Stranger At Home

If you grew up in the village, holidays meant free labour. Your parents would be happy that they can now fully utilize you. Depending on the season, you knew what you were expected to do. In April, it was planting season, August harvesting, December tilling. There was no holiday. No rest. This was our reality, my brother and I.

Any opportunity to be away from home was always welcome. My sister had most of those. We have a cousin who they are of the same age. When we were young, my auntie would come for us all, but mostly she would come for my sister. She would be away for two of the four weeks we would be home. Her absence turned me into work horse. I did practically everything. Cooking. Going to the shops. Washing the house (my favourite), washing utensils (I hate it to date), and being sent around by my grandfather, who would call me every five minute.Sometimes to even watch him sneeze. 

“Wahinya, I need some tea.”

“Wahinya, please adjust my pillow.”

Wahinya, you said you’ve closed school.”

“Wahinya, sit here we talk." I must admit nowadays I wish I talked to him more. But I was young, I didn't know how to hold conversations. 

Wahinya, Wanjiku (my mum) eeku? Meaning, where’s your mother.”

I wrote about him here

The worst was being sent to the butchery every evening to go for mathagiro (cow’s hooves) for the dogs, we (with the dogs) had a mutual understanding, the would eat the bones and I the meat. One day I refused to go. He went bananas- story for another day.

When doing dishes, I would cry. I know. I am very emotional, but I am in charge of my feelings. I cried because washing dishes is a form of slavery. Dishes are evil. Washing them is a never ending torture. When you are done cooking and you’ve washed the sufurias, the used plates will be waiting for you in a few minutes. When you wash the plates, people will want tea. I do not know who taught our people that tea is dessert. It is a dog’s life. My chef friend tells me that washing dishes is the most humbling part of learning the craft. The dishes are many and are always flowing in. Your hands are always wet and greasy with people’s bad eating habits.

A few days ago, I was coming from Embu, next to me,there was girl. Young and innocent looking. A dark girl in a yellow dress and a black backpack.Orobablt her school bag, a hand me down because I could tell it has seen better days. Maybe it even carries the dreams of the whole family.  She had short hair like most girls in the village. Nice well combed hair. She looked like Lupita. When we were growing up, it was cheaper to maintain short natural hair. In fact, parents shaved your hair to keep expenses at the bare minimum. You only braided during Christmas. Nowadays, I hear it is cheaper buying a plot in Kamulu than maintaining one. 

She was seated next to the driver. She had been entrusted to him. It was interesting watching him be so nice to her and very rude to other road users. He was to call someone when they neared all sops to come pick her up at the stage. She had 350ml soda, and Marie biscuits to keep her company. Maybe her mother bought them, because mothers are always thoughtful. A mother never shows up or leaves you empty handed. She was happily munching on them. I could also tell she was happy to be away from home, away from the evil dishes. Away from the farm. Away from all the chores.

When I started reading a book I had been trying to finish, she was surprised. Suprised because in Kenya, reading is like urinating in public, many people do it, but few are seen doing it. I hope it challenged her to read her books often. Or even read for leisure and growth. When you cannot go out to the world, reading brings the world to you. The whole journey, she didn't sleep.Not even doze off. She looks the type that enjoys afternoon classes. The type that asks teachers questions which they do not answer because their minds are at home doing dishes..hehe

It impressed me because I struggle to stay up in the afternoon. Same way I struggle to stay asleep the whole night. She was wide awake lest anything pass by her. She needed to tell stories. And maybe write a composition. When we got to Mwea, I took a photo of the rice fields. During this time of the year, the fields are breath taking. They are mostly green with small dots of gold. The fields look like those artificial turfs. The water-ways mimic  the markings on the stadium and the paths at the edge resemble the field tracks. As I was taking the photos, she was watching me. You can always tell when you are being watched even if you cannot see. It’s like eyes have some nudge of some sort. Like a laser beam. She was either amused or dumbfounded of how a grown up can be so dumb to take photos of some random rice fields yet they grow rice in their background.

All this time, I was thinking how it was every time I went to my uncle’s during school holidays. You know you are truly welcome but still feel like a stranger.  You feel like a stranger because every home has its culture. And it takes you time to be fully aware of how things flow, and just before you do, it is time to go back home. So the next time you visit, you start all over again.

Family culture is both interesting and boring. For example, when all of us were home, we never had breakfast together. Whoever woke up first made breakfast for the others. But we always had dinner together.I could tell it was strange for my cousin. They always had breakfast together. Like, Britain’s constitution,family culture is an unwritten law. Nowadays, when all of us are home, we always have lunch together. 

Because I am not a heavy sleeper; wherever I am, I am the first to wake up. Even after a tiring day, I always wake up first. So when I am at home, I wake up and do whatever. I sing off key. I bang things without any care. Heck, I even build whatever I want. My house, my rules.  Nothing is taboo, but when I am visiting, there’s a morning routine. This time you feel lost. Do I go and help out in the kitchen? Do I prepare the table for breakfast? When having dinner, who serves first? Do they add salt during meals? Do they even say grace? All these things run through your mind. I imagined that it is the same for this girl. She will feel lost. She will wait for cues to eat, to shower,to sleep,basically, for the next few days she will be away from home, her life will be mechanical.

Thankfully, since I started reading, I can stay in bed and read.Another good things is, most of my friends are now married. This means going for a sleep over is one of the asunders the pastor talked about. I now have a new excuse, ‘but you guys are still on honeymoon." Even on the fifth year of marriage and a child later, I will still pull that line and add, ‘honeymoon should never end.” Also, by then I will also be happily married(Amen?) and my wife will sulk if I say I am going for a sleepover at a friend’s place. I also pray that, like me, she will hate sleepovers.

So I felt for this girl. Being in a new town is confusing enough, but being in someone’s house leaves you lost. I hope she is not in Nairobi for the first time. Because Nairobi can choke you: especially the noise. It is the town that never goes to sleep sleeps. The town when you are a child you cannot just head out on your own. A town where children also have classes depending on where your parent live and where you go to school. She will be so lost in this town. Worse off, if she has an accent, she will not fit in at all. Probably, when among their friends, her cousins who she will be spending time with will be speaking to her out of duty, not love. But maybe, she is a quick learner, and she will adapt well. Whatever the case, I wish her luck. Young lady, do not let Nairobi or the new house overwhelm you.

Image source: www.thatlantic.com