Shadows Unveiled

Urban Odyssey

In the early hours of dawn, the rustling in the grove hinted at hyenas scavenging for leftovers. One morning, our peaceful slumber was shattered by a sudden commotion. Papa, as was his custom, had returned home for the weekend. He had risen early, meticulously preparing for his imminent departure. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie neatly tucked, his left-parted hair exuded an air of immaculate sophistication. I often wondered if he could have displayed a six-pack under that attire. 

A group of women descended upon our homestead, their voices demanding attention for reasons I, at my tender age, could not fully comprehend. Among them stood a tall, young girl, her hands fidgeting nervously as she sulked in silence. Her pregnancy was unmistakable, her protruding belly visible beneath her modest blouse. The village elders were swiftly summoned, and an impromptu meeting convened beneath the shade of the famed Mugumo tree. 

The Mugumo fig tree holds significance as a sacred site believed to be inhabited by ancestral spirits, serving as a bridge between the spiritual realm and the living world. It is revered for offering guidance, blessings, and protection to those who seek communion with their ancestors. The details of that gathering, shrouded in solemnity and bitterness, remained an untold story, as even Mother was unaware of its nature. 

I watched from the doorway as somber discussions unfolded among the adults. Following the hour meetings' conclusion, Dad discreetly whispered instructions to Mother. She hurriedly gathered whatever clothing she could fit into two worn-out bags. We, the children, still groggy from sleep, were hastily dressed, our red-soiled shoes and tousled hair evidence of our abrupt awake. As we bid farewell to our tearful relatives, a poignant scene unfolds. My eldest brother, around three years old, struggled to lift his nine-month-old sibling, an image etched in my memory. 

Brother Jake, may his soul rest in eternal peace, was dragged along until Uncle Nthiga, Papa's stepbrother, hoisted him onto his shoulders. He escorted us to the bus stop, where someone discreetly wiped away a tear while our mother bid farewell to a couple of her close in-laws. Grandmother, a silent observer, refrained from attending the elders' meeting, an action reserved for men. With little outward emotion, she blessed our departure. 

Grandfather remained seated beneath the tree, chewing the herb he used as a toothbrush. His walking stick rested by his side, his long legs drawn close to his face as he sat on a stool, his silence unbroken. Mother's farewells seemed endless as she adjusted her headscarf. Auntie Nthua, tasked with ensuring the bus awaited our departure, beckoned from a distance. 

Only one early morning bus to town was available, returning in the evening. Missing it meant a grueling five-hour journey on foot or postponing our travel to another day. The respect accorded to those fortunate enough to secure employment in Nairobi, the bustling capital city, was nothing short of impeccable. Many were captivated by the burgeoning skyscrapers and well-paved roads, and Papa was one such individual. 

We arrived at the bus stop in time to board, waving our final goodbyes to the assembled cousins, uncles, and aunties. They stood there for a moment as the bus pulled away, a cloud of dust enveloping their figures. Mama attended to her youngest son, wiping away drool with a cloth she moistened with saliva, while Dad held me close. My eldest brother, tall enough to reach the overhead railings, gripped tightly. 

The ten-mile journey was rough and bumpy, with passengers disembarking and boarding at various stops, extending the journey's duration. Brown dust swirled through the open windows, casting a sepia hue over everyone's hair and eyelashes. Upon arrival, we dusted ourselves off and ventured into a nearby hotel for brunch. Our subsequent ride, a three-hour journey on a smooth, asphalted road in a Peugeot 505 wagon, brought us to Nairobi City. 

Our first home was a small enclave in Mbotela estate, situated on Jogoo Road, before we eventually moved to Uhuru estate phase one. I recall a place in Mbotela now called Ngiri Lane, which I assumed was named after Papa. In Uhuru phase two, I can vividly picture myself seated on a hill, playing with the dark clay soil.

There, a hole served as a makeshift home for what I might have called a pet. It would coil around my neck and tickle me as I giggled. I ventured out daily in search of the snake from that hole, oblivious to the potential danger, until Mama discovered me and swiftly rescued me from the scene. From that day forward, she never let me out of her sight. 

I joined her in the kitchen, where she acquired a small stepping stool to help me reach the tap, a step toward my journey to womanhood at the tender age of three. Unlike many, I cannot pinpoint any specific individuals who played a significant role in keeping me on an even keel during those early years. However, I harbored a deep love for cooking, dishwashing,and cleaning, innate traits that would somehow shape my future.