“Closing Day,” Or Chivalry on Display

I clearly remember the day; I think  it was in class 4. Judith had been absent most of the school term. I understood that. She could have been sick that entire time, but I simply took it as her parents were having trouble paying tuition, which at Ngong Hills Academy back in the Nineties could add up to a tidy sum. I’d been there. I got it; but my empathy did not prevent me from identifying an opportunity! With Judith at home, I suddenly had a really good shot of being top of my class. Judith and I were rivals, see. I’m not even sure she registered this, but I certainly perceived her as an enemy to my academic standing. I was happy to win in a fair fight, but if the headmistress had taken it upon herself to eliminate my arch rival, who was I to demure from ascending to victory?

End of term exams were conducted on Mondays through Wednesday, then students would stay at home on Thursday as teachers finished grading. On Friday, the whole school would get together for a phenomenon called “Closing Day.” This was a fete. A carnival. A celebration to forget the last 3 months of getting up early, scolding and spankings for unfinished homework, and to usher in the holidays. Holidays meant TV all day, including cartoons very early in the morning, and action movies late at night. The break also meant travelling to shags, the countryside, where grandparents and all kinds of extended family networks lived. My Ngong Hills compatriots and I would descend upon them every April, August, and December, eager to show off our suave manners.

The no-spanking-for-incomplete-homework thing was a pretty big deal. Teachers were notorious for corporal punishment, none more so than Mr. Mike Mwaka, RIP. Mr. Mike, was a terror. He was the music teacher, tasked with turning, and tuning, our breaking voices into melodies worthy of God’s paradise and the accompaniments of His angel’s golden harps. This was an impossible task. And to accomplish it, he’d show up to school hang over as hell, and stinking to high heaven of whatever illegal brews he’d been imbibing the previous night. Chang’aa was his rumored favorite libation, a distilled spirit that burned your lips and throat as it went down. You drank it in shots, and not too many were needed to render you positively beyond tipsy. In this frame of mind, he’d walk into in class to teach us such things as the musical instruments of Kenya, staff notation, quavers, semi-quavers, demi-semi-quavers, and hemi-demi-semi-quavers. The last are such short notes, they must be what a humming bird produces as it flies in reverse. And it didn’t end there; there were often exercises we had to take home and complete before the next lesson. He once assigned homework, on his way out of class to go for a smoke break behind the garage. Him, Mr. Kariuki, Mr Rapando, and a bunch of others would chimney it up for a few minutes between classes or during break.

Mr. Mike stepped into class the day after and thundered, “I remember, I gave you some work. If you know you haven’t finished, go to the front!” And planet earth imploded, and this marked the end of the human race. No, really; Mr. Mike’s pronouncement might as well have been the end of the world. We knew we were in for it. The class had been going particularly bad. None of our teenage brains could compute  what notes were meant to go where on the G-clef or F-clef staff notations. Woe unto us. I had tried copying homework responses from one of my buddies, but her answers were so clearly incorrect, I simply didn’t bother. I was seriously regretting that omission now, as I made my way to the front. About 12 of us ended up at the chalkboard. Mr. Mike fumed. He marched out of class towards the staff room, returning minutes later with a cane worthy of our transgressions. With our backs to him, hands holding onto the blackboard, he walked past us several times. Each time he went by you, he’d vigorously connect the electric wire switch with your back, and it stung like hell. By the end of class, given our teary eyes and the running noses, the class resembled a therapy session.

Small wonder, then, that Closing Day was such a big deal. It announced about 3 weeks during which one would be safe from Mr. Mike’s anger. Kids would arrive at school decked out for a party. The uniform code was only half-heartedly enforced. Since school ended by noon, lunch was not served. Parents would give you some cash for snacks, or you’d pack an assortment of candy, biscuits, chocolate, soda, fruit juice, and a whole host of other junk food. McDonald’s, KFCs, and Nandos might have been a decade or so into our Kenyan future, but we already knew that fast food was the way to demonstrate social status. A system of barter would then ensue, with kids swapping what they didn’t care for in their stash, for something else a parent or house help overlooked to pack. With school ending early, we could also meander off the beaten path, sometimes going into Ngong town, the opposite direction from my route home, because why not!

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As I sat down for my first exam paper in that 4th grade class, I tried not to smile too widely while relishing Judith’s absence. Clearly, this Closing Day was destined to be one that I’d remember for a long time yet. I always got a present from mother if my performance at school  was superb. And this time I was looking forward to a wrist watch. I’d projected onto that wrist watch all the macho dreams I’d picked up on TV, and come next week I’d be its proud owner. The mathematics exam sheets had just been handed out. Then we heard a knock on the door, and one of the administrative assistants in the headmistress’s office walked through. In tow was Judith, arch enemy numero uno, and a detractor of my impressive intellect. I could neither believe my eyes, nor the taste of defeat that immediately flooded my mouth! Well, Judith waltzed in after missing more than half of the school term and comfortably proceeded to trounce me. She regained her position at the top of the class. Even in my disappointment, I could do nothing but totally admire such poise!

“Closing!” was also the day when boys settled scores. This is how it worked. Say Duke pissed you off at the beginning of the term. Instead of immediately wrecking havoc to his face, you’d bide your time. You would nurse your anger and hurt pride, but indicating things were far from OK with the ominous words, “we utaniona closing!” The logic made sense. If you sought vengeance during the course of the school term, chances were high your opponent would call on his parents, plus enroll the teachers or even Mrs. Mureithi, the headmistress, to his aid. None of those outcomes were worth it. You’d be punished, and the scheme to prove your supremacy thwarted. Patiently waiting till the last day of school, however, paid off massively. There was minimal risk that your foe would call on his class teacher for help – given that the school would be completely empty, except perhaps for the security patrol. Once everybody had received their report forms, sufficiently agonized over their academic performance, and attended the last school gathering, it was open season. All rules of decorum were suspended the minute you walked out the school gate. Long forgotten slights were unburied. It was time to re-establish dominance, and there were major dividends for the kid who claimed the title of “First body.” Come next semester, boys would whisper in awe, enquiring, “Who’s first body in your class?”

