To tell you the truth, I have been struggling with the opening statement. I ate, wrote, ate some more, rewrote it, ate even much more, threw the whole thing in the trash — the draft, not the food.
I refashioned other people’s opening lines, nothing. I even took a mighty dump, something I only do at 6pm, every day. I wanted a big bang. Something that would draw you in, and keep you interested. Sort of like the lingerie inside the miniskirt, you know, the one that reminds you there’s always one more layer between fantasy and reality.
Anyway, here’s the sitch: I am from the bathroom with a bonnet. I know Dedan Kimathi would twitch at the statement, but was he not shot so men could have the freedom to wear bonnets? But I have dreads you see, and these dreads remind me of home, how my father used to keep them, and also the number of girls who want to touch them and ask, “Is this your real hair?” Yes, baby.
My hair is not just my sense of identity, but it is my connection to home. See, I have this theory that when you are a younger man, you want nothing to do with your ancestry, shunning your customs, pouting at how villagers think.
But as you grow older, you develop this sense of longing for home. Suddenly the city and its bright lights and dark nights and wild lives isn’t just doing it anymore. You start looking back (oh no!) more than you are looking forward.
Remember when we were children and we would play dufa mpararo? When we would take our feyas and go bird hunting? When Christmas and not gin was the spirit of the season and chapatis would fall like manna from heaven? Remember when…
There are memories that time does not erase, and the past beats inside me like a second heart.
Let me tell you about home. I grew up in a village you’ve never heard of, a few hours from a town you’ve actually— probably? — heard of but aren’t familiar with. My home town is small but not cramped. Kakamega. Kach. Ingo.
Kakamega is not what you think Nairobi is. You have to understand: Kakamega takes its time. Takes your time. It’s like a double Chemistry lesson. In the sweltering heat. After eating githeri.
But the heat of this place is only rivalled by the warmth of the people. We are not like the Nairobians with their theatrical and frankly risible haughtiness. Nairobi has no sense of belonging, not for the wash wash guys, not for the government, not for you; just a physical and temporary heaven that so often takes on the countenance of hell.
That’s why the older I grow, the hotter the fire burns to dash back to the village and live my life like a hermit, chasing thick-thighed cocks and village goats for their skin, and meat. Then cook suchaa and seveve and sagaa, which can help stave off memory loss, reduce cholesterol and give you stronger erections. Okay, I made up that last part.
I go home every now and then, mostly then. I love how the village smells. Like the wet end of August. Like God’s garage. I want to wash my face in my mud house and spit in the air to tell the direction of the wind. And to, especially, bathe in the river, then find a large rock — not to be confused with Jesus — and bask there like the Mwanza flat-headed salamander. And then thank God I never have to date some woman with a tasteless name like Susan. Or Mary. Or Ann. Or MaryAnn.
Knowingly or not, a man chooses a home because of who he is. But if you don’t know who you are, how will you know what to answer to? I have this fear that us millennials may be the first generation with a rootless feeling, shuttled between the online and offline world, not knowing our mother tongues and always on the move to somewhere.
That community feeling is long dead. I have friends who never go to the village. What’s there in the village for me, they ask. Me ni born tao, they say. I understand. If you ask me about the customs of my community, I will look away in shame. Guilt? Silence, I discover is something you can actually hear. When I was younger, that seemed cool; now that I am older, it feels like being an outsider of your own culture.
Personally, I find it a daunting task to discover where home is for me. Am I from Kakamega? Yet I have lived my whole life in Nairobi… so am I a Nairobian? But coming from Nairobi doesn’t necessarily equate to being a Nairobian. I can’t claim to be fully Luhya because while I can ask for water and reply to a greeting and even trade an insult, that’s as far as my nose goes.
Even this December, when some families would go home to shagz, I am set to become the estate au pair watchman. And although Kenyans are individualists, we’re still expected to go home for the holidays and to cite our parents as our greatest sources of inspiration. And while we may still have the former, I am afraid we are edging toward losing the latter.
Our innate love of stories means we have a deep need for endings. You want to know whether I will eventually go home, I can tell. Who knows? What I can tell you is that at this very moment, I can hear Jacob Luseno drooling in my ear, gossiping (because Luhya songs are a fountain of gossip) about Mukangala, a shamba boy who pretends to be the owner of his master’s house to impress village folk.
Preparations are in earnest in the village, nguo ya Christmas is getting ironed, sahani za wageni zimetolewa kwa cupboard and the knives are getting sharpened. As Jesus is born, an animal loses its life.
It is this sense of kinship that I miss. It is this familial bond that we have lost, first as a family then as a nation. Patriotism, if not nationalism, is dead. The individual, in effect, has eaten up the country.
Perhaps the elders had it right all along, that we desire to bequeath two things to our children. The first one is roots, the other one is wings. Our parents blessed us with wings to conquer the world, but forgot to plant our roots. We are, truly, the rootless generation.
Even as matatus fill up, there are men who are lost in this city, wandering, looking for a place where they can feel at home. Even those wearing a bonnet.
