These Cold Paths: Footsteps In Kirinyaga

In 2010, while Bruno Mars was belting out a tune about a Brooklyn girl, I was somewhere in the depths of Kirinyaga, with no leather and absolutely no gold but covered in a hooded rain poncho shielding me from light showers that had now proven to be persistent. Despite the frequency of the rain, which I should have been accustomed to, the drizzles still made me shiver. 

I was ten years old, concealed within a lush tea plantation with an empty basket perched on my back and hanging from my forehead. I was immersed in the action of tea picking, counting every elbow swing as I plucked and worked to fill the basket. The sap from the leaves sent tingles through my fingers, staining them with a dark hue, but this was an unavoidable part of the job and the reward at the end of the day was worth the laborious steps through the farm on a cold Saturday morning.

I could not escape or even entertain the thought of stopping and dancing a bit in the rain. Every time I slowed down, I was reminded of the new dress I had been eyeing from Mama Gitari's shop. This was the chore I had to do every weekend for at least three weeks to get 850 shillings and reward myself with the dress in time before Christmas. Then later, I could also start working on replacing my worn-out shoes and perhaps secure something for my inner garments, too.

Every day after school, since I spotted the dress three days before, I stopped for a while to peek through the display window at Mama Gitari's and hopefully pray that no one would get it before I did. Its vibrant colours and delicate lace trim called out to me, promising to make my Christmas extra special. The girl at the shop swore that she would keep it for me, but I knew she would only understand the language of money. I was hopeful the dress would be mine nevertheless, so I worked with it in mind.

With each step through the farm, I also reminded myself of the only pair of shoes I had besides my slippers, gumboots, and school shoes. They desperately needed replacing after treading in puddles and mud for over a year. The soles had worn thin from countless journeys through the bustling marketplace, and I was outgrowing them with each passing day. It was time to find a sturdy and reliable pair to carry me through for maybe another year or so. 

Growing up in the fertile lands of Kirinyaga was a fulfilment of its own. The expansive green fields were adorned with thriving tea farms that stretched as far as the eye could see, painting the horizon in a mesmerizing green hue. Despite the abundance of nature's bounty, with plenty to grow and eat, fair weather, and a surrounding marked with robustness, my sister Njeri and I faced numerous unfulfilled longings. The meagre earnings from working on the tea plantations barely met our needs. Mama's income fell short, too, as it was only enough to cover our school fees and put food on the table. She made it clear that luxuries were out of reach, emphasizing the need for us to work for anything beyond the basics. I learned to fend for myself from the tender age of 8, while Njeri had to adapt to this challenging reality even earlier, as her arrival added to the family's needs, requiring her to quickly adjust to the demanding routine. 

Our homestead was nestled among towering eucalyptus trees and lush tea plantations. It boasted two sturdy brick houses, a small sheep pen, and a wooden granary that doubled as a chicken coop, although it rarely housed any chickens. One of those houses was my great grandma's, whom we all used to call Maitú, as in mother in Kikuyu, and the other, which belonged to my grandmother, Cúcú, was where Mama, Njeri and I lived.

We had the freedom to move between both houses. When I needed to immerse myself in my emotions, I would often leave our house and spend the night at Maítú's place. Her spare room was adorned with warmer blankets and a softer mattress, providing a comforting retreat. At times, I struggled with bed-wetting. On such mornings, I would diligently rise early to air out the bedding and endure a cold bath as self-punishment. Occasionally, Maitú would discover me still asleep and would vigorously shake me awake and force me out of my wet pyjamas. However, on one specific occasion, she reached the limit of tolerating my bed-wetting episodes. She burst into the room, forcefully pulled me out of bed, and raised her voice to express her frustration.

"Get out of my house, you empty bucket!" she commanded as she tightened her hand around my wrist. Her grip and speed surpassed that of a youth, let alone an 84-year-old.

"Mama Wambua! Mama Wambua! Your child has insulted my house again. I want you to come bear witness to my final warning today," she continued to shout.

The mention of a "final warning" made my body wince. I was now starting to feel fear creeping in as she pulled me outside the house and closer to the sheep pen. 

"What is it Maitú? This early morning and already..." Mama came pacing out of the house towards our direction, followed by Njeri, and Cúcú, who seemed disinterested and only got out to curse the early morning drama and then went back inside.

"Ask your daughter," Maitú interjected.

I did not have to say anything since the cause of the drama was obvious from my wet pyjamas.

"Wambua, not again!" Mama sighed.

"I won't allow it to happen again. We're ending this today. Bring me nyeni cia marenge." she ordered Mama.

