dimly lit courtyard. I emerged into the courtyard, my heart pounding with both fear and relief. I had escaped the clutches of the protesters, but the memory of that harrowing experience would forever be etched in my mind. As I made my way into the safety of the night, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fragility of our society and the importance of preserving our democratic institutions. The shirtless escape from Parliament was not merely a physical feat but a testament to the indomitable spirit that resides within us all.MP Mukunji Recounts Shirtless Escape from ParliamentMP Mukunji Recounts Shirtless Escape from Parliament Manyatta MP Gitonga Mukunji has recounted his experience during the August invasion of Parliament by protesters against the Finance Bill. In an interview, he described how he fled the lunchroom shirtless and camouflaged as a protester to escape the chaos. Mukunji, who was having lunch with a colleague, said the situation escalated rapidly as protesters stormed the building. Without hesitation, he left his food and ran for safety. He stripped off his tie and shirt, putting them in his pocket and keeping only his coat on to blend in with the protesters. “I ran towards Harambee Avenue Roundabout,” Mukunji said. “I didn’t want to be identified as an MP there.” He managed to reach KICC where he hid in his office until the protests subsided. Mukunji revealed that he voted against the bill, influenced by the strong opposition from his constituents. He had conducted online polls on TikTok and Zoom, and the majority rejected the proposal. Voting in favor, he said, would have been a betrayal of their views. The MP also shared an unexpected outcome of the incident. He received over Sh20,000 in donations from people who sent money to confirm their phone numbers, which had been leaked online during the protests.I awoke to the thunderous roar of a crowd outside my window, their chants reverberating through the walls of my apartment. The protest had begun, and as I peered out, I saw a sea of bodies surging towards the gates of Parliament. Fear gnawed at me as I realized the gravity of the situation. I knew the protesters were angry, their grievances fueled by years of injustice and broken promises. But I had no part in their cause, and I wanted no part in the violence that was sure to ensue. With trembling hands, I pulled on my pants and stumbled towards the door. As I reached the hallway, I could hear the sound of shattered glass and the screams of people being dragged from their homes. Panic surged through me as I realized the protesters had breached the gates and were now swarming the building. Time seemed to slow down as I frantically searched for a way to escape. I couldn’t use the front door—it was blocked by a mob. I couldn’t use the back door—it led to a courtyard filled with protesters. In desperation, I ran to the bathroom and tore off my shirt. I opened the window and peered outside. There, hanging precariously from the ledge, was a drainpipe. With a deep breath, I lowered myself onto the pipe and began to climb. My hands were slippery with sweat, and my legs trembled with fear. But I kept climbing, one agonizing foot after another. Finally, I reached the ground and stumbled away from the building. I ran through the streets, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t stop running until I was safely out of sight. As I lay on my bed, exhausted and shaken, I thought about the people who had been injured or killed in the riot. I thought about the damage that had been done to the city, and the division that had been sown between its people. I had escaped with my life, but the scars of that day would never fully heal.