Most fights would start fairly innocently, with a push, a shove, and a slightly awkward punch. Others were major sports events, complete with a PR team. The grapevine would let it be known that Leiyan and Duke would be battling it out after our final school assembly. Boys would nonchalantly saunter out the school compound, seemingly going in random directions but actually making their way to a pre-arranged destination. In some ways, these performances were extremely sad. Having excited your peer’s expectations, you couldn’t back out of the engagement simply because you had a change of heart. There was surely no easier way to kill your social rank than openly admitting to cowardice. At the very least, it was better to put in a half-hearted fight and lose in actual combat rather than slinking away, tail between your legs, leaving your opponent to crow unchallenged. No, that simply wouldn’t do. And in any case, you’d promised the boys some entertainment, and by god they’d get some! This was chivalry on display, and as a true gentleman, you were expected to punctually attend your duel, cuff your contender, or honorably get walloped. Those were your only options.

Being healthy, active teenagers, our fights lasted no more than 10 minutes. A confusion of blows and badly-aimed kicks were often followed by ear and hair pulling. This was rounded off with some wrestling, during which you aimed to tear your adversary’s school uniform. TV episodes of the North American World Wrestling Federation matches had taught us well: entertainment and showmanship counted for much more than combat skills. Unless we had managed to squirrel ourselves in a really uninhabited part of town, we were often interrupted by adults, who would break off our fights and send us packing. Usually we’d not even wait for them to get close enough for that. Brought up on a  it-takes-a-village mindset, we were apprehensive that every older member of the neighborhood would consider it their sacred duty to butt their nose into our business. Perhaps they wouldn’t, then again perhaps they would. Rather than wait to find out how far this particular individual would pursue their communal obligations, we’d scatter as soon as an adult was spotted approaching. By ill luck it might be one of our teachers, or some grown-up choleric enough to haul us in front of the school administration for tarnishing the institution’s good name. The audience was often the first to seek cover, leaving behind two poor suckers putting up a show of machismo for no one but shadows.

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School Shenanigans: Of Mud Slides & Football

Mud slides, on the other hand, were unsanctioned and terribly illegal. How else do you suppose we were so utterly drawn to them? Picture this. It’s 10am, on a rainy school day in May. It’s just the beginning of the 2nd school term. You’re barely back in classwork and homework mode, and in addition to that, you got rained on this AM. Your normal 35 min walk, dissolved into a series of puddles, and unsuccessful attempts to keep your shoes dry. The entire soccer field is one giant pond. Grass has overgrown after its 3 weeks hiatus from being trampled on by several hundred primary school pupils. The standard 7 boys started it. It’s always the class 7’s who did. One moment everyone is extremely languid and irritable, and the next moment there is a crowd cheering a number of daredevils achieving feats on their bare feet you could never dream of on a pair of skis. These boys are answering their true calling. They were born to perform. The sticky, grey clay soil does not disappoint. It offers them  a stage.

Mud skidding is an art as much as it is a science. The first thing you need is a slope, the steeper the better. At school, however, even a nice gentle one will do. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Once you’ve got a nice slope going, you need to flood it with water until it oozes a sleek, molten clay. Now you can begin smoothing it over. You walk back a few meters, jog, then break into a sprint, before letting your feet glide over the clay. This is a thrill like no other! Real artists can skid on one foot, and contort the rest of their bodies into impossible shapes. Real clowns, those who do it for the applause, would run, sprint, and finish off on their knees. The mud slide has now turned into an arena. The crowd now speaks as one, and they are asking for more. A bell rings in the administration block to signal the end of our morning break. It barely registers as an echo to this mob. The teacher on duty is puzzled. How come half the school seems to be missing? It won’t be long now before she makes her way to the sports field. Suddenly, like a pin pricking your finger nail, you remember that this is school, after all. That there are consequences to waltzing into class late. We all run past the teacher on duty who, knowing she can’t convict every willing observer, zeroes in on the performers. It’s not hard to identify them. They’re caked in slimy clay from head to toe. Their school uniforms are undecipherable. They may as well be in camo. She gasps and prods these muddy goblins forward. They are marched to the staff room. Aside from trying to reason with adults who have long since accepted a sedentary lifestyle, our group of artistes will also be the unwilling recipients of several strokes of the cane. The rest of their nightmare will unfold this evening, as soon as the house help or the mother spots them sneaking into the house to change out of their clay costume. And yet, all of this is more than worth their 5 minutes of glory.

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Picking team members before the game kicks off.

You didn’t wait for Physical Ed. class to get a football game going. Kicking the ball around was the default activity whenever we had more than 3 minutes of unstructured time. This could be in class, if a teacher was absent and there was no substitute; it could be during our tea or lunch break; or right after school as we all walked home. Pick-up soccer was not always innocuous. Chobo Ua was, as it names suggests, deadly. At first glance it looks like a run-of-the-mill soccer game. 2 sides are attempting to score in their opponent’s goal – usually two rocks placed a few feet apart. What made Chobo Ua a game that separated the boys from the men was that during dribbling, it was taboo to let a fellow player squeeze a ball between your legs. If you were so unlucky as to forget and let this happen,  the party responsible would quickly remind you by shouting, “Chobo!” At this point, it was best if you could invoke the cheetah inside you. The only way to escape an onslaught of slaps and punches to your back and head was to run, very fast, jumping over legs set up to trip your, or dodging arms stretched wide to hinder your escape. If successful,  you’d make your way to a previously designated safe refuge, often the fence on the other side of the sports field to give your pursuers maximum capacity to capture you. It is only after touching one of the fence posts that you were now considered clean, and could return to the game, eager to dribble the ball through the next victim so you could get your payback. Suffice it to say that many a young man’s tears were shed during Chobo Ua. I knew enough not to attempt anything that required quantities of courage I could only fantasize about ever possessing.  And yet even non-Chobo footie games could sometimes degenerate into ape-like chest thumping. This sports field nurtured dreams of masculinity and molded personalities in ways we never fully appreciated. My run-in with Mureu was one such instant. Perhaps I’d fouled him; I forget. He was, however, irked enough by my behavior to challenge me to a fight. This, during a low-key afternoon soccer game seemed wholly over the top. I went into my default, backing down from the confrontation, but kept on playing making sure to stay away from the kid out to kick my ass. Eventually we moved beyond the incident, staying in touch long after we’d both outgrown Ngong Hills Academy. At the end of term, however, knowing that I had bested him in academic standing was good enough consolation. I may not have fought back on the soccer pitch, but every test and every exam we took the rest of that school term was just one more battle ground for me to demonstrate who was really the -ish!

