From Rags….

“Why did you guys never used to wear shoes to school and your mum was a teacher?” This question drove me down my memory lane, to a place called Gikondi Village in Mbeere South, Embu county.

This girl found herself as the 6th born in a family of 7( 4 boys and 3 girls). It was like being born in Manchester and found yourself in a Man- U team with just a referee and no goal keeper. I assume that this goal keeper was a young man, some day in- love with the referee, promising heaven and marshmallow kinda festivals all year (like all men do promise during courtship), then boom! Absent! Time came and the whole game turned out that we were just us playing against the world. Left vulnerable of always struggling to climb up the ladder and fear of loosing  battles in life because the goal-keeper gave himself a red-card and left the field for life.

I am not going to talk about my relationship with my father today because it kinda gets me emotional and i have already washed my handkerchiefs and it’s raining outside. In a nutshell, it was like my relationship with Makanga of route 23B. We occasionally meet when i get lucky to board his matatu, pay him and when i get to the destination, i alight and forget about his existence. It is a relationship with no feelings- No hatred and again no love: for lack of better description.

Being raised by a primary school teacher, a mother of 7 who summed up our lives as a mum and dad, was quite an experience. We all know how our government pays these sweet angels who take care of us and our stupid brains until we are all grown and learn heavy words to call them. We all had to style up and support our mum and bear her burdens too. What a strong blessed woman she was! We had to be strong and fight demons that never gave up on us. We had to read and get jobs in the city like any other children.It was her dream to see us get good education and prosper in life.

We had a herd of 20 white goats and one crystal white cow that we called Nyange.(We used to ride her like they do horses at Karen riding school- Ours was cow-riding). A number of chicken, a dog by the name Tiger. These animals gave us prestige, besides being,” watoto wa mwalimu”. We would go look after the animals in turns, hunting impalas and monkeys, galagos and baboons;trap birds in Makenge and roast them. My favorites were the hummingbird, the pigeons, the doves and the Guinea fowls. Those birds tasted 10 times better than the overrated KFC chicken .

Gikondi is a dry and rocky place that snakes call a home. We would sometimes had to protect the animals from the many snakes that slithered around the area. I have seen almost all the snakes you all go to pay to see at the Snake Park. Mum tells me that when i was a toddler, one slithered over my belly as they were in the shamba sleeping undervthe acacia tree. , godddamit! No wonder i shiver at the feel of  cold things.

My mum would wake us up at 5:30am to go to the shamba before heading to school. At 7:00am, the person on duty would go to tether the 20 goats and Nyange. In the evening, we would go straight to the shamba and one person to the bush to look after animals and take them to River Thura.(If i ever give you a handshake and feel that my hands are little too rough for a normal person, just know these are the fruits of my labor).Our neighbors and passers-by thought that we were using black magic as they would pass by our farm in the evening seeing the weeds and in the morning the farm was clear and clean. The rumour went on until my uncles ganged up with other parents to chase my only beloved mother out of school so that she would not cast a spell on their kids. They said that it was the same magic she used to make us clever because we always topped in school. They came with twigs and fire to burn her- Oh Lord!…i do not remember what happened next but luckily we are here. Guys, do you know how it feels to see your mother being accused of nothing but hard-work? The thought of this event agitates me to date! I feel like i would go to my ancestral home and put on some poisonous gas in the air for these bloody people to die slowly, sipping badly- done-Muratina. Once they are dead, i drag them to the Seven Fox dam, cut their middle fingers and put them in their butt holes and throw their bodies to be eaten by crocodiles.

My 2 older brothers and sister were in boarding schools and the rest of us were at home helping my mum save a few coins by doing chores that she needed no pay.  These included cultivating, washing clothes in the river and letting them dry on the big rocks so that they would be lighter to carry back home, fetching water in 20 litre- jericans because we did not own a donkey.We went to Gikondi Primary school. A school that did not have doors and had earthen- floors. We would sprinkle water in class so that we calm the spirits in the dust from raising and confusing our learning. We did not wear shoes to school, so we got some good roasting on the lower side. I once even got a fungal infection that lasted for quite some months. Our uniform was jungle green tunics, orange shirts and olive green pullovers.It was mandatory to carry 5 pieces of firewood and a 5 litre Jerican to help the cook(Nthiga wa Gitavu) prepare lunch. People of my generation did not taste Maziwa ya Nyayo  but i was lucky to. It tasted like a summer dessert in Puerto Rico. I remember we used to have Maize mixed with some sweet relief flour, i think donated by USAID and we would  hide the flour and eat it raw. Well, that was not a big deal, considering that we are Mbeerians. The only people who eat raw millet flour in Kenya( We grind the grey millet and mix the flour with fresh/sour- we call it Kinaga) and put sugar and milk in Ugali (Gitakwe). We would make sure that we ate enough so that we do not really have to cook so much in the evening since we would all be tired from working in the shamba.

