Finding Purpose

He stands with the quiet dignity of his seventy-five years, eyes glazed with unshed tears as his son’s F-5 fighter jet screeches across the clear blue skies of this small village. Within the fleeting seconds in which all eyes are glued upwards, hands covering the ears, the jet is done “saluting” him and is cruising northwards back to the air base. For this family's Independence Day in June, 2001, this is a double celebration of the national holiday as well as the family heroes, Muhia and his son Captain Kamiti of the Kenya Air Force. Having just participated in the official fly-past ceremony in Nairobi, this annual ritual is Kamiti’s way of honouring his father’s role in fighting for the country’s liberation. Today’s history books call it the Mau Mau rebellion from 1952 to 1960, Africa’s first war of independence. In daring to take on the might of the British empire, it would later inspire others like Nelson Mandela to fight for their own countries' freedom.

“But father... I would not be flying jets in the air force were it not for your sacrifice. We would not be free. For this I promise you... every Madaraka Day, when we’re done honouring the President in Nairobi, I will always fly past here to salute you.”

These words, spoken with such sincerity and passion, stir his heart with deep raw emotions. Emotions of immense love and gratitude, but also of the pain of remembering. But today is that special day again and he consciously tries not to dwell on the horrors from fifty years ago, horrors he hoped would gradually fade with time. Memories though, have an energy and power of their own. He has learned to accept and honour them. And so, as the younger men roast the goat meat and the women prepare the rest, he walks silently through the verdant ridge.

The stunning tapestry of green-hued crops shimmering and swaying gently in the warm mid-morning soothes his spirit. The mature banana plants, stooping from the weight of the ripening fruit soon give way to plots of sweet potatoes, pumpkins, millet and sorghum. Soon, his attention is caught by sounds of brawling coming from the fenced paddock where the family’s cows and goats are grazing. Heading that way, he recognizes the familiar boisterousness of his adolescent grandsons. Smiling inwardly, he secretly listens to their annual ritual of determining who amongst them will fly jets like Kamiti. The animals look on, unfazed.

You cannot be like him… you’re too dumb and are always last in class!” retorts one harshly before fists start flying. It takes a stern look and wagging finger from their grandfather to stop them dead in their tracks. The tantalizing aroma of the barbecuing meat, sizzling on the embers back home provides another reason to scamper. As he gingerly eases his frail frame under the canopy of the sacred Mugumo tree, the animals take a break from their foraging and peer intently at him.

As if on cue, the memories come flooding back, unwilling to be shackled any longer. In this vivid flashback, he lives in the same village and is twenty-five years old or thereabouts. It is hard to know for sure because there is no registration of births for “natives”. Rumours about a movement to fight for freedom and the return of stolen lands have been circulating for many seasons. Recently, some of his age-mates have simply vanished from the village. They are all known to him, as friends bonded for life in the forest clearings where they underwent the mandatory rite of passage into adulthood. Word has it that they have joined the training camps of the Land and Freedom Army, perched high up in the mists of Mount Kenya and the Aberdare range. 

“What about me… should I not join them? Did we not learn that it is our riika – our generation of young men who would be relied on to defend and protect the interests of the community?” 

But more than duty, it is a sense of adventure which stirs his young heart, with a longing to escape the confines of his tradition-assigned role. He longs to engage in the exploits of his peers. One of the exciting whispered rumours to reach his ears is that some from the older riika fought in far distant lands for the white man. And that the experience opened their eyes and made them question why they were not instead fighting for their own freedom. At his age though, Muhia is well aware just how much his widowed mother depends on him as her only son. In his absence, who would do the heavy digging in the fallow field, chop up the logs for firewood and keep the livestock safe from straying leopards and hyenas?

Soon, even more alarming news reach the dwellers of this small hamlet by the forest border. The colonial government has declared something called a “State of Emergency”, whose meaning no-one actually seems to know. But the intense panic it has triggered is palpable, with reports that suspected members and sympathizers of the Kenya Land and Freedom Army are being hunted down throughout the country. Worse, it is Kikuyu males like him, believed to be the bedrock of the liberation movement, who are the main targets for detention and torture in prisons like Kamiti and Manyani.

In Nairobi, his age-mates dare not venture outdoors anymore. Those attempting to flee back to their rural homes have to display their Kipande, an identity document hanging around their necks in a small tin container. At ubiquitous checkpoints, their Kikuyu ethnic is easily identifiable from their names. Swift accusation of being “hardcore” Mau Mau members then follows. Many are never heard from again.

Such a fate has recently befallen Mugo, his maternal cousin whose family lives on the steeper side of the ridge. As children, they spent thrilling hours catapulting small stones at swarming weaver birds with limited success. Yesterday in the forest, Muhia obtained some fragments of what transpired from his aunt as she gathered some dry twigs to cook the evening meal. With a slow gait, she suddenly seemed much older, the raw pain in her voice clearly evident. As if fearing the shadows cast by the swaying canopy of trees above them, her eyes constantly darted in every direction. As she narrated in a low hesitant tone, he carefully arranged the firewood into a pile above the banana-fibre rope she had laid on the ground.

“We never even got a chance to see his body… to bury him here where he belongs”. Many unanswered questions vexed his mind, but he sensed that she simply needed to talk.

“They saw his Kipande… and said because his tribe is Kikuyu, he’s Mau Mau and must have taken the oath”. Exhausted and drained of the strength to keep standing, she slowly perched herself atop the pile of firewood.

“They sent the chief to inform us that he is no more… that he was shot while trying to escape.” Her eyes appeared vacant, emotionless, with a far-away look. A long pregnant silence followed.

Finally, the trance-like moments are over and with a grim determined air, she expertly fastened the rope round the firewood and heaved it on her back. As we emerged into the open pathway, the gentle rays from the crimson sun setting behind Mount Kenya, cast a hypnotizing beauty on the tiny village below.

Back home, in the stillness of his thingira – a thatched hut bachelor pad, sleep eludes him. He must now make the most momentous decision of his life. For the bitter truth is that as a young Kikuyu man, life has suddenly become precarious. There is no doubt in his mind that it is simply a matter of time before he too is rounded up.

“When this day comes, will I choose to die on my knees begging for mercy, or on my feet fighting to liberate our country?”

The answer, when it comes, is as clear as the highland streams traversing his village. On this cloudless night, the full moon nods in silence by illuminating the familiar path back to the forest.