8.03 a.m., 1st Jan 2012...phone
ringing to Barlow Girl’s hit ‘Grey’. A lazy attempt to lift my head but it just
goes back where it has dented in the fluffy pillow. Then there goes the second
call but my hands won’t stop hugging the duvet, I think that will wait.
Alright, let’s kick it this year, so much for snoozing the entire last year.
A
missed call from grandpa. Sigh...he must think we are the most diligent of
grandchildren. You see in the hills they live by the adage, ‘early to bed and
early to rise...’ Too much interaction with the urbanites changes the early to
late. So I ring him back and he asks why we have not visited since the same
date previous year. My voice drones on to explain that we will swish by before
being swallowed to our fast lane of campus life. He asks if I have woken up
then and there is no lying to the old man. Okay, deal done. More sleep. I need
to offload some more of that.
So
3 days later, dad decides we are going to shagz. It’s not really shagz, having
been born and bred in the country is equally shagz so we just say we are going
up north to the hills, or to the coffees. Way to make it sound better! The air
is cleaner anyway and the birds chirp better.
In
my county, Meru, food is our strong suit. The most basic greeting and welcome
wonder is a plateful of a traditional dish; whether fuel prices go up or down,
or fertilizer prices keep shooting off the normal or pieces of land are sold to
pay the bills, that plate is a constant. You don’t change that.
It
is a 30 minute drive from home on our one-way roads, perfect for my wanting
sense of direction. Happy go lucky, play some Kenny Rogers to set you in the
mood. Then the road branches off into a typical country road, halfway dusty, halfway
muddy depending on where the rain felt like leaving its patters. We take the
longer winding route to avoid the disasters that come with the steep one.
It
is a one-gate policy open-for-yourself there. We do the necessary and leave the
car parked on one side of the lawn. The grass here grows greener and is so well
carpeted. From the back gate grandma emerges and exclaims in joy giving us a
warm hug. Grandpa does the handshake; culture has it so.
Three
women are busy on the large mortar grinding maize at a rhythmic pace. One
pestle up and two of them down and the maize is ground in that kind of
exchange. They stop to say hallo and express how much we have grown, with a
slight complain of our rare presence at grandmas. These have always helped out
with the labour in the farm and must have watched us grow from a tender age. I
am glad to meet them, healthy and still struggling to support their families.
They proceed to do their labour heartily. Always happy, never relenting.
The
constant is presented after we clean our hands. We thank God for it and proceed
to enjoy the ideal traditional ‘mukimo’, made by the traditional fire and to
accompany it is beef stew, the traditional one still. That combination is a
serious energy shot, it can really hold your stomach for hours. Grandma reminds
us of funny stunts that we most memorably left when we were much younger. We
giggle, laugh, and we go silent again. I wonder what I will be doing at their
age. Knitting? Running adverts? Drafting policies in the IMF? Playing with my
grandchildren? Focus now.
A
man whistles in the distance to announce his arrival. I guess that’s how it is
done there. He calls out for grandpa and from the ensuing conversation I
understand that he is enraged by an upcoming water project has meddled with the
villages’ pipes. So grandpa is the chairman of the village water committee,
‘maji ya harambee’, or so I understand.
Apparently
a group of young tucks who lack the patience to fix the mess left the water to
run from a section of the burst pipe. He is really infuriated and says that
revenge is the only way out because the chaps do it every time. Grandpa shakes
his head and says that the game will not go far, so he asks me to pass him his
reading glasses through which he squints and scribbles something in his diary.
The man goes on to say that he is ready to carve up his sleeves and declare a
war that evening; there goes a trait we are very well known for, temper! You
can’t keep that up with an old man, I guess he has poured out his heart enough.
He leaves and grandpa secures his seat again. Calm as ever, age must be a good
thing.
Grandma
is not happy that we have had such a small serving. She insists we have seconds
or we will not have a mug of her sweet millet porridge. Okay, go ahead and make
the woman happy. Five more spoons and there is no resisting that porridge. It
has fermented well, forms a swell in the mug and is ready to take the throat.
We
chat some more, go over the picture hangings in the living room. From my dad as
a toddler to his graduation and my baby picture too! Some empty nails are
sticking out on the wall tapestry and she says that each nail is for the
graduation of each grandchild. Mine awaits 2014...and she gives me that look
that says, “Yeah, you hang in there. Your degree better be up here soon!”
Should that be motivation or pressure? Sigh! Let me go with the former.
Time
to check on the cows, one of the major rural amusements. The calves we had left
five years ago were all grown. There was Nikki and Baraka. The new calf is
‘Kairu’ meaning the ‘small black one’ in my native language. They have been
dehorned and are eagerly waiting their dinner. I didn’t know they have a blue
iris! Blue-eyed cows! Grandma goes over to the calf which sniffs at her hand, a
polite way of asking to be petted. Grandma rubs its neck and head and now Kairu
is a happy calf. I think she is slightly spoilt but I guess even the animals
need a little love.
Twilight
is hastily setting in and the cock is pecking at the smaller chicken. It runs after
them and flaps its wings. Grandma shoos the cock back to its shed and the rest
to the other side of the shed. That cock is a wild one, a fascist one I’d say.
Now
we have to leave. A brief visit to the hills is better than none at all. We
leave with their blessing for the new year, easy in the hills.
