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August 10, 2015

True Stories From Iten

Kabon was one of the last people to still worship the sun. In the early 1950s when she was already old and infirm, and blinded by cataracts, she laughed all efforts of proselytizing her to the Christian faith by pointing at the sun with her walking stick and saying that there was only one god and that was Asiis, Chepkelyen Sogol (The Sun, Our Nine-legged Daughter). She lived with her daughter in Sergoit and when she felt death coming she asked to be taken back to her home since life ( her daughter’s marriage and children) could not mix with her death. She called my mother aside, who was only about 5 years old at the time and told her of her impending death. She said she had nothing else to give my mother but her skin cloak. Then she plucked out pieces of her hair and placed it on my mother’s head and said she would live long till all her hair was as white as the clouds that scudded the sky. The next day Kabon’s son who lived in Kamariny sent two oxen bearing a forked stick (chepchuguguk) to Sergoit. On this forked stick, a mat was tied and then Kabon was laid on it and dragged to Kamariny. She had a stubborn wound on her stomach (probably a form of cancer) which could not heal and therefore could not be carried on someone’s back. In Kamariny, her son, ever so afraid that he would not see his mother in heaven went to Sing’ore to ask the Irish priest in charge of the diocese to come and baptize her mother. Meanwhile Kabon was in such agony from her stomach wound and a local medicine man pierced the wound with an arrow to let the pus out. By the time the Irish priest came, Kabon could no longer speak, and her son was ever so relieved when she was finally baptized and could then enter heaven as Elizabeth. My mother would regularly visit Kabon in Kamariny but one day she walked into her home to find the door to her hut closed. When she tried to peak inside, the adults around chased her away. Much later, in her own child’s wisdom, she figured out the spot where Kabon was buried since it was cleared of grass and had flowers planted atop.She remembered Kabon instructing people to plant a tree on her grave, and she reminded the adults around of Kabon’s last wish.They all laughed it off and told her to go and play with the other children. This disrespect of Kabon’s burial wish bothered my mother so much and food lost taste to her for a long while after that. Kabon’s husband, Kipkigey lived in the valley with his second wife. He immediately got a stroke when he heard of his wife’s death and his hands curled. The son planned a visit to go and see him but on his way someone ran up to him and told him that Kipkigey had died, which was just three days after Kabon had passed on. The son held back his tears but decided to go on and see his father, even though he was dead.

May 15, 2016

True Stories from Iten

On the road, passing through Embu, two of my relatives, both in their late sixties, are talking animatedly. One, a lady, points out at an obscure building. She says: “I was here in 1969. That was our college where we were training to be agricultural officers.” T, the male relative, whose face is round and pudgy, pales. “P, you were here in Embu in 1969! When Tom Mboya was killed! Were you not scared?” P says: “Yes, I saw it on television. That year was the first time I watched television actually. All the Luos in my class walked out of the dining hall and sat outside on the grass, wailing loudly and constantly. It chilled. We were not taught anything that day. I went to my dormitory, but those frightening sounds! I couldn’t sleep” T turns reflective and looks outside the window. “You are brave P. Puohi! Those were not the times to be far from home.” He leans his head against the window, staring keenly at something only he can identify. “You know P, that year in October, I was in Kisumu, working as a teacher. You remember those shootings! I tell you I ran like a mad dog, on and on and on. When I finally stopped to rest, I vomited blood. From that time I decided I would never live elsewhere apart from Keiyo. Let everyone stay in their own land. Let everyone carry their own kesendet (millet bag).” The soft piano sounds of Daima Mimi Mkenya intrude. Somehow, as random as the universe is, Eric Wainaina is singing through the car radio.

