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May 30, 2016

Chematya and Kabon

Kabon had four children. The eldest was Kimoi my grand-mother who got married in Sergoit. In 1926, she gave birth to her second daughter Chematya who was left-handed; that same year too there was a full Solar eclipse. Kimoi described it as darkness rising like a snake and swallowing up the sun, terrifying children and waking up hyenas, ghosts and other shadows that hid in the west waiting for the sun to set. When Chematya was about 5 years old, my grandfather who had a way with horses moved to Mr. Right’s farm near Sing’ore where he proved an able hand at breaking horses. After a while Mr. Right gave him a piece of land to farm and he brought along his wife Kimoi to stay with him so that she could also seek out work at the farm and get paid wages. Kimoi was so sad to leave Chematya behind but finally she left her daughter with her younger sister who lived in Kamariny and went on her way. Kimoi would rise up early every morning at Mr. Right’s farm and pray her rosary; mixing ancient chants to the sun goddess with Latin chants she had learnt by rote at church, praying for her daughter Chematya to be well. Months later news reached her that Chematya was very sick, and as worried as she was, it took her a while to get permission from Mr. Right to go to Kamariny. When she reached Kamariny, her sister met her at the gate and told her that Chematya had passed on 4 days before. The body had not been moved from the hut where it lay, and Kimoi walked in to see that her daughter had grown really pale and shrunken. Since her husband was away at the farm and his brothers far away in Chepkorio, there was no one to bury her daughter (Keiyo culture did not allow the maternal side of the family to handle the corpse). So Kimoi washed her daughter’s body and swaddled it on her back, then carried it all the way to Sergoit (10 KMs away). She arrived late in the afternoon, and with no one to assist her, she buried her daughter at a corner of her farm. I hear she wept all night long, cursing at the darkness for taking her daughter as it once had taken the sun. For the rest of her life, whenever a grand-child was born, Kimoi would ask if the child was left-handed. She never lived to see another leftie in our family. In 1988, just a day before she passed on, she told my mother that she saw Chematya, a full grown woman, standing before a gate, looking so happy. A sweet aroma wafted from the gate, and right then Chematya had said “Mama, you look so hungry. I have made you some good food. Come inside we feast.”

May 31, 2016

The Ghosts of Iten

One remarkable difference between Nairobi and Iten is the absence of ghosts. There were ghosts everywhere in Iten, though most of them were benign and kind. The ghosts of Kapsio river cared for nothing more than to sing beautiful songs in the dead of the night as they cooked such lovely stews that if one was to smell them they would yearn for no other food. Then there was Chemarinda, the girl who had drowned in a well before marriage, and now walked in the dark in a wedding dress looking for her husband. I remember clearly a dead grandfather who refused to rest and would come and sit on the rooftop of his son’s house, doing bizarre dances whenever there was moonlight. The daughter-in-law, a fervent Christian, put a stop to this by fasting for two weeks and reading out aloud at night from the Book of Psalms. But the most frightening, angry and vengeful of these specters were the ghosts of the white missionaries at Saint Patrick’s High School. One had been buried at the school’s playground and we always avoided staring at the rusted metal contraption that defined his grave. He turned angry one night, when I was in form three, and beat up the cooks in the kitchen so badly that supper delayed. He gathered his friends to make loud, frightening sounds in the outdoor toilets (conveniently located under the shade of immensely tall groves of eucalyptus trees). Everyone began holding it in till morning. They began the habit of bringing power blackouts so that they could waylay us on our way to the dormitories and if our kind principal had not bought a generator we would not have survived. The C.U boys tried to sing gospel songs at night but the ghosts sang back louder, with more rhythm and soul. No one could outdo them when it came to singing the hymn My Soul Has Found A Resting Place. Only one boy, called O, was unafraid. He told us all ghosts feared pig fat and that he always kept a lump of it in his locker. He advised us not to move an inch in our beds at night, for ghosts detested movement, and would beat us thoroughly if we dared curl a finger. So despite the agonies of our restless joints and oddly twisted necks, we lay like stillborn lambs and woke up sore in the morning. During sports day, when a Tambach boy kicked a soccer ball past the field to land at the center of the missionary’s grave, it was only O who walked calmly to the grave, leaned against the metal walls and picked up the ball. Everyone else, including the teachers were like ‘aah-aah, siwezi karibia hapo’.

