Life is not determined by what happens to us but by how we react to what happens; not by what life brings but by the attitude we bring to life. The harder the prevailing circ*mstances the more refined we become at the end of it all.
Dad never bought a television set in his entire life time. He claimed such gadgets would only help in making his few children lazy. He had a Sony radio which was always by his side; preferring to listen to BBC news instead of the then government controlled VOK. He wanted us to concentrate on books, books and more books. He would be so happy to find us studying rather than playing in the field with other children. The house was always quiet apart from the noises from the kitchen department. Dad could also ones in a while interrupt the silence with his stories of hardships and endurance beyond measure. He said that as much as he did not want us to go through the whole hell he went through; he preferred us to live hardy lives that would produce some substance in our character. At that point I smelt a dead mongoose – not just a rat.
When we migrated from Soy A to Vihiga Village, where he had earlier constructed a house, the stories became more giraffe. All the stories were now about the future. He believed there was no future in the past. There is this day he took us to see giraffes next to Moi Barracks. We could certainly see the heads but not their bodies. When we moved closer, there was this one which was stuck in mad and it was like help was not forthcoming. Later the army officers rescued it. That evening we were by magenga (fireplace right) and dad asked “Jakotuol, did you see the giraffe that was stuck in the mud?” I said “Yes Baba” When talking to my dad; we had to say “Yes Baba (Kamano Baba)” unless you wanted some pain to be inflicted on your behind without prior notice. “From afar, giraffe was happy and eating well but when we moved closer, it was in deep sh*t” He added “That giraffe was very big, I wish we found it dead we could have had great game meet for dinner” Nyawito injected his usual verbal diarrhea. “Nyawito, kindly shut up” Dad retorted angrily. The atmosphere in the sitting was slowly becoming thick. “My sons, you need to be like giraffes; even when the current circ*mstances are hard, your minds should focus on a better future” He said. “Let the world see joy in your faces even when you are hurting from within” He added looking straight at my brother face. Something serious must have been cooking.
I was informed that I would no longer be taken to school on the Peugeot; I would be going with my brother on his bicycle. It was also crazy to imagine that I would come back by mid day on foot. Vihiga to Soy Primary School was a considerable distance and the thought of walking back was too much for me to bear but I couldn’t dare lament. My brother was already used to going to school very early for the morning preps; something that was a foreign language to a class two like me. I gained enough courage like that of a giraffe and asked dad to allow me go and study in the village. He told me that the next time I bring such a suggestion I would regret it. Aih yawa!! I had to tore the line and join my brother on his bike.
George a.k.a Jakolanya used to wake up too early in the morning to help me prepare for school, do his morning studies and prepare tea for both of us. I remember we were sleeping on a separate house from my step mom and dad. Bro hated the idea of carrying me, on his bike, to school every morning. Furthermore I did not know how to balance on the unsympathetic bicycle carrier. He had to stop after every few yards to check if I was still holding to the bike. I fell down on several occasions.
Soy Primary School was just the right place for me. Remember “maziwa ya nyayo”? President Moi had come up with this idea of distributing milk free of charge to all government primary schools. We would get three 200ml packets daily. I was very happy!!! Those days I was so brown to an extent that I was nick-named Odiero (White man) or maybe the Kalenjins were too black to an extent that my darkness turned into light. The teachers loved and took very good care of me – I was generally a happy chap at school. I enjoyed this blind folding game where the kids would make a very wide circle and a few of us were picked to be at the centre of the circle; one of us would be blind folded and asked to chase the rest.
I never liked the lunch time bell coz it would mean walking back to Vihiga; something that I dreaded dearly. It would take me just over three hours to reach the house. I would take lunch with the policemen manning a road block at the junction of Vihiga – it was always nyama choma. They were so much used to me to an extent that when I was late, they preserved some meat for me. I loved those guys. I had told them that my dad was a very senior person in the army. At that road block army trucks would pass by and I would wave to those guys as they waved back happily. This made the policemen believe that indeed I was known by the army men.
Back at home, my step mom had developed a disease which was affecting her stomach; a disease which made her too lazy – sending me for everything including those that were within her vicinity. Her stomach kept swelling due to this tumor. She could spit anyhow everywhere!! She had a disgusting way of vomiting in the morning; the kind of puking where you want everybody around to notice you. Dad had to bring in a house help from the Kalenjin tribe. She was a rare breed – very brown and soft. My brother used to tease me, insinuating that she was my wife. Surely we were great friends. My step mom used to cane her so much despite her young age. Her parents could not afford to take her to school and resorted to sending her over for employment. Most of the time I would go to the kitchen to help her with the household chores against my step moms wishes. I would face stiff punishment from dad whenever I was reported but I cared less.
Things became worse when the “stomach tumor” was naturally removed through the birth canal. It turned out to be a noisy bouncing baby boy whom dad named Mango, after my grand papa. Mango, the old man, had inherited Stella, my grandmother, and gave birth to my dad. Mango also inherited other women in the locality and gave birth to great figures including Agustina Nyalenge – the biggest man inentire Kisumu. Remember in Luo culture, when a woman’s husband dies, she has to be inherited. Inheritance does what we call “Chodo kode”. Chodo has two meaning – break and sex; kode means – code or “with her/him”. Chodo kode therefre means breaking the code while having sex with her. It is assumed that when the husband dies, a woman’s apparatus will gather mbui which have to be cleared by a wife inheritor. Mbui literally means cobwebs. How spiders get access to the asset is a mystery which even the Luo Council of Elders cannot explain.
