Honia-Heal Afrika Initiative (HAI)

Gĩtaũ wa Kũng’ũ writes✍🏾

There is time in 2008 when there was such great famine that we even received food donations – in Mũrang’a County formerly renown as the granary of Kenya.

There was this yellow maize that produced yellow flour we used to call “gathirikari” possibly because it was donated by the government (in Gĩkũyũ – thirikari). The prefix ‘ga-‘ or ‘ka-‘ is used in Gĩkũyũ language to denote ‘lessened size’ or as a measure of degrading something or somebody.

There was no water and even wells and springs had dried up including “Gathima ka wa Julia.’ We had to fetch drinking water from river Iratĩ. It’s tributary a shallow Ica Ruhonge often has brown water probably due to soil erosion from rich farming methods upstream.

Well, on this particular day, my mum had accompanied other mamis and gone to receive gathirikari from the Chief’s camp. The little naughty rats were now free to flex and roam.

Being a little celebrated mastermind for village mischief, I incited my ihĩĩ friends to take our clothes to the river for washing. “Kina Boni na Kaundy huwa wanafulia nguo ira’atĩ na hawajai bebwa. Pia sisi nĩtũũ’thiĩ iratĩ tũkahũũrĩ’re  nguo na huko … na tuswim kabla wazae wakuje madze,” that was me confusing Gĩkũyũ in Kiswahili accent.

I was convincing my gang to break the rules and go wash clothes in the river – like our elder cousins. I was tired of having to carry the ten liter jerricans up the steep slope countless times only to come pour into washing basins with loads of extremely dirty clothes. I had twerked the accent to impress especially one brown ‘born tao’ girl alongside his brother and cousins to recruit them into my gang. They had come to their ‘cũcũ’- shosh’ home to escape 2007 post election violence.
After successfully laying the plan for how to evade the relatives still in the vicinities, off we parted, everybody beating corners in the rustle and bustle to pack our clothes in ‘tũmĩnyore’ sacks.
Everybody would take their paths through respective family coffee bushes and converge near Suta bridge in utmost 20 minutes. We couldn’t risk walking along the road enmasse. Those were the days even strangers were allowed to beat discipline into any child, anywhere, anytime for any mischief. Woe unto you if you happened to receive a stranger’s or neighbour’s thrashing and they – or anyone else reported to your parents! “Ngũkũhũũra ngũrĩe na magego niĩ… Atĩ nĩ mĩtugo ĩrĩkũ… nĩ tũmagũrũ ũranjikĩria…icio nĩciorĩra…ndũige ndina wega… Ũtanguundĩte ũkanjathimũra ta mbakĩ ndiratigana nawe…ĩĩ nũũ ũyũ!” Those were often words from angry mamis especially in the evening during the disciplining rituals.
“I will beat you and tear the mischief with these teeth of mine that crush ‘ngara’- dry rosted maize…. Are you trying to kick? I’ve now forgotten the initial canes count…Straighten your buttocks…I will beat discipline into you until you sneeze me like (sniffing) tobacco…”
So off we went to wash our clothes swim at river Iratĩ at a spot called Mũnjegea.
After converging at the designated place-in record 17 minutes, I led the way to Munjegea as we laughed at the stories of how everyone managed to maneuver and terminate their ‘Prison Break.’ We were now as free and happy as rotten oranges on a rusted yellow wheelbarrow on their way from Bowmass. We had the whole day to play with Iratĩ waters as our parents and guardians tug in the irate  ‘gathirikari’ donation queues.

Being a mastermind comes with many benefits I tell you. The brown ‘born tao’ girl offered to do my washing on condition that I would teach her how to swim…

PART TWO LOADING…