1935

1935, behind a mud grass thatched house under a banana tree; a midwife was getting my grandmother ready for delivery. Unlike today, where you know the sex of the baby early in the pregnancy, she didn’t have an idea she was carrying a baby girl, her mother, she was just happy to be getting a baby, her third born.  On that day, my aunt was born.  She’s now 83 and knows quite a bit- maybe everything- about life and death.

She was born during the great depression, just before the World War II which robbed her of a father. No, my grandfather didn’t die, he went to war. Not to fight for his country, but to cook for the Brits. He was a chef. Even in his old age, he still cooked for us. He had lost his mojo, but not the passion.

He cooked for the Church of Scotland (present day Presbyterian Church) missionaries. You would think that the religiosity would rub off making him quit smoking- a habit he picked up as a young man working in a Hotel in Ruiru. Maybe out of rebellion, or his own way of fighting colonialism which brought religion, which demonized his habit, he smoked for 80 years. When he was old and frail, and his lungs could not pocket any more smoke, he responded to the call and gave his life to Jesus. He quit cold turkey. He got home that afternoon and he threw out a whole pack of sportsman cigarette and never smoked again.

Earlier in the day, the preacher had made an alter call, he stood up and slowly walked towards the alter. We were all surprised. So many people had tried to talk him into salvation. But this day, he made his decision. He declared, from that day forth, he was abandoning the devil and his ways. Smoking was one of the ways.

Interestingly, he never drunk a single day. He was a teetotaler.  If he were alive today, I would ask him why he took so long to give his life to Jesus. But when he did, he cried. I remember because I was in church that day. Seeing 93year old man cry was surreal. He was a man’s man but that day he cried. Since then, I cry once in a while- because if a 93-year-old man I am named after can cry, why can’t I?

My aunt has survived all horrors that life has had to offer. All the famines over the years. The loss of her family members. and recently, the death of her husband.

When I went to see her a few days ago, she was very happy to see me. She told me, “the joy I feel is not the superficial one, it is from the heart” pointing on left side of her chest. Though she couldn’t recognize me at first, she was very grateful that I visited. The last time I saw her was a year ago. You know how us Nairobians are. We are always busy doing something. There’s always something taking our time, and when we say we will talk to someone later or we will look for them, we never do. We are always up to something.

I asked her how she was.  She said though she had been taken ill several times, for her age she is doing well. Only her legs hurt. I figured it is either from old age or from all the hard work she did over the years. It must be the work, I told her. After years of hard work, the weight of the work settles on our hips, especially of it is manual labour. She now walks with a limp, and her spine is bent. In her words, she said she is living her last days meaning death is not something she fears, she has embraced her mortality.

When she is sited, you cannot tell anything is amiss. Her face is radiant. She smiles often- her trade mark smile. Only the missing teeth tell you the story of the days gone by.

In the middle of our conversation, she started talking about her family- my aunts and uncles. About her father and mother. I unhanged a photo of her, my late grandfather and late aunt and showed it to her. She paused, took a deep breath, and almost shed a tear. Looking out of the window where the sunrays were sneaking in lighting a 1970s couch, thoughtfully, she said, ‘they are all gone, I am the only one remaining. God knows why He has kept me for this long.” She went ahead to tell me how they were born seven on them, four girls and three boys. And now only three of them are left her, my uncle, and my father. She has fond memories of her family.

I told her I remember the day they took the photo. It was a Thursday afternoon. They had come home from the weekly Woman’s Guild prayers meeting. They always came home after prayers to see the father. This day, they wanted to take photo with the father. It turned out to be the last time they took a photo together. Two years later, my grandfather died, and five years later, my aunt passed on. She took photos with their coffins. None is hanged in her house; she prefers the memory of them living.

She tells me the hardest time was seeing her husband die. He died around two years ago. It was a hard time for her. They had been together for over 60 years. He didn’t just die. He glided into oblivion. He started ailing. Then lost his memory, but always remembered her- she smiles as she says this. I guess she still loves him- true love that was. His smile was the last to check out, just before his breath did. She told me no matter how long or short lived life is, it is God’s will. She doesn’t understand why she is still alive, same way she doesn’t understand why a child would die. But she says, at their death, both have served their time on earth. I thought that was profound especially after my friend lost his 15-year-old son.

I remember showing her my nephews and niece. Those babies. I carry them with me everywhere I go. It is a beauty watching children grow. From tiny things to little humans. This week I have been doing school run with my Nephew. Yesterday, I picked him from her Mum’s office in Sarit. As we were walking down the stairs, he saw cake city. He held my leg and started dragging me. “I want tamu, ‘he said.

I said, ‘no, you have homa.’He insisted.  I called the mum and asked if I should buy him cake, she said yes. You have to ask for permission. Otherwise you’ll be hanged for making the child get tonsillitis. I bought him white forest cake. Not because I knew he’d like it, but because I like it. This is the only time you can express dominion over these kids. Forcing things down their thoughts, literally.

When we got home. I asked him, ‘Ngugi, utanipatia cake?’ He said ‘no.’ Then added, ‘wewe enda home yako,’ as he showed me the door. These kids. He couldn’t share with me the cake I bought.

Later when the mother called, I told her what had happened. She asked him, “did you give uncle cake?” He repeated exactly what he had told me, “apana, nilimwambia aende home yake.” My sister called me laughing. Their innocence is sweeter than the cake.

Showing her the photos prompted her (my aunt) to ask me if I am now married. I said no. She said ‘In God’s time.” I said, “Amen!” And because her memory is now failing, after a while, she asked me, ‘where did you tell me your wife comes from?’ This time I laughed. Really hard. “Auntie, I just told you I am like the lone buffalo in the savannah, for now.” I said. She laughed. It was good to see her laugh so hard. There are some things that old age will never take, a genuine laugh.

My grandfather is the last person who asked me something so intently. He was asking about school. I remember him telling people I was in University while I was in form one. Ultimately, I did go to Uni. When I graduated, it was partly for me, and partly for him. I hope she was prophetically speaking. I hope that the day I get married she will be there to witness it. I hope one day I come here and write about that day and about marriage, my marriage.

I promised to take the girl to her when she comes.

Before I leave, yesterday, January 31^st, was 15 years since we buried Guka. Guka, keep resting in Peace. You are gone but never forgotten. You are forever in our hearts.

In the image, that's not my aunt, it is a photo I took a while back.