Strolling home from school has always been an event in its own right. The pupils from Ngong’ Hills had all kinds of daily commutes. There was Karuri, who lived literally two houses down from school. He and his younger brother went home for lunch. I’d swear they could probably smell whatever their parents or guardians were prepping for their midday meal from class! Fred had the same short commute. Fred’s family lived opposite Karuri’s house. It never ceased to amaze me, however, how these two kids somehow always managed to get to school late or after I did. It probably had to do with the fact that we become complacent when the object of our pursuit seems so close. Unfortunately for Fred, his parents moved the family two towns over when he was in grade 5. Taking public transport to and from Matasia was a pain. Even I did not envy him. There was a large group of kids whose commute was in the 10-15 min range. Mureu, Kevin, Martin, Irene, Mary, Joram, and Chris all had a pretty sweet time walking to school. I certainly wished to be in their shoes whenever it was raining. A whole bunch of kids who lived farther away from school got dropped off by their parents or chauffeurs at the entrance. My crowd had no such luck. We were clearly the students from the inner city making our way each morning into rich suburbia for our daily does of pomp and luxury. Nyamnyak, Samuel, Stella, Paul, Steve, Barbara, Anne, Esther, Jane and a few others forded rivers and summited hills daily to get to school. Literally. And I was right there with them every step of the way. There were a number of ways to get home. Sometimes I’d accompany Agnes and her elder brother and we’d walk together after school. They lived closer to school than I did, so they’d waltz through their main gate and after quick goodbyes, leave me to my fate. Bob’s house was usually empty by the time he and his elder brother arrived home from school. I’d walk in with them for a quick drink of water. And then we’d spend a few minutes petting the rabbits or doves housed in their backyard. Or I’d walk with Eric, taking a more round-about route home. I’d accompany him up their tree-shaded driveway which lay halfway up a gentle slope. Sometimes I was successful in enticing Mureu to drop by my house. Usually on Fridays when it didn’t matter too much if we got home late. He’d drop off his school bag at home and then we’d head out – stopping ever so often to pick up succulent weeds for my pet rabbits. Keeping rabbits was the in-thing, and any boy worth his salt had at least a few does and a buck. We were learning about all kinds of animal husbandry in Mr. Ogola’s Science & Agriculture classes. We could recognize Chinchillas by their grey fur coats, and New Zealand whites with the super pink eyes. Charlie came by my house, too, sometimes. He and his 2 younger siblings were a morbid fascination for me. They’d lost their mother a few months before enrolling at Ngong Hills. I couldn’t fathom what that must have been like. Their dad had taken pains to re-create the family as best he could for his kids’ benefit, but it’s impossible to replace a mother. Our friendship rested as much on my curiosity about the new apartment building they lived in as it did on Charlie’s interest in a more rural part of Ngong.

As private school kids, marked by our red and white checkered shirts, we were easy prey for village bullies. Anxiety about social mobility in the region manifested itself in many ways. Being kids, our experience involved getting waylaid by herds boys who went to local primary schools. Having got home sometime in the afternoon, the boys would grab lunch, then release the family cattle from wherever they were tethered. During the dry season, goats and cows would simply be let loose in empty fields, fending for themselves in the morning by chewing on dry maize stalks and short shrubs. The swampy area by the river always had some green grass available, even in the middle of a drought. This marsh made it ideal for juvenile herders to water and feed their animals. Come evening, if the cows were not well fed, their milk production would starkly demonstrate inadequate herding. At best, that would result in a tongue lashing. Sometimes that could easily degenerate into a spanking, combined in a mother’s mind, as it often would be, with last week’s attempts to steal from the sugar dish, unfinished household chores, and street fights with other kids. I don’t recall these kidos being more than 3 or 4. And they were just as puny as we were. What they lacked in stamina, they made up by arming themselves with sticks and knobberies. Plus they exuded this bad boy appeal, while we in our private school cocoons reacted by propitiating them and avoiding confrontation. We rebutted their “I-don’t-care” attitude with a kowtowing of our own. Like zebras, we’d approach the riverside apprehensively, expecting to be pounced upon at any moment. They got a hard-on from preying on our fear. They’d stop us in the middle of the foot path, ask us our names, our ages, whether we had any cash on us, and generally make us feel extremely tiny. If we were lucky, they’d spot an adult approaching, and they’d cut short their machismo displays with a warning that we shouldn’t use that path again. Otherwise, we were held up for more than 10 minutes, and put in our places – despite what the sparkling new uniforms suggested. At some point I decided this was all too ridiculous. And I took to carrying a nail cutter with me to school. The idea was to use the file to either scare away our tormentors, or to fight my way out of one such encounter. Still not sure what was more hilarious, the original problem, or my imagined solution.

 

In the Zone & Loving It!

Over time, I came to accept that I really enjoyed school work. This was a big deal. Acknowledging my own nerdy tendencies happened slowly. I resisted the process every step of the way wishing, instead, that I was more macho. In the first and second grade, thankfully, I had not yet developed such inhibitions.

My Standard 2 class teacher, Miss Grace, groomed me to self-confidence. This was despite my very reserved nature. Her and I came to an understanding where I’d do extra homework and she’d review it next time we met in class. Taking on parts of the syllabus we hadn’t tackled in our lessons,  or completing more than the assigned homework assignments felt great. The more I practiced my math and English skills the better I got, and this increased my sense of accomplishment. I could clearly tell that I was good at school. This compensated for many things. For one, I was pretty mediocre at many of the activities boys my age engaged in. I couldn’t slay birds with a catapult, score goals in soccer, or swim at a pond in our neighborhood river. Although tall, I was still kinda puny, and had no fighter spirit in me. But the hours I spent hurdled over grammar exercises wiped all those inadequacies away.

Being a private school, our curriculum often meandered from the government regulations adhered to by public institutions. Nowhere was this more apparent than in our English classes. We read from, and worked through, overseas grammar textbooks with glossy hard covers. These texts were imported and cost a pretty penny. Consequently, I’d often spend the first half of the school term borrowing my friends’ copy of Better English or looking over their shoulder. My coping mechanism, other than enviously wishing I had access to all the resources my peers did, was to make the most of the few times I could get my hands on a book. More than once I’d stay behind at my desk during Physical Ed, finishing my homework assignments using a classmate’s textbook. This way, I could hand it back to her when she returned after an hour spent running, jumping rope, or playing hide and seek in the school’s outdoor gymnasium: a grassy field. Other times, Tr. Grace would let me take home her Haydn Richards’s Junior English. I have a really fond place in my heart for her and Tr. Ones, my grade 3 class teacher.

