My father died when he was 85 years old. He would recount his experience growing up as an only child, his mother having been the first wife of Mugo, son of Nderi. His father, Mugo, was considered to be wealthy enough to support his three wives and other sons and daughters. As the only child, he had to rely on his stepsister to bring in dowry so that he could use it for his own marriage. He told us that his father loved him so much that he assigned one of his second wife’s daughters to be the one to bring dowry for him. When his stepsister was married, the dowry given to his father was used to pay dowry for his own wife. He was grateful for his stepsister, so much so that his love for her was evident until his death. She outlived him.
He told us stories about why he joined mweretho, young men’s dancing, to keep him somewhat busy as he waited for his stepsister to get married. His mother was worried that he was consumed by dancing, and that he seemed to have forgotten about marriage. However, at the time, he reveled in his peers’ praise as he was considered the dancer, and as fate would have it, he met his wife, Wanjiku, in the dancing group. My grandmother was elated that my father finally married, and she ended up living next to us as we grew up. She would be our babysitter when our mother was busy carrying out her daily chores.
When they got their first child, a boy, they named him after my grandfather in accordance with Gīkūyū naming traditions. Soon after, he enlisted to fight in WWII and had to leave his wife and baby behind. When he came back from the war, he was reunited with his family, and he became a Christian. He chose the name Joseph after his baptism, an European name he loved so much because it sounded better than his Gīkūyū name, Mwaniki. I am the second born son, and following the naming tradition, I was named Mūthoniwa, my maternal grandfather’s name.
As I grew up, my father would often tell me that I was the only seed he brought from war. I had no idea what that meant since I have younger siblings, but now that I understand the nature of war, I know that some died during the war and others were unable to sire children because of the injuries they sustained during the war. After returning from WWII, my father got a janitorial job in Nairobi, in Aga Khan Army Hospital. Due to his friendly nature, he was often gifted items such as secondhand jackets, shoes, and socks.
When the Mau Mau War for independence in Kenya broke out, my father was detained. After his release, he recounted stories of how they were treated in the detention center. The detainees were given a single blanket, which they wore during the day, and then used them at night when they slept on the cold cement floor. The pair of shorts my dad had while in detention was patched up so many times with materials of different colors that its original color was indistinguishable. On certain days, they were beaten badly by the guards in the center, and with no escape, all they could do was cover their heads. They lived on ugali (staple food made with maize flour and water), which on most occasions would leave them constipated for days.
After his release, he found out that his step-brothers had gotten shares of land during the land demarcation process, but had failed to include him in the division process. Instead of trying to fight for his fair share of the land, my father decided to head back to Nairobi for work, where he found that his roommates had kept his belongings safe. My father later joined Kangaita society, whose members were planning to buy Gīthūci farm (George Farm) in Nanyuki. My father was looking forward to settling his family in Nanyuki. My father would always visit us in Nanyuki wearing a starched army jacket, well ironed shirts and pants, and his shoes would always be polished to a shine. His hair was always well-combed, and I always thought he was the best dressed man in the village.
By the time he retired, all his children were adults, and two had married. He would find time to bond with his sons, and he would tell us about how his step brothers called us the bird eaters because we mainly ate chickens while they raised goats and cows, frequently eating beef and goat meat. In the Nanyuki farm, my father raised livestock, and he would slaughter goats whenever all his children were home, and during celebrations. He also brewed his own beer in a small container, which he was eager to share with his sons. Whenever I would visit him without notice, he made sure to tell me, “Son, let me know when you are coming home so that I can make some beer we share.”
George Farm was a new settlement, and no churches had been established in the area. When my brother became a minister in the Presbyterian Church of East Africa, he was able to get our parents and some of our family members to join the church. My father chose to be a born again Christian, and together with the pastor and the church, he burned the items he used to brew his beer, including the old container. By then he was old, and he was served the Holy Communion at home. His faith in God remained strong since then.
On one occasion, my father summoned his sons, and told, “I want you all to know this land is for my wife, your mother, and she keeps the title deed. She is the one controlling it. I do not want you to ask her for her title deed when I am not here. Do you get it? This land belongs to your mother. It is not for sale. It is a nursery where you grow up and then you leave to create your own prosperity. If you leave and miss home, come back and grow. I bless your hands to work and prosper.” He died a week later.
His health began deteriorating progressively in the 80s. He underwent surgery on his left eye in Kikuyu Hospital at Thogoto, but his vision remained poor. He had subsequent surgery to his right eye, but he maintained that there was no improvement to his eyesight. The eye problems caused him incessant headaches, but he refused further surgery and instead opted for pain management. One of our relatives was a doctor, so she took up the role of helping my father manage his pain.
After he died, my family had to reach me urgently with the news. Telephones were rare at the time and were mostly found in government offices. In the village, there was one neighbor with a phone, which he had procured after buying the house formerly owned by a white man. The house was half an hour away from my parents’ farm. Finally, they were able to call my manager’s office, and the news was relayed to me. I immediately applied for a few days’ work leave, and I took an advance on my salary to pay for fare. I made my way to Nanyuki and proceeded to Kerogüya to relay the message to my father’s stepsiblings before making my way home to Nanyuki. He was buried in his land in Gitūchu farm, Nanyuki.