I couldn't fathom why she requested Mama to bring her pumpkin leaves, but I was certain it wasn't for culinary purposes. Tension escalated as I realized that what Mama brought was not the actual leaves but the hollow pumpkin vines attached to the leaves. She handed three of them to Maitú and motioned for me to brace myself, that's when it dawned on me, recalling the stories Cúcú had told me, I knew I was about to live through one of my worst nightmares. I attempted to plead with Maitú, but my words turned into gibberish when she kicked my feet off the ground, causing me to land on the muddy ground. Restless, I let out the loudest scream, only to receive a slap across the face. Maitú instructed Njeri to lock the main gate to the homestead and then called on Mama to help restrain me. I was scared.

Mama came and bent down before me, avoiding eye contact and doing as Maitú instructed. She pulled off my pants, left me bare and then spread out my legs. Maitú on the other hand, held both wrists behind my back and shouted commands to both me and Mama. Every time I let out a sound, she knocked my head with her knuckles, so I tried to compress my wailing into short gasps and whimpers. She ordered Mama to spread my legs further, and then, with several strokes, she hit me with the vines between the legs and on the genitalia. 

"This will teach you to stop tinkling in bed," she said.

The bristles of the vines caused a prickly, heated sensation that traumatized every part of me. I was inconsolable for days and even though everyone moved on from the horrendous experience, it stayed with me. Maitú's purpose of stopping me from bed-wetting was fulfilled, but the trauma lingered. 

I remember her as a strong and uncompromising woman. Maitú showed no mercy to anyone, not even her only daughter, Cúcú, could escape her fierce nature. Mama used to recount the tales of how Maitú reacted when Cúcú left her abusive marriage and returned home. She didn't hold back, physically reprimanding Cúcú along with her four children, Mama, and her three brothers, telling her she had disgraced the family. Her methods of discipline were over the top, and she was rough around the edges, but she embodied immense strength. She passed away when I was thirteen, and after that, Mama, Njeri, and I moved into her house.

Our house harboured memories that I have learnt to live with. They engulf me like a body wrap on my shoulders and I balance them on my head like a water pot. I have since grown indifferent to most but some, even though blunt, still prick my heart. I like to set them aside, and I have tried to make peace with them, but they rattle me sometimes. I had my small balls of resentment for each of the elders who raised me as much as I had little hearts of love towards them. I resented Maitú for her ferocity, Cúcú for always being too silent, and Mama for weakening the bond we shared. Unlike Cúcú, who had run away from her matrimonial home, Mama had never been married, and to top it all up, Njeri and I had no idea who our father was. She avoided the conversation like the plague and solidified her disapproval one time when she hit Njeri with chapati dough for openly asking about him. I have never known how much she has been holding in and the number of demons she has had to fight every day, but I hope that someday she will have the strength and courage to face them for the final time and win at last.

I nurtured a cold heart towards my uncles who insisted that I should refer to them as my father. I did not feel obliged to do it. I wondered why they expected me to be that familiar with them when they never showed up to the role. How could I refer to a depraved man who once forcefully touched my budding breasts and slid his hand through my thighs, Father? And how about the other two who's main focus is making sure that Mama never builds or owns any form of wealth? How could I, even without a cold heart, be comfortable to take them in as my fathers? 

I was told that even if I will never be comfortable with the fatherhood situation, custom permits my uncles to receive my bride price when the time comes. Since Mama was never married by the provisions of culture and her bride price was never received, she is not eligible to receive the pride price of her daughters unless she fulfils hers, therefore, in case I ever get married, the bride price shall be divided amongst my ill-mannered uncles.I cannot argue with culture, but I can choose where I want to focus my heart, and for now, as I get into the depths of my twenties, I choose to nurture my healing, and hopefully, someday, I will walk into true love. Speaking of love, I have formed a rather whimsical taste for stuffed animals, you'd bless my heart if you gifted me one or two for my birthday. I know you think I am drawn to them because of the mere cuteness and plushy softness, no, I find that too superficial and not sufficient enough to tie love to it. The secret to me is in the details; I like to go beyond the fake fur and the soft fabrics. I like to appreciate the nuances and search for the love infused within because I love to think that each one of them should be sewn with at least a pinch of love.

I like to search for the intricate points and try to figure out how the paws could have been made more believable, how the scarf on the bear could have been something a real bear could tolerate, and probably what kind of fabric could have suited the llama. Those are the details I endear and that provoke me to make everything right before revealing myself to them. Everything has to be fixed before I can cover them in my favourite scents and honour them with pet names. That, to me, is what meets comfort and sentiment.

Plush toys are not my only source of comfort; I find joy in many things and places. I enjoy the crisp feeling of white wine and treasure weekends for the relief and freedom they bring. However, my love for independence surpasses all. I have valued independence since childhood and surprisingly, I learned to love taking care of myself. I hope that I will not lose my independence and become completely dependent on others along the way. And with that, I believe that true happiness awaits.

Photo credits: from Unsplash by Pavan Vignesh