Visiting days for my siblings were always nice, i had my pair of doll shoes and a checked dress, today i describe it so to remind myself of the milestones. It was basically the red-checked uniform with white collars that Nairobi kids used to wear. Of course i would look like i had just come from school to visit my siblings but little did they know that it was my Sunday-best. All the clothes that i had in my childhood were my cousins’ who lived in Nairobi. We would come to visit them in the city when schools closed and just escape from the Shagzmundu for a month. That’s the only place i would watch colored-TV, and soap operas like days of our lives, Girlfriends, Secreto de Amor and so forth. Yes, we had a Television set but it was the black and red Great-wall model that would  make people swing when the battery was low.  We would only watch KBC and DW. Some programs like The Bold and the Beautiful, Derrick, Becker, Maria de Los Angeles, Mke Nyumbani, Tausi, WWE, Mizizi and some Taarab program as our major entertainment. We would sit on a Sunday afternoon to watch Joy Bringers.The tune that plays just before KTN news at 7: 00 pm on that Narobi- colored TV is still special to me. Those sentimental tunes, that reminds you of 10-15 years down your memory lane every evening. I remember we used to watch the Deutsche Welle news after 1 pm news every day, not even understanding the German; little did i know that i would turn out to be a German student, travel to Germany, graduate in B.A(German) and become a German-Speaking travel consultant. At least now i can understand the news *smiles*

There were times life would be so hard and famine would strike our area and leave nothing for us to eat. I can still remember the taste of the wild fruits we ate to curb our hunger-Nthinorio,Ngawa, Njigara, Nthwana, Mavivo, wild vegatables- macuecue, Murunga, ngengeria, very bitter managu, thin looking terere etc. We would take the white unripe pawpaw fruits and grate them to make them look like cabbage and eat with rice since Kiritiri Market was like 11 kilometers away (That’s where we would go to the market every Monday and Thursday to buy groceries and visit the dispensary) . Just imagine if you are really sick or in labour and there were no cars or motorbikes. There was a time it was unusually difficult because one of the farms we had was across river Thura and it would flood and no one would cross to either side. All our readily available foods were on that  other side. Consequently, we would boil unripe mangoes and eat for dinner. It is not the best taste on your mouth but we only needed something to fill our stomachs and sleep waiting for God to rain manna in the morning.

You know where the gist was? My grandma always had stock of food in her house but she was mean!  And i mean reaaaaally mean!! I did not enjoy any form of love from my only living grandparents. This behavior made me visit her lastly, 5 years before her death (I once had nail polish on and she told me that i looked like a prostitute and that color on my nails was drinking my blood  and that’s why i was super thin- that time i was skinny i say :)).I did not even drop a tear at hearing of her demise. Savage grandma would hide food when she hears us coming from the gate and pretend how sickly she was, making weird sighs. Her home was full of raspberries that i never even desired to eat. We hated our grandma! Our grandpa was not any better as he would tip-toe to our back-side of the house to shamelessly spy on us and see how” this woman without a husband” was faring on with her 7 kids. He would report each and every thing that happened to our father, including when we cut a tree to make the cowshed. Petty old people; good riddance they died not so happily. On a serious note though- God, remember I always pray to get good in-laws, thanks.

