This is a story about a mountain father. The one who’d wake you up in the wee hours of the morning on coffee picking days. The one who also ensured that he paid school fees so you wouldn’t be sent home for non payment. And on the slight chance that you were sent home he’d not let you get to the kitchen in search of Gatubia, he was like, ‘cokai mūmwīre ninjūkite.’ Then when you thought you’d be able to pick some oranges on your way back he’d already picked his mūkwanjū and hat and was right behind you so you’d have to jump out of the tree and run of stick. You don’t want him getting to school before you. The consequences would be dire.
This same guy bought several cows to ensure that we had access to the best nutrients from the white liquid now costing an arm and a leg. He had plenty of beehives that ensured our immunity was always top notch. He’s the same one who’d come carrying a kg of meat from Kīngūkus butchery when he visited Kīangararū for the coffee payouts. Did I mention the numerous chickens and how we lay in wait for them to lay eggs. No sooner had the hen laid the egg than the egg was in the boiling githeri. On Christmas he went out of his way to secure a ram for slaughter.
We’d also get to steal his bicycle and attempt to learn how to cycle when he was away. Too bad we mostly ended up damaging it than learning. I vividly recall when he was doing some painting as he sang, ‘cha kutumaini sina Ila damu take Yesu.’ You know that thing about men not being able to multitask? He’d get so engrossed in his painting and then after like five minutes he’d remember he was singing and you’d hear, ‘sina wema wa kutosha dhambi zangu kuziosha.’
I can clearly say that he was the epitome of provision, a strict disciplinarian and a man of good judgement. I guess all I can say is happy posthumous Father’s Day. I wouldn’t trade you for another father in this life of after.
#StillTheChronicler.
Fathers