May 18, 2016

‪#‎ForAllTheLonelyChildrenWithImaginaryFriends‬

I remember being so shy in primary school, right from class one to class eight, being unable to say ‘present sir’ in class and being too intimidated to play with my classmates who ran themselves thin on Mindililwo primary school’s wide fields. I naturally developed affection for our farm livestock as a result, and spent many sunny days stroking and hugging our cows. Still I felt something was amiss. I needed a friend I could talk to and laugh with (I have to confess that the kids at the Mindililwo were so kind and did their best to draw me out of my shell but to no avail). One day (I think I was in class two or three), I dreamt that a man with purple skin, a long tail, with an egg balancing on his head, came to my room, held my hand and walked me outside, where we played all night long. I named him Promet and he became one of my closest imaginary friends. I would stand by the school gate at games time every evening, with my bag, as others children frolicked silly all around, waiting for the school bell to ring so that I could go home and be with Promet. Promet always smiled at me as soon as I reached home, making me forget about school and I would run with him to our fruit farm (full of loquat, lemon, lime, orange, peach and plum trees) to pluck fruits. Promet taught me how to climb trees and showed me a secret magic with which we transformed ants to be as large as horses so that we could ride them. With Promet I would run around grass paddocks with a paper bag, catching grasshoppers, butterflies and locusts. Promet taught me not to be afraid of millipedes. One afternoon, I walked to the fruit farm and called out for Promet (for that is where he lived, next to a lemon tree) and he answered very weakly. I found him lying beside his hole and he told me that he had been bitten by a lizard and was slowly dying. I asked if there was anything I could do and he told me that it was too late, that all I should do was bury him in our millet farm and mark his grave with egg shells. I lifted him and walked to the millet field, scooped the earth with my feet and lay him in the hole, and covered him with earth. Then walked home to get egg shells. I could not find any so I decided to look for some the next day. That night Promet called me out in a dream, telling me that he was still alive and I should come and dig him out. Like all other children, I was afraid of the dark and promised him to do so the next morning, for that would be a Saturday and I would not go to school. I walked to the millet field early the next morning but could not trace where I buried Promet. I called out to him but he was silent. ‪#‎ForAllTheLonelyChildrenWithImaginaryFriends‬

May 27, 2016

The Curse of the Perpetually Grey Cats

As soon as I could pray the rosary, I asked God for a cat. While announcing the First Mystery, I silently asked God that I wanted a ginger or marmalade-colored one. You see we had many cats at our farm (an average of 12 at any given time). The sad thing is that they were all grey, and each new litter turned out to be even more disappointingly grey. I was told at church that once you finished praying the rosary three times God would give you anything you want, and I diligently did that, getting frustrated at the ten Hail Mary’s I had to say while meditating on the mysteries. It took a while and a lot of rushed speech to get it through, but when I was done, I knew a miracle was coming my way. It did. One quiet afternoon, I was walking through a Rhode grass-filled paddock where I had hidden a tortoise (story for another day) and I heard the distinct, mellow, sweet cry of a kitten. I turned around and started calling back at it in cat language (I was fluent in cat-nese at the time 🙂 ). The kitten, colored like sunset, emerged from the undergrowth with the mother, both walking with heart-breaking purity. He was faultlessly clean, as if posing for a postcard picture, and he kept mewing ever so gently, stirring my soul, inviting me to caress him. He was not wild like the mother, who fled as soon as I approached; instead he came to rub against my feet. His fur was as soft as butter. I lifted him up and rushed home, ignoring the cries of the mother, who kept calling at us with a voice that was unerringly human. I showed my new pet to my sisters and they quickly told me that mum would not accept a new cat without justification (cats were kept in ratio to the rats and moles at the farm). I did not listen them, stating that God had answered my prayers just like he had answered those of the early day Saints. My marmalade-colored cat padded noiselessly towards me when I served him milk and omena, and he ate ever so decently, picking out choice morsels like a true aristocrat. At that moment, I imagined our future together. I would teach him to stand on command like the cat I saw on a TV show. I would walk with him to a quiet spot on the farm on many afternoons, and he would snuggle on my chest, purring, while I read a book. He would sire more cats of his kind with the females around, eliminating the Curse of the Perpetually Grey Cats. I took him outside the house, and started teasing him with a stick, and was fascinated by the way he rolled on the ground, looking so pudgy and cuddly. Mum came in the evening and was horrified to see an additional cat in the compound. She called Rough Hands to take him away. I pleaded to her, debating that this was a Miracle cat and she was going against God’s will by giving him away. She said that in a world where many are dying from hunger, prayers that ask for specific-colored cats could not be answered that quickly and I was merely fantasizing. Rough Hands picked up my Miracle Cat and the cat, being the true noble he was, did not resist but kept on purring as he was lifted to Rough Hand’s elbow. My last vision of my Miracle Cat was his furry tail swishing as Rough Hands walked out of the gate with him. That evening, I decided that God had allowed my kitten to be given away because I did not pray to Him while genuflecting. I went on my knees that night, holding onto my rosary, and after saying the Fatima Prayer, I asked God for a black cat. That prayer too was answered.

