My village

There’s nothing about my village that sets it apart from other villages in Kenya or those in Africa for that matter. It has round mud houses and big brick houses just like most villages in Kenya. Some homes in my village have well trimmed cypress hedges; others have two layers of barbed wire that serves as inhibitors to many a men of evil thoughts. Yet others have no such façade. It’s actually possible to see those sitting in the house from the narrow community paths.

My village has a few mad men roaming in the market places just like several other villages in Kenya. And just like other villages, my village has thieves and night runners. Yes, those whose only source of amusement in an otherwise difficult life is throwing excreta upon sound asleep people. 

Yes, my village is in Homa Bay County and no; not everybody is infected with HIV/AIDS.

The people in my village are hard working; they wake up very early to till their lands using ox driven ploughs. It’s one of the things I enjoyed most about my holidays when I was still a young boy. I don’t know whether I derived pleasure from barking orders to the bulls or the opportunity to lash upon any bull that failed to heed my order. Either way work was done and the farms were planted. But am sure in your village, if you have any, people are hard working too. It doesn’t have to be on the farm like my village. Even those struggling to finish their liquor in the drinking dens of Nyeri are hard at work. They may not be sweating but their livers are. (I hear the county government wants to introduce bells at bars to remind Wanjohi and Kamau that it’s almost closing time, wamalize pombe). Sorry Wanjiku, that’s just the example that came to mind.

At the foot of my village there’s a river that flows from Kisii highlands carrying with it red soil from the highlands, human and animal excreta from upstream. Yes, people will quench their thirst as the water noisily passes by.

Young boys and men will shower upstream and perfect their diving skills ,bigger men will face each other downstream and shower while comparing their things, not openly, just a quick glance as the other washes soap off his face. But am sure if there was a river in your village you would do that as well. It’s part of being a man. You always want to know where you stand. 

Meanwhile downstream little boys, considered harmless, feed their eyes as women stripped and washed themselves while blessing those down the river. Boys just hitting puberty were no longer invitees to this huge cinema but didn’t they say necessity is the mother of invention? From their designated bathing points they’ll pretend as if they were swept by the raging waters below and flow downstream. Most times, the plan would work. Other times, the smirk on their faces after getting away with such heinous crimes would sell them out and who would want to face the wrath of women defiled? 

Saturday is market day in my village and every time the young and the old, the haves and have-nots, women and girls, men, boys and small children gather in this common place. It just isn’t about buying and selling, it is  about catching up, about socializing. The market as far as I remember only had two major shops. When I say major I don’t mean the scale of Nakumatt or EastMatt. Major in my village meant it had big mandas called ponge,sugar,salt and a few other basic household items. It meant those slightly emasculated could buy coca cola, the others not so stable could buy jucci cola. In most cases it was the jucci colla. Not just because it was affordable (not cheap) but because it meant sharing. It meant that you could buy loyalty from your peers. 

Of course the market is now bigger. Thanks to the rural electrification projects, there is power and with that video shows and big hotels. Once again big is not Serena big, big is half the size of Blessed Hotel in KM. Big means that should you have a date you no longer have to go to nearby towns to buy tea and have a good time. I know that my village will soon have an IMAX, not with five D's but just two D’s. Our dreams are valid.

Without anything special in it, my village is special. I don’t know if you get the difference. It did sound better in my head.

My village has interesting people, people am sure you will not find anywhere else. There’s a man called Muche. He calls me Milay, I don’t know what that means, am not sure he knows it. So just the other day he called me Milay and I wanted to ask him what that name means. I didn’t. Maybe because I was afraid he would tell me that that name, a name we've shared for all these years, meant nothing. He is a good man, Muche. That’s why when some of my friends still at the village tell me of how he unleashes terror upon those roaming the streets of the village at night, I don’t believe them. Muche, the smiling man couldn’t possibly be the rough village security they say he is. They could be right though, maybe Muche and my uncle chief do not want every girl in my village to get pregnant.

In my village we know how to celebrate big days like Christmas and ‘Hapi Ni E Iya’. It’s what you people call Happy New Year. The smell of chapati and mandazi rent the air just as the sound of chicken cackling as zealous and indefatigable soup hungry children chase them through nooks and crevices. Bolt would be mesmerized at the local talent here. Dogs would not be left behind in such activities. It is real team work; they would help in taking the chickens down.

In my village all dogs are called Simba, Osama, Ninja or Saddam. They are usually lazy dogs who run and hide at the frightening sight of their shadows. They eat everything including white cabbages and omena.  They don’t smell so good; in fact they have a strong stench. Dogs in my village are loving, they love brushing themselves against people. They are loyal; they follow you everywhere, even to the small rooms. But they are our dogs. They belong to our village.

preparing mud for making simba

The best part however about my village is that we love visitors; especially if you are from Nairobi. The people from Nairobi all have great jobs as compared to those who practice farming in the village.

The villagers are always eager to welcome a new face to the community. They are always happy to see a son or a daughter come back home, until they realize you are alone. Even when you settled in your seat, they will still be looking at the gate expecting somebody to show up and be welcomed into the village.

My grandmother tells me she is about to die and that I should bring somebody home soon. She wants to see her ndokliunda, that’s how we call the fourth generation.

I look at her and she is not anywhere near dying. She has just finished planting maize in the garden in front of her now deserted homestead. I tell her casually that she couldn’t probably be dying when she still works on her garden for the better part of the day even though she has no mouth to feed. But the message is loud and clear; I’m not welcome at home until I get somebody, and not just somebody, somebody she’ll approve as her co-wife.

She says if I’m unable to get one I shouldn’t be worried, she’ll talk to my aunt to talk to some nice girls in their village who would love me and take care of me the way a real wife should.

Don’t I just love my village?