June 1, 2016

Earth Woman

I cannot remember her name. Her face is but a shadow by now. She was the tallest in class though, taller than all the boys, and stronger. I cannot remember her voice. I wonder if she ever talked. Though she was crying the day I entered class 5. She had been forced to repeat class and a teacher was comforting her, telling her it was a new year with its share of blessings. She walked barefoot as most of my classmates did. Though there was a manner in which she walked on earth, as if it was dough and she was kneading it with her feet. She seemed to understand every fold of the ground with her feet. She was always gentle and kind to me. Let us call her Earth Woman. Time flew swiftly, my classmates lost in the melee of their rough and tumble games, with me still so shy as ever, walking around talking to my invisible friend Promet as if my mind was in a craze. Then the rumor started, from a boy in our class, that Earth Woman was number one that term. I was aggravated. I was always number one. End term came and the whole school sat in the football field in a circle, with the teachers in front of us on desks. Mr GG started reading out all our rankings, from class one, starting with the person in the last position. Earth Woman came late. New uniform. A handbag strapped on her shoulder (we all laughed at her grown up woman act) but the most amazing thing is that she wore shoes, beautiful, well-polished shoes with a strap. I remember wondering if the ground her bare feet knew so well would recognize her with her shoes on. Mr GG now announced that he was reading the ranking for class 5. Earth Woman smiled brighter. After all, she was number one. I stifled a tear. How could I not be number one? All went still, even the wind, and there seemed to be an eternity concealed between Mr. GG catching his breath and him announcing the person in the last position. “Position number last. Earth Woman with *** marks.” Mr. GG was loud. We all heard it. The air cracked as if it was solid. Earth Woman sat so still as if she had turned into a statue. Then the air shook with the force of laughter. Boys clapped. I kept silent and watched as Earth Woman stood up. I watched as she bent and took off her shoes and clasped them under her arms. I watched as she leapt up so quick, like a flash of light and run, avoiding the gate but jumping over the fence and running as fast as she could toward Silanga (a tiny stream from which we collected clay). The headmaster sent the strongest boys to run after her and bring her back, calling her behavior insolent, but that day Earth Woman must have been aided by the wind, for when her pursuers were plodding their way down to Silanga, she was already a tiny, darting dot going up the Chebokokwo hills. May be she went to the other side of the hills, caught her breath and decided to join Chebokokwo Primary School.May be she gave up on school and decided to help out her parents on their farm. May be God was waiting for her on top of the hill with a chariot of fire, and she was taken to heaven and turned into an angel. All I know is that she never came back to school the next term and I never saw her again.‪ PS: I was number one that term and given a black basin and an orange plastic jug