May 28, 2016

Secrets of the Fatima

This is Kerio valley as seen from Koibarak. When I was about eight, the stretch of trees and shrubs were thicker. I would often see teams of Colobus monkeys leaping through the canopy with effortless grace and would be reminded of the song the old men sang: “Colobus monkey it is not man that kills you but your beautiful coat” Sadly there are no more Colobus monkeys. Nor are there dikdiks which were plentiful too. A few squirrels and rock hyraxes remain. Sometimes I would get bored of this valley and fill it up with water. I would sail on a boat across it and stare down at the men and women who went about their farm obligations, unaware they were now under water. But mostly I would just stare at nothing as I ate the wild siriek, komolik, tabirbir and some other red fruit with white juice whose name I can no longer recall. I was a dutiful catholic then and heard about this old woman who had met the Virgin Mary here. The Virgin was described to be a woman with kind eyes, covered with a white veil with butterflies hovering over her head like a halo. From then on, I wished for nothing else but to meet her too. I would come here with my rosary and genuflect. I would hum the rosary prayers dutifully; believing the stones that scoured my knees, would convince Maria of my faith and make her appear. One day I saw a single, conical cloud in the sky and remembered how it was for Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco, the three Portuguese children herding sheep in 1916 when Maria appeared to them from the sky. I felt sad that I had forgotten to carry my rosary that day. Still, I knelt down, praying with fervor, believing that Maria would whisper to me the Secrets of Fatima as she did to those children. But the cloud failed to turn into the Blessed Virgin. Instead a sharp wind tore it like tufts of cotton and spread it across the sky. I sat down on a stone and wiped the white dust off my knees.

May 29, 2016

The Nandi Bear

In the 19th century, the Keiyo and Marakwet lived in the cliffs of the second Rift Valley escarpment, tending over irrigation furrows left to them by the Sirikwa who vanished mysteriously. Back then, there was a belt of forest that stretched thinly near the valley’s edge, from Cherangany all the way to the Mau. The Keiyo would at times cross the forest to seek salt licks in Sergoit but they would not go further so as to avoid the Maasai and Karamojong who wandered in the Uasin Gishu plateau. It is said that beasts called the chebokerit lived in this forest, and they were described as having the limping gait of hyenas and having long, shaggy coats. They also had long whiskers that would whistle in the wind and would hide in bamboo thickets in the daylight, only to walk about in the night, where their haunting wails sounded like the voices of a thousand tortured demons. The chebokerit feared men and avoided the valley when they were around, but when they would step out for raids, the kerit would go down the valley to the villages to prey upon women and children. On dark, moonless nights, they would climb onto hut rooftops and wait patiently for someone to walk out to answer a call of nature, upon which the chebokerit would jump on the person, take off the head, run off to the darkness where it would eat only the brain. Women would resort to wearing large pots on their heads when they walked out so that when the chebokerit would pluck the pot instead of their heads and they could rush back to the hut and hide as it did so. A story is told of a boy who was strong enough to wield a spear who was instructed to carry some pieces of meat to the sentries who stood guard on Sergoit hill. The sentries kept check on any spontaneous invasion from either the Nandi or the Karamojong. The boy walked up the valley with the meat stuck on his spear, and followed a narrow path all the way to the forest at Kamariny. In the vast canopy of the forest, where light trickled down as thick as liquid jade, he heard the voice of a woman wailing in the distance. He walked on, for he was used to the ways of the leopard and other forest creatures, and could defend himself. The wailing sound came closer and something about its tone chilled him to the bone, because it sounded distinctly nonhuman. The boy proceeded to hide behind a tree and wait. Moments later, a beast walked by and paused at the tree he hid behind, sniffing. Blood had clotted around its mouth and hordes of flies were buzzing around it. It stood on its hind legs like a person and began pawing in the air, wailing in an ear-splitting crescendo. It finally went down on its fours and ran off. When warriors from the hill arrived, the boy was so panic-stricken that he could not speak. The men followed the beast all the way to Sing’ore but then rain began falling and they lost the spoor. They abandoned the search and guided the boy back to the valley. Sightings of the chebokerit were recorded extensively by the early Scottish and Boer communities in Uasin Gishu and N.E.F Corbett, the District Commissioner of Eldoret, reported an encounter in 1913 saying: “I was having lunch by a wooded stream, the Sirgoi River, just below Toulson’s farm … to my surprise I walked right into the beast. It was evidently drinking and was just below me, only a yard or so away … it shambled across the stream into the bush … I could not get a very good view, but am certain that it was a beast I have never seen before. Thick, reddish-brown hair, with a slight streak of white down the hindquarters, rather long from hock to foot, rather bigger than a hyena, with largish ears. I did not see the head properly; it did not seem to be a very heavily built animal.” There has been no significant archaeological research to date regarding the beast, and cryptozoogists are left wondering whether it was a giant baboon, a striped hyena, a bear, an unknown animal species or simply the powerful imagination of the tribes living along the valley.

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

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