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It’s not until many years later, when I was completing my Kenyan Certificate of Secondary Education, as well as the International Baccalaureate, that I knew the luxury of having all my textbooks provided for. In retrospect, this is really how education should happen, but back then it simply seemed magical. Free textbooks? Sign me up! Through college and graduate school, I wouldn’t have been caught dead without my course books. In addition  to signaling me out as an unprepared student, I always felt that sharing texts with my colleagues drew unnecessary attention to my socio-economic background. Now, as I stand in front of, and conduct, my own courses, I cannot fathom student behavior when they appear in class empty-handed. It’s bad enough that they show up in a literature class without the primary resources – kinda like turning up at the lab without your lab coat, long pants, and closed shoes. Yet to make matters worse, my students will simply sit, taking no initiative to get their hands on a copy. As one colleague after another reads a page from the day’s assigned text, the student in question will keep squirming. Finally, when I ask them to read – naturally, I must put them in the spotlight to passive-aggressively point out their showing up in my class unprepared – they’ll murmur something about not having a book with them. Argh! Often, I’ll notice that 1 or 2 students are staring off into space as the rest of us reads and I’ll enquire where their texts are. “I don’t have my book today.” I will inwardly roll my eyes at this juvenile behavior, before asking them to move and share with a peer. Clearly, these kids lack my own prowess at finding resources by hook or by crook. That’s a luxury I cannot identify with.

More than once, after our hot cup of tea around 10am, I’d head back to class to wrap up a few more math or English comprehension passages for Tr. Ones. A few hours later, after the rotation of dishes that made up our lunch menu – ugali and beans, rice and beans, boiled potatoes and cabbage – I’d make my way to the dreaded Ngong Hills Academy lavatory facilities before heading back to class. Mother had brought home a thick, bound writing pad. I carefully split each page into two with a straight line down the middle, and proceeded to cram it with extra grammar activities. Each pupil had 2 exercise books, one for classwork, and another for homework. It made sense for me to have a third that compiled my own solitary attempts through the syllabus. Sometimes there’d be play: a game of cops and robbers. With thumb cocked, and  the two-finger barrel pointed at an adversary, we’d recreate last night’s TV episode of Tausi, Superman, or Renegade. But I was just as likely to be found sitting alone, working through some work of fiction. The NHA school library was actually well-stocked, for its day. It had, unfortunately, more been designed as a lockable room to store valuable resources, than as an open space when students could freely interact with books. One might have needed an ID or a teacher’s permission to walk in, I forget which. A ridiculous regulation from when colonial Kenya policed its subjects’ access to knowledge. There was a long boardroom-style table in the middle, with about 15 to 20 chairs around it. The walls, however, were a sight from heaven. Floor to ceiling shelves filled with books. It smelled like paradise. And not even the devilish librarian, who’d much sooner that we’d not stepped into her domain could ruin the atmosphere. In any case, it was easy to forgive her. She was sharply dressed, in her early twenties, and fascinating to our 10-year-old eyes. One collection in the library held stories from the United States about a young black girl. On the one hand, these were the rather expensive books our greasy hands were only permitted to handle with extreme care. On the other, the texts must have been the first attempts at representing diversity. They were barely captivating, despite their foreign setting, and more often off-putting for their prosaic nature.

Football was a fully-sanctioned playtime activity. Boys would bring home-made balls to school in the morning. The compressed rolls of  plastic bags were wound together so tight, they actually bounced. Depending on the skill of the fellow who made it, the outermost layer would be a web made of red and yellow tough nylon string. These balls were a precious commodity. As replacements to the more expensive inflatable soccer equipment, they helped popularize the sport to kids in all social milieus. Teachers understood this perfectly. Staff on duty would happily confiscate a soccer ball, stashing it in the staff room as punishment for some infraction or other. Any student brave enough to venture into that lair of male and female educators, asking after his prized possession, must have had a death wish. Some kids could pull it off. Most, however, only got their balls back after receiving several strokes of the cane for their trouble. During P.E., we’d be separated by gender. I never saw girls play soccer. Often, we’d start the class with a co-ed circle of game songs. Each student sat on the grass, and 1 randomly selected pupil would walk around on the outside as we all joined her in singing “I sent a letter to my father…” At the end of the song, as the walker chose the individual who’d found the lost letter, we’d all perk up. “It wasn’t you! It wasn’t you! It wasn’t you! But. It. Was. YOU!” The person tagged last, and the tagger, would run in opposite directions. The goal was to return to the empty spot before your opponent, in which case you’d get to sit as they walked around the circle for another round of the game. It helped to tag one of the unfit kids.

Another favorite group activity was “nyama, nyama, nyama.” Everybody stands, one student facing the rest of the group. He chants “Nyama! Nyama! Nyama!” And the group replies, “Nyama!” The soloist will then reel out a list of edible meats. “Ya ng’ombe?” “Nyama!” “Ya kuku?” “Nyama!” “Ya kondoo?” “Nyama!” Expert players would then rush their audiences through a quick succession of edible meats: chicken, mutton, camel, goat, and each time the group as a whole would jump and shout “Nyama!” Yes, indeed, that particular animal is edible. The point of the game was to trick a member of the audience into jumping and affirming edible an animal that was known to be anything but. Having lulled his listeners into a soothing pattern of palatable meats, the leader would throw in “Ya paka?” If you were alert you’d stay standing and shout back “Sio nyama!” If you’d been duped into jumping and shouting that cat meat is eatable, you’d get laughed at, and have to swop positions with the chanter. You were it. Not until later did we appreciate the fact that cat, dog, donkey, zebra, and many more besides, are all delicacies in spaces outside our Ngong Hills experience.

Following this, the girls would go off on one side to play Kati, while the boys would walk towards the goal posts for a match. Renowned players always got to be captains. Let’s just say I was never captain. These two would then get to pick their team, strategically trying to get the best men on their side before the other side did. There was never much hurry to pick me. If given a choice I’d more happily have walked off the pitch. Under a teacher’s duress, however, I was content to play defense. I accepted my handicap as a forward striker, and would rarely attempt anything so skillful. But I was a dogged defender, left or right, but more often right. I could mark my man, and really throw myself into the scuffle until my opponent either lost or passed the ball. There was a stubbornness associated with defense work that I truly enjoyed. A certain risk-taking did not hurt either. It was not uncommon to collide with your opponent’s shin, boot, or knee. Often we played barefoot. Cleats and shin guards were completely unheard of. Meanwhile, the girls would be playing 1 or 2 simultaneous games of dodgeball. Two girls would stand in a line, and everyone else would stand in the middle. The girls at the end would throw a small fist-sized ball between them. Their objective was to hit one of the girls in the middle. Those in the middle strove to either dodge or catch the ball without dropping it, before sending it back to a thrower at either end. It made sense to pick the low-lying fruit first. Any girls who were even slightly overweight and challenged in the fitness department were eliminated first. Expert players could crouch, jump, and swerve in acrobatic moves that defied the throwing capacities of the strikers at each end. These would be declared the winners.