June 2, 2016

The place Rough Hands took me to

If I should tell you this story, then I should begin with hands, rough hands on my shoulders, and the smell of honest sweat. I am really small. Just four years old and it is early morning. The ground is wet with dew. I am standing before our kitchen door, staring at ants trailing a path, busy with their mundane affairs. Rough Hands is telling me about the ants because I asked. But I do not want to know about the ants. I am only asking because I am scared. I am scared because I have just run home from nursery school with my packed lunch. He tells me not to worry, that Mum will understand. Still, when Mum walks out of the kitchen, a feeling of cold scales passes up my back. Lady Gay, that is the scent Mum has on. Mum and Rough hands talk. Adult talk. Nothing that I can understand. Rough Hands kneels and tells me softly, “I am taking you back to school”. He holds my hand. Memory fails me. I am in class two. I am watching television. Black and White television. Rough Hands is outside spraying our cattle. He knocks at the door and demands that I get out, saying that a boy my age should walk out more and see the world. I keep quiet. I am watching She-Ra and He-Man wielding magical swords, fighting forces of darkness. My mind is engrossed. Rough Hands opens the door and orders me to get out. He says, “sitakupembeleza”. I walk out sulking. He takes me out of the gate and down a narrow, winding road, which goes past Kapsio, to the edge of the Kerio valley. There are thick shrubs everywhere, and wild fruits which he tells me to eat-siriek, tabirbir, komolik,lamaiywek. We walk on. I am afraid that I am going to fall because the edge of the valley is so close. He tells me to man up. I start crying. He lifts me up on his shoulders and walks to the valley’s precipice. Its vast panorama opens up and my heart swells with joy. I am no longer afraid. I am baffled by its play of shadow and colour; at its endlessness. He points at Lake Kamnarok, and tells me that the elephants are now drinking its water. I struggle to see those elephants, but I only see the valley’s colours change from blue, to green, to brown. I ask if the brown colors are the elephants and he nods. A path reveals at the valley’s precipice. A path I had never seen. It winds down the cliff like a ribbon in the hands of a child. I tell Rough Hands that we are going to fall but he snorts and walks down. Squirrels and hyraxes skitter from our path. In the distance, Colobus monkeys swing about from rock to rock. Their grace is effortless. I see a baby Colobus monkey on its mother’s back. I want to hold it. Rough Hands tells me stories as we go down; how there were many lions in the valley many years before I was born; how they would line up on the rocks in immense prides, sunning. This memory ends with him walking me to his friend’s house at the bottom of the valley. They do the adult talk again. I understand nothing. He holds his container of busaa at me asking if I want to take a sip. I taste and spit it out. The two men laugh. I am taller than him. I have finished school and I am working. He still passes by once in a while when I visit home. But he does not have the strength to do heavy chores. Mum gives him the simplest tasks to do when he asks. We give him lunch and take him to hospital when he coughs a lot. He looks so old and pale. Mum tells me that he does not eat. He spends all his wages on drink. We give him all the spare clothes that we can find. He never washes them. When you stand close to him, you can see lice crawling on them. I fear even shaking his hand. I am afraid I will catch some disease. He walks to me and asks what I have brought him from Nairobi. I smile and wonder which old sweater I can pass on to him. He asks me for 100 bob. I know he is going to spend it all on cheap drink, so I give him only 50. He looks at me with such sorrowful eyes. I look away. I grit my teeth as he starts coughing. He died a month later. Mum called to tell me. I asked if I could see the grave. She said that his body was picked by his brothers and buried in a faraway district. She asks if I am okay. I keep silent, sifting through my emotions, searching for a word. I wonder why I am seeing a baby Colobus monkey, riding on its mother’s back.

