Grace’s Story – PART I

In the 18th century, the changes experienced in Kenya, as well as the world, trickled down to my own family. My parents were both last born in their families, and their parents, my grandparents, unable to pay their taxes, so they stopped working on their farm. To earn a living and afford the fees, they moved from their clan land in central Kenya to Rift Valley to work in a White (mzungu) settler’s farm (shamba). When a new law passed, they moved back home but chose to live in a different location to avoid signing and accepting the doctrine. The currency system introduced and bartering in markets came to an end.

At the time, birthdays were recorded by referencing specific events and were witnessed by relatives, the chief, and neighbors—my birthday marked by World War II (WWII). I was born in June 1943 in Tumutumu Missionary Hospital in Nyeri district and grew up in a colonial farm (shamba) in Rift Valley. In my family, activities Monday to Saturday. My mother worked in bibi’s (white’s wife) flower garden. On Sunday, families did their things. Work on land allocated to each squatter to plant trees for the mzungu, where they were also allowed to grow our food crops during the five years the trees took to develop. However, the trees got more exceptional care compared to the food crops. The owner of the yard was mandated to report any damaged tree to ‘msimamizi’ (supervisor) for replaced. The farmer fined for the broken tree. In the fourth year, farmers or squatters received a new portion of virgin land to prepare it for the next phase of tree planting in the sixth year. This cycle continued until all the natural area in the thousands of acres was filled with new tree plantations for the mzungu.

Sunday was my favorite day, andI always joined my mother when she walked to the market in Warubaga (Elburgon). We would take a taxi (gali ya abilia or ‘tegithi’), a small bus-like vehicle, to the market or we would walk if we had no money to pay for a taxi. I loved walking rather than traveling on a bus.  The exhaust fumes from the taxi would upset my stomach, and I would puke at the end of the journey, making me uncomfortable. Walking took longer and gave me more leisure time as we walked in a group. I would carry a small bag of castor seeds on my back while my mother carried ‘njahi,’ beans, eggs, and some other things in a big basket on her back. She made her living selling garden produce at the market, and by working in the mzungu’s flower garden. I collected castor oil seeds and sell them at the market, made a ten-cent coin, which had a hole in the center. Used the money to buy a piece of sugarcane measuring, a one and a half feet. Not willing to wait until I got home, I would peel the sugarcane with my teeth and eat it as we walked back home. With no candies or sweets to indulge my sweet tooth, sugarcane became my favorite sugary treat. I still remember the taste of sugarcane, and I always buy it from the street vendors or stores whenever I see it.