On the First Day…

We’d just moved house in June 1990. We were now living about 4km from Ngong town and it was time for me enroll back in school. The 2nd academic term runs from early May through end of July; after catching up, I’d have almost 6 weeks before the end-of-term assessments. That first week, I was accompanied by my mother who helped me figure out the bus route. We boarded a 111 matatu at Bulbul Market on its way from Nairobi. During peak hours, passenger vehicles heading to Nairobi would be crowded with private employees and civil servants on their way to offices in the CBD. Squashed next to each other, passengers suffered the indignity of smelling unwashed armpits, stale breath, and rancid week-old socks. Given than we were heading in the opposite direction, it was easy to get a seat. As soon as we boarded, the van drove downhill past a former meat processing plant. At Vet, a bus stop named after the agricultural and veterinary extension farm that ran beside the road, a few older women got in and sat  in front of us. Given their baskets made of recycled nylon sacks, they were headed to the Ngong Market. Just past the PCEA Enchoro-Muny church, and before the matatu got to its last stop, my mom and I alighted.

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Right to left, Joram N. and I. Circa 2008. This kid was legendary! A goof who was ever willing to explore the lighter side of life.

We’d walk the rest of the way to school; 5 minutes later, she pointed out where one of her uncles lived. With time, this would be my favorite alternative after-school destination. But for now, I focused my energy on getting the hang of this new community: Ngong Hills Academy. A place I’d eventually call home for the next 8 years. Mr. and Mrs. Mureithi, the proprietors of the school, had turned the institution into a brand name associated with academic excellence. The private school education did not come cheap. But both parents and faculty understood that the hefty investment in a child’s future would certainly pay off.

That first day, we walked into the receptionist’s office. Mom and I met Mrs. Mureithi, the headmistress, and I was led to my class by a staff member. I was enrolled in Standard One with Teacher Christine. The thing about Tr. Christine is that she was cute, in that attractive aunty kind of way. She presided over her quota of 6 and 7-year-olds with magnanimity. I was assigned to a large table where I sat on a wooden chair and avoided eye contact with the other 3 kids who, already seated, preferred to stare instead of crayoning within the line. Like mine, their chairs were painted in the primary hues of the color wheel: red, blue, yellow. This vibrant background helped highlight our school uniforms.

Being a proper academy, Mrs. Mureithi’s institution set itself apart in many ways. Not for her pupils the earthy brown, dark green, and slimy pink that public schools in the region mandated as school uniform. Instead, she chose a blue sweater, red and white checked shirt and grey shorts for boys, or red and white plaid dresses for girls. These were crowned using grey socks with blue, white, and yellow stripes at the top. Footwear was standard issue, black or brown. In the right conditions, this combo reeked of middle-class dreams and anxieties about one-upping your neighbors. It was the perfect advertising strategy.

I began my Ngong Hills education with a bang and I blame it all on Wakori. It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill story. Classroom bully always seeking attention. Spies fresh prey on whom to exercise his power games. Pounces. The victim strikes back, viciously. Bully, totally stunned, sees his young life flash before him, and vows to reform his ways. Everyone lives happily ever after. And that’s the way it went down between Wakori and I. Almost. Except for the part about me standing up to my tormentor.

This is how it really went down. It was right after lunch, a bowl of boiled rice and bean stew. As usual, Tr. Christine  prepped her class for the daily arithmetic exercises.  I was nervous, and really wanted my penmanship to be perfect. This was a new school after all, and first impressions count. I pressed the pencil too hard into the square-lined exercise book and it buckled under pressure. A few seconds later, the lead point on my HB no. 2 flew half way across the table. I stood up to bend forward and stretch my short arms towards a pack of freshly sharpened pencils in the middle. Wakori saw this, smiled smugly, and went into action! I sat back down, expecting my chair to be exactly where my bum had left it a few moments before, Instead, I met nothing but a void. As I lost my balance and scrambled on the table’s edge to regain composure, I had that sinking feeling that accompanies public humiliation. A few sniggles later, with more wounded pride than broken bone, I pulled my chair back into place and concentrated on the task at hand. Tr. Christine was aghast. Wakori had been caught picking on the new kid! She not only gave him a good talking to, but may also have spanked him. At least I like to think she did. In my 7-yearr old imagination, Tr. Christine immediately transformed into a saving angel. And did I mention that she was cute, in that attractive-aunty kind of way?

Vertigo & Yellow, Sticky Juice

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My Bombolulu is made of green mangoes – large, juicy fruits sagging branches down to the red earth nourishing the roots. The dark brown stems inhibit my teenage attempts to scale to the ripe prizes beckoning me from up high. I am not to be deterred. I persist, and I’m rewarded with vertigo and yellow sticky juice running off the mango seed and down my elbows. Beneath the overhanging trees, amongst the sparse brush and undergrowth, I step over pungent, fermenting rotting fruit. I’m too ignorant to be scared of snakes. In this warm weather, I should be.

For three days that December, my sisters and I joined a horde of fancy-talking, Swahili-cultured kids. These are the kind of teenagers who’ll insult you in such titillating language that at the end of the verbal harangue you’ll smile back and nod in appreciation of the poetry. The rounded vowels slide out in quick succession, sculpting the jagged consonants into street poetry. We formed a company of troublemakers, the older kids evading the younger ones as we engaged in various escapades. My youngest cousin, Tim, was one of the toddlers we’d leave behind whenever we wanted to head out to the streets. BMX bikes would get pulled out of storage, sandals donned, and parental instructions discarded. Hours later, when we returned home dusty, hungry, and thoroughly grimy, we’d sneak into my aunt’s kitchen for a quick snack before catching a shower. One of my cousin’s friends was a tomboy – a gorgeous bod who could spit, fight, climb trees, and curse with the best of them. Though slightly younger, her maturity led me to worship her and the confidence she exuded.

