Chapter One
I came to life in a world carved out of bare earth. Our grass-thatched, dirt-floor, circular mud huts melded into the landscape like ant mounts on the savannah. Most pieces of furniture in the hut were barely a step removed from their natural state of existence. Timeless volcanic rocks, arranged in a triangle, formed the hearth, where the ambience of domesticated fire connected the living to their departed ancestors. Around this fiery altar, our forebears’ palpable presence felt like a mere stretch of hands across the flaming embers.
The fireplace was at the center of the hut. Above it was theitara, a loft where firewood was dried and stored. The interior décor in every hut included the ubiquitous traditionaljungwa, three-legged stools carved from tree trunks. When metal nails found their way to our village, however, thejungwa gave way to comfort and convenience. A new type of chair with back-support appealed to the aging, even though misplaced nails occasionally launched old bones into anguished flight. Low, short benches were pieced together to seat several children, allowing parents of meager means the privilege of reproducing without the hassle of scavenging for additional seating.
Beds were equally simple. They were made of a wooden frame, with crisscrossed rubber bands forming the central support. Fortunately, the mud walls and thatched roofs were impenetrable to exterior weather; otherwise, our threadbare blankets and thin mattresses would have been woefully inadequate for warmth. They offered refuge to both humans and bedbugs. When an infestation grew unbearable, the beddings were hand washed and laid outside in the sun to dry, while tribesmen sprayed the bed frames with pesticides (usually Malathion) without the slightest awareness that vulnerable humans, too, could be harmed by these chemicals. For a few days afterwards, the garlic-like smell of this pesticide would follow us to our dreams.
Our cooking pots (nyungu) were molded from clay, although later we’d have “modern” aluminum cookware. We mostly ate with our bare hands from bowls made from calabash (kihuri), the gentle heat of the food warming the fingertips as they scooped up mashed potatoes, maize, and beans. But all around us, a glacial but sustained incursion was gradually altering the ancient balance of life. Like everywhere else on the planet, the march of technology subtly disrupted the intimate connection between man and nature. Eventually, the harshness of stainless steel would accompany each morsel to the tongue. Not everyone in the village was eager to embark on this expedition to modernity, but the radical hold-outs who insisted on clinging to the primal past risked falling into the disreputable company of night-runners and witches.
Still, the business of life carried on at an unhurried pace. During the wet season, the rains fell on our thatched roofs soundlessly, quenching the thirst of parched earth. As the inviting scent of rain perfused the air, we converged around the fire to listen to ageless tribal folklore.
“Once upon a time,” Grandma’s voice rose above the flames, “there was a terrible drought. All the animals were haunted by an endless famine. The hyena roamed everywhere searching for food, but the ravenous drought had even consumed the carcasses. He knew his days were numbered when his empty stomach begun to rub against his spine. Out of despair, he turned toKirinyaga (Mount Kenya) and cried toNgai (God) with a solemn supplication.Thaai thathaiya Ngaithaai! he pleaded. Suddenly, Ngai answered his prayers with a fat calf tied to a tree.Wait a minute, hyena said to himself,why was I wasting my time beggingNgai for food while all I had to do wasopen my eyes to the tethered calf right next tome? He turned his gaze to Ki