Mango was a curse in disguise, to me. Chep, the Kalenjin maid, and I had to share duties ranging from washing the baby’s pupu, dad’s handkerchiefs to various domestic chores. Those were the days when pamper were not even in the imagination of Kenyan households; it was just reusable napkins - full stop. On the other hand dad had this kind of irritating productive cough which emanated from the dust he had to breathe in at his place of work. The handkerchief bore all the consequences of the cough. I was not a fun of the yellow matter while Chep abhorred the handkerchief so we decided that she would be washing the napkins as I did justice to the handkerchief. All along dad never knew that we were both doing all that stuff but I had to help my new found girlfriend. I remember one time some cash got lost and Chep was on the spotlight. I took the blame to save her; the consequences were dire and I would prefer to divulge no further information. Chep was later beaten to near sub consciousness when it was realized that all along I was just covering for her mistakes. That was the last time I set my eyes on her. All these happened during the holiday period. To Chep I’ll say “I may regret the way it ended but I will never regret what we had. Though we were so young, we made each other stronger”
It was now back to school time and my brother insisted that he would not carry me to school again. I was very difficult, hardy and stubborn; waking me up was slowly becoming an elephant task to him. I had to be trained on riding a bicycle on short notice and who would do it – my “army commander” dad!! Dad would not tolerate any monkey business with infants and I knew I had to play it straight. He used George’s bike to train me! My elder brother was 5 yrs my senior and obviously I couldn’t have been tall enough to fit in his bike. I had to squat below the main cross bar to reach the pedals. For the first twenty minutes, I made a lot of mistakes and I went scot free; but the subsequent minutes attracted a stroke on my behind every time I lost my balance. I got so many bruises on my knees and my eyes turned red with tears. At the end of a few hours I painfully acquired the riding knowledge. Sulking was never tolerated in the kingdom of my dad. There was a cane hidden behind the couch for any sulkers whether a child or the step mom.
Mr. Oguk was my dad’s closest friend and his son was my very best friend. We used to school together at Soy Primary School. We used to leave school together after taking our usual three packets of milk. The milk would produce very irritating sound as we walked across the Soy forest. One day, instead of heading direct to our humble abode, I decided to pay my friend a visit. I found something I was not used to in our house – a black & white television set. It was showing very nice images of actors doing their vitimbi stuff. Mama Kayayi and Ojwang’ were not very young even those days. I did the obvious – forgot about my friend, sat on the floor and watched the TV from just past mid-day to almost 8pm. There were no cartoons in the local stations those days – I guess. I was pulled from the TV room by force and escorted home by the elder sons of Oguk. We reached Vihiga after about one and a half hours. That was the day I knew my dad was not born on a Sunday. He managed to stay calm until my escort team left before showing me that hell was not far from Vihiga. No amount wailing would stop dad from inflicting the much deserved dose of discipline. He was the type that would cane until the stick was fully broken. The more I cried; the worse the canning. I decided to keep quiet and faint!! The rest is now history.
One day, dad got a telegram from mom “TERESIA OTHO BI DALA” (TERESIA DEAD COME HOME). Teresia’s expiry date had reached abruptly. In those days, there were no mobile phones. The telephone booths were scattered far apart. Mails would take like one week from Reru to Vihiga. The post guy at Reru would gather enough mails before delivering to Kombewa where they would be further forwarded Kisumu via Maseno. They’d be sorted in Kisumu before being dispatched to Eldoret then another sorting in Eldoret before reaching our box in Soy A – there was no post office in Vihiga. Telegrams were charged at five shillings per word which was dam expensive. A goat went for about one hundred and fifty shillings. For the sake of our dot com generation let me explain this further. The routine for telegrams was a bit different – the Kombewa guy would call the guy at Eldoret and read the words which would be written in capital letters on another yellow card. These telegraphic messages would be delivered on post office box. If you were a person who visits the post office daily, you’d be lucky; my daddy was such a lucky dude. Even dating was that hard and that’s why they had to use a Jagam to get a wife. A Jagam was somebody who knew somebody who knew a lady who could tolerate you as a husband. He’s the same person whom you’d run to if this woman turns out to be a night runner or a witch.
Teresia was my dad’s step mom. The last thing I remember about Teresia was that she liked kuond nyamula (yellow ugali) with omena (small fish). She also liked fermented porridge escorted sweet potatoes. At the back of my mind I said, this is a blessing in disguise. I had to hatch a plan to make me go to the funeral in the village never to return to town life. I had missed my mom and sisters so much. The last time I saw my mom was on the burial of my real grand ma, Stella, almost eighteen months prior to this blessing. I understood mom had already “bought” some two children from Nyamariko – the village mid wife. I was no longer the last born.
Yours awaiting Teresia’s burial
Odiero Jakotuol