Eventually, my father picked us up from Bombolulu and we went to live with him in Likoni. Dad arranged for an extra room for us through one of his buddies. The house was rectangular, Swahili architecture, complete with the white-washed limestone exterior walls. There was a hallway running down the middle – splitting the interior into two. The tin roof was nailed onto mangrove poles which extended into eaves where local goats rested in the hot and sticky afternoons. The interior was entirely open. Lacking a ceiling, and because the interior walls did not extend high enough, the rafters enabled the sharing of late night conversations, and daily cuisines. Meat frying in one room would translate into a salivating neighbor in another. A couple’s quarrel would result in knowing glances shot across the courtyard the next morning.

This also is true. That my mom experimented with coconut for cooking. She went native, taking time to grate the inside of 2 brown halves and extract the meaty pulp. She rinsed the grated powder to get rid of excess oil, and left the white powder out on a sieve to dry. I sat outside on the cement verandah, finishing a Barbara Kimenye smugglers’ tale. Using my peripheral vison, I kept an eye on a mother hen with her chicks, ready to jump and shoo them away any time she and her flock veered too close to the coconut. That evening we had rice for dinner. It turned a bit too rich in coconut oil; the equivalent of dressing your meal with coconut hair oil. The thick aroma did not leave your tongue until long after the meal itself was digested. Not to mention the permeating smell in the rest of the house after frying onions, garlic, clover, and coconut gratings together.

But Mombasa is much more than fresh fruit and delicious cuisine. Fort Jesus is a mainstay tourist spot. You haven’t seen Mombasa if you haven’t seen this 16th century Portuguese outpost. Originally a bastion of Lisbon’s territorial ambitions in the Indian Ocean, it sheltered numerous navigators and explorers, including one Vasco da Gama. My family and my dad’s friends, the Shaka’s, visited the museum one slightly windy afternoon. As the 2 families went about the fortress, listening to the guide’s presentation, we gasped on cue at human skeletal remains, and craned our necks into the well where occupants got fresh water during an Arab or British siege. Our parents looked on as the kids scrambled up and down the rusted canons. As usual, there was a local photographer at hand. We were corralled into various smiling permutations: just the kids; then boys only; then girls standing behind the canons; then each family together; and finally, the adults – alternating man and woman. Ever the salesmen, our now resident photographer extended his assignment by suggesting we continue our shoot by the ferry. For envious neighbors back in Nairobi, nothing says Mombasa more than the quintessential family portrait which captures Likoni ferry in the background.

That evening, we capped our day’s adventures by dining out. Coursing with energy than we knew what to do with, we kids cleared our meal in record time. “Mysterious Cat” had been ferrying us around all day. And we rushed headlong into it to practice the upward mobility that had been so well displayed by our parents all day. The boys made for the driver’s set, at which point I invoked my right as the eldest kid to sit on the driver’s seat. Swinging the locked steering wheel, while pressing on the brakes, was never more enjoyable. In control, we gave no thought either to our parents still chilling and drinking inside the restaurant, or to passing motorists who were repeatedly thrown off by the flashing brake lights and the possibility that the vehicle was backing out onto the road.

A few days later, on a Sunday morning, we drove out to the Mwaluganje Elephant Sanctuary. Time for a true safari. We were a 2-van convoy, the kids running amok and excited in Shaka’s Nissan, while the adults rode with my dad and his matatu crew. The area around Mwaluganje sanctuary is known as Shimba Hills, named after the lions that formerly roamed wild. Most of these big cats are gone. They’ve been pushed back as more and more of their habitat has been brought under cultivation by cashew nut and coconut plantations. The elephant population has also dwindled, yet they often make their presence known either through fatal encounters with humans, or by destroying crops and property that now lays across their ancient migratory routes. The drive from Likoni takes about 2 hours. We got to the main gate around midday, paid our entrance fees and began weaving in and out of the dirt paths hoping to spot a ndovu. We didn’t have long to wait. The elephant’s majesty is impressive. Especially when a herd of them flap their ears no more than a 100 meters from the glass and aluminum that ferried you to its habitat. Vehicles never seemed so flimsy as when compared to the trunk legs and wrinkled hides of an elephant bull. On the way back, I have distinct memories of a rowdy conversation in the adults’ van. We’d stopped at a wayside inn for a quick snack before the long ride back to Likoni. Sodas were quickly distributed amongst the kids, while the dads knocked back Tuskers, and the mothers tea. My mom was the main participant. I remember wondering whether she was simply thrilled at the family’s time together, or whether she too, for once, had tasted some of what Bachus offers mortals.

Sun & Sand

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We’d packed our bags the night before. After a few last minute instructions to Njoro on what to do while we were away for ten days, we embarked on our journey. Destination: Mombasa!

Leaving home that December morning, we were dressed to kill. My sisters, as usual, were in matching dresses. The yellow and brown flower designs on their dresses multiply disappeared into sharply ironed pleats. The twins’ attire was rounded off tastefully with pale green sweaters, machine-knitted by my mom, and white stockings sheltered in the pair of black shoes they’d each received last Christmas.  I was in what I’d termed my “Bermuda” shorts – fashioned to look like a fabric mosaic that comprised of different shades of brown. I also had on a t-shirt, and a heavy cardigan that was made from metallic green and charcoal black yarn. The rest of our small wardrobes had been packed into school bags. Anything that was too big was placed in a large travel bag that had expandable double bottoms. The purple and light blue suitcase was full, its four roller wheels barely more than a few centimeters off the ground as I half-wheeled half-pushed it through the living room.

Traveling by road from Nairobi to Mombasa is a patriotic duty. This ordeal needs to be at the very top of a 50-things-Kenyans-must-do-before-they-die list. It all starts on River Road, a busy commercial street in Nairobi’s less sophisticated district. You’re free to reserve your seat a day or two in advance, but this in no way guarantees the timely departure of your bus. The coach, often with bold, glittering graffiti on its side, will start the journey when the crew ascertain there are enough passengers on board. Mash Poa, Coast Bus, and Tawafiq are some of the big brand names that ply the Nairobi-Mombasa route. These are 50-seater coaches that have become increasingly fancier over the years. Now, many of the bus lines entice passengers with in-door plumbing, free bottled water and Wi-Fi access. Back when my family and I made the trip, none of those trappings existed.

