Easy in the hills

      8.03 a.m., 1^st 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.