Hope and sorrow mark opening day of Olympic Games

My United Nations family at the Casa Publica house comprises an Ecuadorian, an American, two Chileans, a Brazilian of Iranian descent and, of course, our Brazilian hosts.

The Italians and the French have already left, their work done. I am the Kenyan flag carrier. Every day, we go our different ways, pursuing our stories.

But on Saturday, we all came together for the opening ceremonies and the protests scattered around Rio de Janeiro. The day was full to overflowing.

Whenever the delegation of a family member walked past, everybody burst into applause and ceaselessly chanted that country’s name. But when Kenya came in, I jumped in front of everybody and started singing our national anthem in Swahili. First, they cheered, then they started looking at me with curiosity. My suspicion is that I was singing off key, like the people who sang when we launched our progressive new constitution at Uhuru Park in 2010.

I decided to cut my rendition midway and resume my seat muttering to myself “you guys look tired after just 20 seconds of Kenyan performance. What will happen to you during the steeplechase? What will you do during men’s and women’s 5,000 metres? And will you survive the marathon? The gold rush has started!”

The ceremony, whose content in all Games is always kept tightly secret, went exactly as I suspected it would. I knew it would be rich in Brazilian cultural life and history.

I was impressed with the images of micro-organisms like spiders which represented the beginning of life. And as an aviation buff, I applauded the recreation of Alberto Santos-Dumont’s flight. It drew a massive response from the crowd. Alberto Santos-Dumont is to Brazilians what the Wright brothers are to Americans. And, of course, I was happy for Kipchoge Keino, our Olympic laureate.

(READ: Keino receives historic Olympic Laurel award)

For a man who started off as a humble policeman, he has truly come a great distance. Keeping your eye on the prize is worth the effort. Try it, all ye dear children who are burning your schools, you never know the greatness inside your seemingly small you.

I spent most of Saturday at Copacabana beach where a massive protest at the marginalisation of the poor was taking place. It was massive from a Kenyan perspective but small in Brazilian terms. “Oh,” Lara, my American housemate, told me, “this is nothing. Protests here can be huge.”

Lara is at Princeton University and is here as an intern with Agencia Publica. The protest was nothing like you see when Cord is going for the IEBC.

People here don’t cut tree twigs and wave them about. They don’t set tyres alight. They don’t somersault on the tarmac. And, of course, Rio de Janeiro does not have matatus to burn.

The protest was actually a carnival. There were banners and flags and thousands of leaflets, which were dutifully picked up and trashed by city workers whenever they were dropped. The place remained clean. People in the beach were having a party, Thursday and Friday having been declared a public holiday by Mayor Eduardo Paes.

A vendor who spoke English tried to sell me a cocktail of fruit juice for the equivalent of Sh600 when I could get for Sh120. I am not your naïve kind of tourist, I chuckled as I waved him goodbye.

The protests haunted me. A woman gave me a rainbow coloured flyer reading: “Our democracy is threatened and we don’t have anyone to appeal to. We cannot trust the judiciary, and most of the media is corrupt and biased. Help us by reporting our situation in your country!” Another one placed a placard on the sand and when she saw me approach, she wrapped herself in a Brazilian flag and stood behind it as I took the picture.

The placard read: “To impress you, we have lost our homes.” It killed me. The Olympics should be about happiness, not sorrow.