Departing from the River Road terminal does not necessarily mean starting the journey. We still had to weave through Nairobi’s mid-morning gridlock. You swing by St Peter’s Xavier, heading up Haile Selassie towards Uhuru Highway. A left at the round about takes you through Industrial Area, with the Railway museum to your left, and the Railway Golf Course on your right. Before getting into Inda, as the city’s historic manufacturing district is affectionately known, you’ll see a cemetery commemorating Commonwealth soldiers who died during the first and second world wars. Once you pass Nyayo National Stadium you’re now on Mombasa Road; between you and salty breezes of that Indian Ocean port lay about 500 kilometers of open road. Sit back and enjoy the ride. If you’re lucky, perhaps travelling on a weekend or a public holiday, you should leave bumper-to-bumper traffic behind you even before you get to South B estates. However, if the gods have not decided in your favor, prepare to crawl through Embakasi, all the way past Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Beyond this point you’re scot free.

Your Somali conductor will visibly relax, probably pull out a bottle of Sprite, pop a hole on the bottle top, and take a swig. All these while expertly stripping the bark off a miraa twig using his front teeth, and instructing the driver not to stop for any of those asshole traffic cops who station themselves somewhere before Kitengela.

When you departed from Nairobi at half past ten, your stomach still contained the remnants of last night’s dinner: ugali and sukuma wiki. On top of that, you’d added a cup of Ketepa and 3 slices of bread  -spread with jam and margarine, of course. All that, plus the adrenaline rush from embarking on a cross-country voyage, was adequate sustenance. But now, 30 kilometers from Nairobi, on the outskirts of Machakos town, hunger pangs have welcomed themselves into your Mombasa experience. The novelty of trees, vehicles, pedestrians, and cattle flashing by on the other side of your window is no longer as exhilarating. The only visions you can presently subscribe to involve all that cake, mandazi, chocolate, and biscuits that you spotted behind display counters at various eateries on Tom Mboya St. The drops of condensation that were forming on the outside of yoghurt packs, the Delamare’s Farm logo brilliantly displayed, have returned to haunt you. Their very absence enables them to claw that much deeper into your imagination. What you wouldn’t give for a cool soda, chased with some fresh, warm doughnuts! Unfortunately, it won’t be until Mtito Andei, a good 200 KMS from Nairobi CBD, that the bus driver will pull over. Often, they’ll stop at a restaurant where they’ve pre-arranged to receive discounts, or even free meals, for every bus load of hungry passengers they deliver at the restaurant’s door.

The hungry horde of Mombasa-bound travelers gets off the bus. Limbs are cramped, and need shaking before they can return to life. Eyes half closed. The sun is blindingly bright, after 3 hours inside the bus. The more adventurous among us, eager to get on with the serious business of  consuming a Mombasa holiday, don sunglasses. Gone are the heavy Nairobi sweaters and jackets, to be replaced by t-shirts and shorts and sandals. Where is the sand? We trudge into the restaurant. Already salivating at the aromas of grilled chicken, lamb biryani, mutton pilau, mandazi, deep-fried Farmers’ Choice Sausage, and greasy chips doused in tomato sauce. You can see eyes darting between the cold drinks in the CoCa-Cola refrigerator and the display counter with steaming food where a server beckons. Decisions, decisions. Lost in choice, passengers don’t even notice time slipping away. In another 5 minutes, the driver will be impatiently honking and revving the engine. He and his crew are pros at this; they can polish off a solid meal in under 15 minutes, and still find time to squeeze in their 1pm ablutions and prayers. The driver’s assistant begins to corral passengers back onto the bus, take-away meals hastily packed, and with several folks foregoing their change. The restaurant, however, ensures no one leaves without clearing their check.

Back on the road again, the bus is now a cornucopia of competing flavors. Every dish smells better than the last. Indigestion. Flatulence. As we approach Voi, our fellow passengers are gliding in and out of an afternoon nap. The view outside the window now is blurry. It’s difficult to distinguish reality from dreamland. Are those Acacia trees by the roadside or just in my mind? And is that one-street-town over-populated on market day, teeming with goats, cattle, and fresh fruit, no more than a figment of my imagination? Maungu. Maji ya Chumvi. Mazeras. We’re finally in Mikindani, passing Chamgamwe and the oil refinery. This is Makupa. An elderly lady with her 4 kids is the first to ditch the couch, eager to get home. Her luggage is deposited beside her on the dusty sidewalk. 3 assorted suitcases, bursting at the seams. The eldest kid is holding onto a red-feathered jogoo, Christmas dinner. The conductor hurtles back into the bus just as the driver swings onto the tarmac, engulfing the family in a cloud of thick smoke and ashy dust.  Finally, the two tusks monument, just as I’ve always seen them on the back of the KSHS 50 note. The bus pulls into a makeshift shed. We’re here: Kongowea. This is the end of the road, and the beginning of my Mombasa adventure. There’s dad and his friend, Shaka, waving at us. Five hundred kilometers later, the family is reunited again.

That first night, we had dinner in town. All of us arranged around a wooden dining table. Made from roughly cut timber, the table slanted to the left. The polyester covering, which had been nailed to the top, barely improved this piece’s overall appeal. Not a big deal. Clientele at the “Mombasa Raha Restaurant” did not walk in for the décor and ambiance. Like many others, we too were after the chapatis rolled around fried eggs, flushed down with mugs of hot spicy chai. The scent of tangawizi blended with conversation as my parents shared news and caught up on what been happening since they last saw each other. These were, after all, the days before mobile telephony and short messages only came via snail mail. The rest of dinner involved grilled chicken, fried rice, and soda. More tea for the adults.

By now it was late in the evening. The land-bound breeze coming in from across the Indian Ocean engulfed us warmly. Our up-country noses wrinkled at the brine in the air. We’d also catch whiffs of fresh fish, coconut-laced cuisine, and raw sewage. In time, once my dad’s employees had shut down their taxi operation for the day, we drove to Bombolulu. We were going to visit one of my mom’s cousin and her two kids for a few days before re-joining dad after Shaka’s family got into town.

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A Deep Quest for the Next Bend on the Road

Ng’ang’a. I’m named after my paternal grandfather, Amos Ng’ang’a. I’m also named after my mom’s eldest brother, Peter Ng’ang’a. Both parties are now dead, gone to the great beyond. This form of Gikũyũ indigenous reincarnation is at play any time I visit my aunt. Having been named after her husband, I’m both a living manifestation and invocation of his continued existence. I am my late uncle’s widow’s replacement-husband. One of my chief occupations whenever I’m home is to visit as many relatives as I can squeeze into my schedule. This kind of networking, it turns out, was a forte of my maternal namesake. He too loved people, I am told. Uncle Ng’ang’a was also very much about keeping family close. To an extent.

