Memories of an African Childhood (0-11 years)

Memories of an African Childhood (0-11 years)

In Bloggers, I wrote my Bio as “I was born in an African village, where piped water, electricity, tarmac roads, TV and newspapers were non existent. People prayed when they got sick because hospitals were unheard of. Saw tarmac, watched TV, worn shoes, saw an electric bulb at 14 when I was joining high school. Now am in the city of Nairobi! What a long journey!’’

This account is true.

It prompted one blogger named Jill Wellington to inbox me thus, “Hunksam( I am not a hunk, but that is my username in that site)...I would love to read more about your fascinating childhood on your blog!” (I am not sure whether it was a fascinating childhood to me but maybe it can make a fascinating read to others)

I promised her to write my childhood memories growing up in a Kenyan village( I am tempted to use the oft-used term ‘tiny village’ but all villages in that part of the world are tiny, a village is defined by the number of people who draw water in a common spring, the boundaries are not clear nor well defined)

So, I will spend the next few weeks recounting to you my hazy past. As an African child, the father figure is the most important part of the family; I will naturally (culturally, traditionally, ‘legally’) start with him, if I had an option maybe my mom would have taken this slot but no, it has to be my dad.

My Dad

My dad is called David Kibii Barusei. (David maybe because he is as tiny as David of the bible minus all the other attributes. I heard from my mom that he is a baptized Roman Catholic, I haven’t ever seen him go to church, I don’t know whether David is his baptismal name either. You might be surprised that I don’t know but in our culture, it is a taboo to call your dad by his names, he is simply ‘dad’.  The middle name Kibii is a Kipsigis name that means someone born outside the house, I don’t know the circumstances of his birth but obviously, he wasn’t born in a hospital. It is a complete abomination to call your father by this name. Never heard of anybody who has ever broken this cardinal rule. It is associated with ‘boyishness’ and it is officially shed upon circumcision. I have never ever mentioned this name before. Last wrote it when I was applying my ID card. This is the second and possibly the last. The third name Barusei means son of a man with lotsa grey colored bulls, you can say this name somewhere else but not when he is listening.)

I don’t know his age and neither does he. Births and deaths are hardly recorded here. Think he is in his mid 50s. He is the third born in a family of eight with many other step brothers and sisters. (My grandpa was married to six wives, knowing the number of my uncles and aunties is an uphill task)

He is a high school drop-out. He is a bit literate and losing it very fast. Don’t know whether it is the drink, he is an alcoholic, or what. He blames his bad sight on the drink. I owe my ‘birthday’ to his literacy, I discovered while in high school my birth date in one of his diaries. So I started celebrating my birthdays later in life.

He married my mom in a traditional wedding when he was in class three ( could be fun going to school with a belly full of your wife’s cookings. There are no pics of their wedding because those weddings are very very secretive, somebody told me there is sex involved, I am not sure)

Barusei, as he is popularly known in the village is a retired mason. He has nothing to show for it though( and he didn't build any stone house as his home). Apart from the pictures that is. He built, with a group he belonged to, many Catholic churches and Catholic sponsored schools.

I rarely saw him on account of this. I don’t remember much about him when I was growing up. He was rarely at home. Maybe once or twice a year. I am not sure whether I loved him. He was so strict. He never wanted us to play football with other kids or own a ball for that matter. He never allowed toys too. I never talked with him. He was a dreaded figure when he visited. He brought us bread whenever he visited and we looked forward to his coming and dreaded it at the same time (bread was a rare commodity those days, we would show off in school by covering our books with its wrappings). He never beat us but again he was so distant. He didn’t particularly like me. Maybe I was lazy. I don’t know. I remember a nite he threw me out of the house. It might have happened often, can’t remember well.

He drank often and smoked sometimes. He sniffs snuff to date. He must have gone out with the girls as attested to by the pics he brought home when he retired. That could be the reason why he was not in talking terms with my mom. I heard he fathered a child with another woman but the child died.

I don’t remember him buying us clothes or books. (I was never bought a textbook in all my school life but remember him buying my elder sis a story book titled ‘Truphena the Student Nurse’)

My dad never missed home on Christmas, we enjoyed it together. Eating pancakes, rice and goat meat and drinking beer (rice and pancake making a rare showing on the table on Christmas and New Year ONLY). Neighbors and relatives were always invited. My mom used to make traditional brews that people sipped from a pot dug on the ground with straw pipes. My many uncles will fight often after drinking too much.

He often fought with his brother and step brothers. He was arrested several times on account of this and jailed once. Remember him coming home at night with a rain coat after the end of his jail term.( think he was behind bars for six months or something)

My dad and mom had a lot of domestic rows and he battered my mom at times when drunk. My mom will take us occasionally to our maternal grandpa when it was unbearable. He could send my mom packing in the middle of the night. My mom once told me she will hang herself in a tree that was visible from our house. I was distraught for I loved my mom so much mainly because she loved me and also partly because my dad did not particularly liked me.

My dad is a quiet man. I love him. He is drinking bootleg in some shacks in a hill called Takitech now. I am sure.

Tomorrow I write about my mom.