Honia-Heal Afrika Initiative (HAI)

Gĩtaũ wa Kũng’ũ writes✍🏾

I was now scaling the steep Warũhiti hill from Kangiri Coffee Farmers Cooperative Society to Kĩgumo township via Nyoka Nyoka Road – whose name seems to slither off the tongue with the promise of serpentine adventures.

Warũhiti hill gets its name from the Gĩkũyũ name for hyena, also called Wamũtĩrĩ.
True to its name, the slope tests both the legs and patience of those who opt to use the short-cut. One misstep and you roll downhill like a rock, only to be collected at the bottom with broken legs if you’re lucky enough to go your way limping like a hyena.
In the past, a thief would be tied with numerous dry banana leaves (matharara), lit afire and pushed downslope. He rolled fast in furious flames to the awaiting abyss at the bottom.

Well, the climb quickly became less about the road and more about an encounter that was equal parts enlightening and entertaining.

I met an elderly man -Mzee Gacanja from Gacoco, nearly two kilometers from here. He carried a mũirĩ (Prunus africana) walking stick, though it seemed more for style than support; the man walked like he could outpace gravity itself. His toothless smile – like a gap in the Nyandarũa ridges – revealed a lifetime of wisdom that I soon realized was as sharp as a kaiaba (Dovyalis caffra) bush.

In seconds, he had traced my lineage with the precision of a genealogist, describing my grandfather, wa Gĩkumu (may he rest in peace), as a man who aarĩ ngumo ta ndegwa ndũi – was “tough like a bull elephant that knows no retreat.” He described my late grandmother as knowing her from his teenage years as one of the most beautiful girls of her time, whose womb’s fruits yielded not only the largest number but the strongest and most admirable sons in the region. She traced her roots with such accuracy that I began wondering if he moonlighted as a private investigator.

What started as warm recognition escalated into a heated political discussion, his tone shifting like the hill’s incline. “The country has gone backward like a crab on the river Iratĩ,” he lamented.
Oh- this river Iratĩ- once mighty and furious river running through the interlocking river valleys over numerous rapids and scenic waterfalls of our bountiful Mũrang’a South region has now reduced in size and power I doubt the white man would describe it as irate anymore.

But the irony wasn’t lost on him. He insisted the blame lay not just with leaders but also with the voters who were seduced by bribes as easily as ants to sugar. His critique, though heavy, carried the weight of truth.

As we ascended, he reminisced about his youth during the Mau Mau resistance, sharing how, as a boy, he delivered supplies to Itungati warriors deep in Gatare Forest or Ngurumo cia Maragwa. And just when I thought I’d heard it all, his walking stick pointed to a plant.

“Twĩyũmie biũ, kĩmwana. Ĩĩ ũyũ thĩĩna ndũrĩ mĩri!” The conviction in his voice was both puzzling and intriguing.

On motioning to the fences on both sides, I noted something. There was a plant with greenish-yellow tendril-like structures weaving through the Bougainvillea flowers, encasing them in what could only be described as a botanical stranglehold. I searched unsuccessfully for its roots but found none; it was a thief, a squatter.

Now I got him. This plant Cuscuta kilimanjari is the one he referred to as Thĩĩna! We were now at par.

Mzee Gacanja explained how the plant, Thĩĩna, was named for its parasitic nature – thriving without roots by leeching off hosts. But it wasn’t just its biology; it was a metaphor for poverty and corruption, choking society’s beauty and vitality, much like its tendrils snared the fences.
“It has no roots yet thrives, like thieves who steal even what the poor don’t have,” he quipped. The irony of its thriving on destruction wasn’t lost on either of us.

But Mzee, ever the philosopher, didn’t stop there. “Even Thĩĩna, troublesome as it seems, hides its blessings. Nature always puts medicine in the hand that injures us,” he said, his tone tinged with humor. He described how at one time he had travelled to Mĩĩrũ (Meru) where he observed a Mũmĩĩrũ herbalist collecting it for his herbal supplements.
I was curious to know what poverty – thĩĩna treated but he said I cannot have Gĩtaũ’s name and expect to be spoon-fed. “Ngũgĩgũtanukĩra na ngũmererie, ĩĩ nawe wa Gĩkumu!”

The first thing to do at Kĩgumo Cyber was discover the truth for myself.

Extracts from Thĩĩna were used to treat liver and kidney issues, promote hair growth, and strengthen bones. Its antioxidant properties make it a secret ally, while its support for reproductive health will spread hope to unsuccessful ‘bedminton’ players.

Managing Thĩĩna, though, is no small task. “It’s a dance with Kĩmunya the devil,” Gachanja joked. Farmers used selective cultivation to keep it away from crops, rotated non-host plants, and employed natural predators to disrupt its spread.

“It’s proof that sometimes you must prune the bad to harvest the good,” he added.

At the hilltop, I paused, reflecting on Thĩĩna’s duality- both destroyer and healer. It mirrored poverty and corruption, draining society’s resources, but also held the promise of transformation. With ingenuity and action, struggles could become opportunities for growth – ũgima wa mwĩrĩ (good health) and even ũtonga (wealth).

As I returned home, I saw the landscape anew. Where others might see hardship, I now saw resilience – a chance to cut free from burdens and sow seeds of prosperity.

Thĩĩna, after all, is not just a parasite; it is a testament to the endurance and wisdom of those who dare to turn thorns into blossoms.