My grandma complained that he rarely made time to visit her. Once she moved to her small ranch in Juja, I doubt he ever visited more than twice in a period spanning almost 8 years. In comparison, my family visited grandma almost every school holidays, so probably about twice a year. Uncle Ng’ang’a wasn’t terribly lucky in love, either. His first marriage did not work out. And despite how much my grandma defended him, and equally vilified his ex-wife, I suppose that as all relationships go, he too had a hand in what transpired. The beautiful remnant of their marriage was Cousin Shiro, named after his mother, my maternal grandma.

Shiro and I were close. Just as my mother and her dad maintained deep  sibling love, we channeled that example in our expressions of toddler emotion. These feelings of mutual admiration are captured in a December 1987 photograph taken as her and I sat on the hood of my Uncle’s red saloon car. Those warm fuzzy feelings, in my adulthood, have transformed into a deep quest for the next bend on the road, the yet unexplored mile on a journey with no eventual destination. The unfailing hope that my upcoming voyage will reconnect me with a cousin I have not seen for almost an entire generation. Who knows what will be triggered in that first moment of recognition.

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Very much unlike my usual self, I must have slept most of the way to Nakuru — I only recall the crowded mini-bus that we boarded for Elburgon. Having departed in the late afternoon, it was almost dusk by the time we rolled into town. This was 1995 and my family was road tripping like we were the -ish.

After alighting from the matatu, and shaking our limbs back from numbness, the first order of business was to unpack our luggage. That first night we visit with Mama Shiro. Not Cousin Shiro, the one I haven’t seen since the late 80s, or the other one I tried to make out with; it’s not even Shiro Sheila, the cute teenager I bought fruit from on my way home from high school. At this point Shiro Sheila hadn’t even come into my life yet. There’ll be lots of people named Shiro in this story, so pay attention. That first sleep over was at the Shiro who had a child rhyme that went something like “biki baka manyoya.” It’s a nonsensical phrase, as far as I know, that has an amazing capacity to withstand both the ravages of time and the radioactive half-life of memory.

There house was in Elburgon town, a timber milling center. Situated next to Mau Forest, residents take advantage of the great big trees satiated by the Mau watershed area. These grow into huge wide logs that, properly milled, have satisfied Kenya’s timber demand for more than 50 years. Continued deforestation, however, is catching up. Tree planting efforts have been sporadic at best, and human encroachment has pushed out wildlife while jeopardizing the water catchment area. This is an environmental disaster in the making. Even back then, in town, one came across numerous growling tractors, their exhausts belching thick dark diesel smoke, as they struggled to ferry piles of freshly cut pine and cypress logs hitched to the back.

That night’s meal was a mini get-together. Baba Shiro’s brother, Kabaiko, ran the mini-bus we’d arrived in. He joined us for dinner together with several other guys from his matatu crew. Our fingers danced around the hot mounds of Ugali, its steam mingling with spices from  the beef and sukuma wiki stew that we dipped it into before placing it in our mouths. The rental house was not hooked to the power grid, and the kerosene lanterns in the family room barely threw off enough light to chase the shadows our hunched upper bodies made as we ravenously stuffed our faces. Crucial recovery work this. The kids, as often happens, were sitting together, legs dangling from the high sofas covered in hand-crocheted cloth. The room went silent for about 20 minutes and it was not until dirty plates and bowls began to pile up in front of well-satisfied stomachs that the noise level began creeping back up. Pieces of soggy Ugali and run-away beef were hand picked from the sofa we children had been sitting on. The tables were cleared. What’s the best part about travelling? You didn’t have to shower in the evening and could roll onto whatever sleeping spot you’d been allotted as grimy as you’d been since you left home early that morning. Bliss. The crowd said its good night and were off. Mom, as always, insisted on a hot shower before going to bed. I stretched out on the couch-turned-into-bed and walked no more than a few steps into deep slumber and happy dreams.

 

We only stayed in town till the next afternoon. We had, after all, not quite made it to our final destination: the Kabaiko family home, where Shiro’s extended family network of aunts, uncles, and cousins lived with her paternal grandmother. Distance-wise, this was pretty close. But in the rickety matatu we took to the sleepy, rural, one-street town it felt like time traveling to the past.

There was a ghostly tone to the homestead. The entire place had evidently seen better days, and this was clearly the end of a golden era. In the middle of the yard there was a large rusted hulk of a Massey Ferguson tractor. As boys, we could not have been more pleased than when we were perched on top of it, cranking gears and wrestling with the manual steering. This piece of farm machinery must have been a wreck for at least a decade. The driver’s seat had been reduced to a curved metal sheet, the cushion and spring framework having long disappeared. Although the tires were still on, they had long deflated, subject to the hot and cold temperature fluctuations of two dozen wet and dry seasons. The previously shiny, sturdy vulcanized rubber was now crumbling, completely soft in some spots. The diesel particles that had previously covered the exhausted had mostly washed off in the rain; all the same, you could smell a faint hint of engine oil. Trust a horde of rowdy boys to coax out the last gasp of a ghostly pile of cast iron and stainless steel. We had not been playing on the tractor for more than twenty minutes when the combination of clutch pumping and gear jerking resulted in two seconds of motion. Our parents and guardians, fearful we might succeed in rolling one of those great wheels on a toddler’s limb, or apprehensive that we would inspire the long dead tractor to roll off a gently slope right into the family house directly ahead of it, quickly asked that we leave our various perches on the machine. How disappointing.

The Kabaiko farm was no different. Though evidently quite fertile, perhaps even too fecund, it had terror written all over it. Our visit to the farm was characterized by tall blackjack weeds that generously adorned our clothes with sticky black seeds, hooked onto every surface available: hair, skin, t-shirt, shorts. Micege, as the plant in called in Gikũyũ is a big pain in the neck to extract once it latches on. The overgrown vegetation had formed a bush around two crumbling structures on the land: a well and a grave. The well still had the simple pulley system running across its diameter: a log supported by two Y-shaped posts. The handle was long gone, so too were the rope and bucket that would have been necessary to haul water out. The grave was most sinister. It belonged to the pater familia. He had passed away in the late Seventies and laid to rest in the middle of a maize plantation. His grave was cemented over and rough inscriptions scratched on top to mark his dates of birth and death. The whole scene sent goose bumps up and down my body.

A week later, we were on our way back to Nairobi.