I did not play video games or any tech-sophisticated games. Mine were making cars from cactus barks, cartons and bottle tops,  riding goats and cows, swinging on branches like Tarzan and his cousin baboons, sliding on the rocks while sitting on twigs or a cut jerrycans that fit only the buttocks in, swimming in the river. Isn’t it funny that to date i can freely swim in the ocean and rivers but dread swimming in pools? That ShagzMundu is still in me i guess 🙂 We would block the river with sand and create reservoirs and older people would be bathing down-stream and hide in the reeds to see them run with soap on; thinking that they would be carried away by water. Maybe this is why i scored an A in Geography, sarcasm and humor…I still have an urge to climb a tree to date when i see one, because the boy in me is still not circumcised. Pouring water down hill and sliding to the bottom was a great adventure. All these time, i would mostly be in shorts because i would inherit my older brother’s clothes and when we get home, mum would beat the hell out of us and system reboot our brains for being so dirty. There are so many marks on my legs that i have no slight confidence to wear dresses/skirts. The pinches on my navel and the lower part of the arm were so damn painful.She would get the softer part of the body, twist it to the right, pull you towards her then release you so gracefully like a the pastor does to exhorts demons from poor followers.

Our mum was a corporal ,lethal but also sweet and generous lady who served in the Parish Mothers Union committee.She still is all nice and lovely but now i cannot stand to see how she lets my nieces and nephews jump on her and mistreat her without her raising a voice. Growing old is good and wonderful *smiles*. I can still remember the songs she would sing so loudly,” twatindagira Muthenya tutarite..irio ciari cia waini” “Tonyai thabinaini Muhonokio, thakameni ya Jesu….” Saitani ni muru, wuuuui ni muru” This last song made me hate Satan so much, why would my mother scream every damn time she talks about this guy? What a bastard! Satan is a bad chap!

Despite us having our fair share of troubles, our homestead always had a visitor or two and they would leave with something. Women would come to work at our shamba and on top of the daily wages, my mum would give them food to take to their children. This has really influenced my life in a big way. I have grown to be a small-bodied girl with a heart of a giant. That we give because we do have much but because we know how it feels to have nothing. Memories of the beautiful women who would come and entertain us, bringing pumpkin, fruits and fermented porridge etc still linger in my mind. They would leave with a smile. The home was full of love and laughter. It was our heaven. God lived there….

I later joined St. Pauls Minimax boarding school where i was the proud head girl of 2007 and then went to Chogoria girls where i was slapped with a culture shock. I was just a village girl that was chosen to be a class prefect by the first week of my admission. people there spoke good and polished English. English that had gone to school and not the Kimbeere-English that i knew from my Gikondi village. I would read a paragraph and the whole class would be bursting out with laughter- “Divine anthropology”. “fery interesting story”. “ndychotyledon “” i ran faster than my veable legs could carry me” and many others. I made a conscious decision to read the dictionary daily, to study phonology and phonetics, little did i know that i would come to study them at Moi university. I would lead my classmates for 4 years soaring the heights of education, leading people in Bible Study groups and host friends from everywhere in my small room that never lacked a visitor- just like my home in Gikondi. I loved and still do, cooking for people and just entertaining them, giving my all to make sure every one around me is comfortable and happy.  I am happy with serving people- just like my mum. Today I call a hotel to make a reservations and someone from the other end asks if i am a mzungu or calls  the office to ask about” that lady who speaks “good English” or gives me a complimentary service  and I laugh ,not because of what people say but of the journey. The effort it has taken to be where I am today. This English i write and speak has had hardwork to polish it. I pat myself on my shoulders and pop a champagne for it.

I must say that my childhood has really shaped the person I have become today and i am forever grateful for the steps I have made so far. I have so much ahead to focus on, but I still look back to that village that cannot be traced on google maps and thank God. It triggered my urge to adventure, hard work and being content with life. Now i can pay my bills and buy my own food and clothes, supporting others to get to a better place. It taught me that i will always have enough to give to the less fortunate. Happiness is like a balloon, unless you inflate it, you will remain sad forever.

I am not a perfect writer but I likewriting about my journey. This is my story. I tell it not just for entertainment, but also for anyone who is thinking that their life is too hard and cannot move  forward- to give them a hope. I write to show that you can be anything you want.You have no choice over where you are born and your background does not matter, so long as you are determined.To the less fortunate, to give them a reference point to work hard to sail through the storms. To the privileged ,to remind them of how grateful they should be to have excess on their tables. This is a story of thanksgiving.

Write your story. You are the only one who can tell it better…