June 2, 2016

Kapke Massacre-1919

A long while back, 1919 to be specific, Scots and Boers had settled in Uasin Gishu and cleared the last lion pride that sunned around Sergoit Hill. They stopped trying to breed their cattle with African buffalo (impossible since African buffalo have an extra chromosome pairing) and took to growing wheat and shooting out the last remaining herds of hartebeest. At this time, Yator, son of Kipkirus had come of age as a powerful witch-doctor. He had inherited from his father a bag and a cow horn. No one ever looked inside his bag so the contents are forever a secret. Inside his cow horn though, was a curious mixture of leopard skin, sinew from a baboon’s back, solanum berries, elephant urine and other ingredients of his dark art. With these, he could command Gabon vipers to bite his enemies or send elephants to trample over them. One night, he walked up the Kerio escarpment, passed the narrow forest rim at Kamariny and entered Theunissen’s farm (one of the many settler farms in Uasin Gishu). He was in search of a form of red earth to mix with mutton fat which he would smear over his skin. Instead, he was distracted by the fine herds of cattle at the farm. He was so fascinated by their rippling leg muscles and their horns that gleamed like silver in the moonlight that he spontaneously burst into song. He ran back to the valley to rally warriors from the Kapke section of Mutei. He assured them that Asiis (the sun god) and Ilat (the thunder god) had promised them victory. Many of these warriors, who could no longer fight against the Maasai and the Nandi, and acquire the heroic marks their fathers had on their arms, which signified the enemy warriors they had speared to death, yearned for one final glorious bloodshed. So they called warriors from as far as Sing’ore and they descended on the European settler farms at mid-day, when shamba boys were taking rest from the hot sun and the settlers were in their houses, waiting to eat the bread their wives had baked. They poured on the farms, as thick as fog, with their warrior cries numbing the air with the scent of horror. They took away 2000 herds of cattle which they drove down the Kerio valley to hide. That day they sung the victory songs they thought they would never sing again. Many fell into epileptic fits out of sheer joy. The village headman, Chebon Arap Chessesir, was furious. He told the warriors that the colonial government was not to be messed with. He advised them to brew beer and take it to the DC and seek his pardon. He sent his son to the DC at Kamariny to inform him of their contrition but the DC happened to be away. Meanwhile, the ADC in Marakwet and the ADC in Eldoret armed 10 native askari with guns and, accompanied with 20 warriors from Irong, they invaded Kapke to retrieve the cattle. The warriors, despite their fierce defense to keep the cattle they had raided, were no match for bullets and many fell dead. Yator was arrested and all the cattle (including those not stolen) were taken to Tambach. Afterwards, there was a rinderpest outbreak which killed off the remaining livestock in the villages. Impoverished, the villagers left the valley and sought for wage labour in the Uasin Gishu farms. ‪ PS: In prison, Yator dreamt of a dark cloud coming over him. Suddenly light shot up his groin and pierced through the cloud. The next day his son Suter was born. He grew up to inherit his father’s bag and cow horn and became a powerful witch-doctor too. One day, I might tell you his story.

June 4, 2016

The Cliff Dwellers of Kerio

My great-grandmother, Kabon, who passed on in 1953, once walked up the Kerio valley all the way to Kakamega with the women from her village to seek for food. She spoke of a great famine that struck the valley, so severe that breast-feeding mothers could produce no more milk and had to feed their babies on boiled herbs. The babies died of course, and there was such pain as the mothers carried the corpses all the way to the bush to be devoured by hyenas. As was typical in Keiyo culture, mothers served themselves last, after feeding any guest, the husband and the children, and since there was no food, women would sit beside their families as they ate, waiting for anyone to pass onto them a scrap of food they could afford to give out. Kabon watched as her mother would tie a stone tightly around her belly after serving them food, to keep the hunger pangs away. Yet the drought persisted, despite the pleas the Keiyo sent to Asiis, the nine-legged goddess, and children walked about with baboon rear ends, since their rectums began falling out as their abdominal muscles collapsed. Kabon spoke about one of the saddest events in the history of the valley, where parents began selling off their children to the Nandi in exchange for food, telling their children not to cry when they left them behind, that they were giving them away so as to not watch them die. It is at this time of such horror that information about Kakamega began trickling in. They heard stories of pumpkins so big two men had to carry them, of huts so tall and with such thick thatch that you would not hear the rain at night, of food so plentiful that people washed their hands in milk. Kabon joined a team of women that walked up the valley to Kakamega to seek for food. They were guided by warriors only upto Sergoit hill, since the Karamojong, a hostile tribe, had at that time formed a camp around Moiben and they were renowned for cutting of a man’s legs and leaving him to bleed to death. They did not kill women however so the women walked on, sleeping on trees at night to keep safe from animals, till they reached Kakamega. The people of Kakamega were friendly and gave them food and shelter, but warned the women from stealing anything otherwise they would tie them up on trees to be eaten by hyenas at night. Kabon said that she never wanted to leave Kakamega because it had so much food, but the women had an obligation to bring back food to their communities. Their journey back was more eventful since they met a gang of Maasai men who chased after them, till some dropped their bags of the grain, which the Maasai poked with their spears, scattered the grain on the ground and proceeded to urinate on it. The women salvaged all they could and walked back to the valley, where they cried with joy to see that rain had fallen.