Until the Cows Come Home

On this day: January 18th, 1957 I was born and raised in Itibo, a small village about 30 kilometres from Kisii town. One of my favourite things about Itibo is the spectacular sunrise we are treated to every morning. The hilly landscape provides the perfect hideout for the sun to emerge and charm us daily, like a magic trick that never gets old.The land is equally spectacular with tall eucalyptus trees punctuating vast tea plantations in the area. Itibo is like paradise to me. Well, almost like paradise. There are a few reasons it doesn't quite qualify to be one. No paradise has unwelcome guests. Unfortunately for us, we had the best, borderline professional, unwelcome guests: The British.

British soldiers harassing the locals was common place throughout colonization. 

I don’t have the greatest memory in the world, but some of the events that occurred during the colonial era in Kenya are impossible to forget. They are stained on the back of my head, never to leave. On this particular day, I woke up at about 5am. My father was a farmer. Anyone who has lived or worked in a farm before will tell you the benefits of starting your day as early as possible. Successful farming is dependent on routine and repetition. However, as I woke up to start my chores, I had no idea that this day was going to be everything but routine. If I knew what lay ahead, I would probably have delayed jumping out of bed with such enthusiasm. There wasn’t much to be enthusiastic about anyway in these parts, given the presence and proximity of our “unwelcome guests”. But every human being needs hope, regardless of their circumstance. Sometimes this hope can be manufactured and perhaps improbable. But it is hope nonetheless. My father owned a small herd of cows and about half a dozen goats. Caring for these animals everyday before or after school, gave me a sense of hope. As a black native, property of any kind was hard to come by given the zeal the British had for other people's resources. I might have been only nine years old, but even I understood there was no empowerment without some form of wealth. My father always emphasized this to my siblings and I from a very young age. I therefore cherished every moment I could contribute to the family in any way possible. This day was no different. My scrawny little hands tucked the heavy, copper milking bucket under my arm and I made my way to the cow shed. My toes were wet as I strolled bare feet across the dew-covered field, occasionally craning my neck upwards to admire the sunrise. I raised one hand in salutation as I walked passed my father who was having a chat with my older sister. He was in quite a cheery mood which wasn’t always the case. I said hello to my sister as well, both of us oblivious of what was going to happen our father in just a few hours. Thirty minutes later, I had milked the cows and was now chomping down my breakfast quickly so I could start my day. My mother usually prepared a “care package” for me because once I left the house, I typically would not return until dusk. My care package on this day was some sweet potatoes, porridge and a flask of water. I would go herd the cows close to the Charachani river which was about 7 kilometers from our homestead. Sometimes my brother would accompany me but on this particular day, he was helping out someone else: Mr. David Wilkins Fletcher. Fletcher was a white missionary who lived across the road from my house. He was mostly pleasant at first, but we soon came to learn the missionaries were no different from their fellow countrymen. The adults had nicknamed him 'Nyangaresi', which loosely translates to "the brutal one". One day our cows entered the mission compound, thanks to my divided attention as I played football with my brothers. Fletcher, took a rope and tied the cows to an anchor on the ground. He was “detaining” the cows and imposed a fine of fifteen shillings to secure their release. Problem: we did not have an income then, except the nine shillings that came from Fletcher himself, in exchange for milk delivered on a daily basis. He knew quite well that the cows he had imposed a fine on us for trespassing, were the same cows that catered for his daily milk consumption. When we failed to pay the fine, he suggested a “compromise”: we were to deliver 3 litres of milk every day for a month, at no cost to him. This was the same man preaching forgiveness every Sunday at the local church they had constructed. Go figure. I gathered the cows myself and began the trek to the river. When my thoughts were not occupying me, I would play some games to pass time. I would try and see how many grasshoppers or crickets I could catch in an hour and then set them free and do it all over again. Absolutely pulsating stuff. I can’t remember if I broke my record on this particular day, but it was 5PM before long. Time to head back to my father’s house. This was when the chaos ensued.

Kisii is to this day a fertile land with farming being the main economic activity for most residents

I was quite close to home now, I had just gone past the market close to our home. The cows were making their way slowly across the murram road. Then out of nowhere, I heard a loud honk. I turned around to see the big, green land rover that was all too familiar for all of us. The cows were blocking the road as they made their way across, leaving no room for the car to pass. It was the D.O’s car. The D.O(District Officer) was a colonial government official who represented the British colonial government in deep rural administrative units in pre-independent Kenya. My whole body went numb. He was staring right at me, arms folded across his massive chest. He did not say a word for what seemed like ages. He yelled something inaudible as his face instantaneously turned bright red. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. As his arms unfolded from his chest, my instinct kicked in. I was not sure whether he was reaching for the gun that was holstered to his belt, but I couldn’t afford to wait to find out. I made a run for it. He left the side of his car and promptly followed in pursuit. I started running like my life depended on it. And it probably did. There was a maize plantation right next to the road so I sprinted in that direction. He was significantly faster than me so I was running in a zig-zag pattern as fast as I could hoping to cause him to lose his balance. He followed me right through the maize plantation and by now he was close enough that I could hear his words as his angry voice screamed expletives at me. My heart was racing faster than I thought possible. I started screaming at the top of my voice and that seemed to annoy him even more. I jumped across the fence that was on the other side of the maize field and made a run towards a small forest that was nearby. My brothers and I knew this area like the back of our hands. Our boyhood adventures had taken us pretty much everywhere around Itibo. The thin eucalyptus trees were very close to each other and this gave me a slight advantage as my slight frame allowed me to maneuver a little easier. Or so I thought. I stole a quick glance backwards. He had closed down the gap to just a few metres. I was ready to say my last prayers. My mother had probably whispered a prayer on my behalf earlier that morning, as she tended to do. That’s because what happened next probably saved my life. He stretched out his hand and swung it firmly downwards, fingers pronged out to grab me by my shirt. In one quick movement, I arched my back inwards to evade his strong grip, and reached out to grasp a tree. I used it as a pivot to swivel my body and turned sharply to the left. I like to think my time chasing and hunting grasshoppers was responsible for my agility that certainly came in handy here. He lost his balance and came down crashing hard, on to the forest floor. He got a mouthful of the fertile Itibo loam soil for his efforts. I escaped. Defeated, the D.O made his way back to his car dusting himself off as he muttered angrily under his breath. He immediately went to the area sub-chief to find out who owned the cows that had caused him such untold discomfort. After a short while, he was given a description that fitted the culprit: my father. The very next day, the D.O, accompanied by about 10 heavily armed colonial police stormed our house and arrested our father. They handcuffed him and took him to the D.O’s office, about 20 kms away. The D.O decided to impose a fine of one hundred and fifty shillings to secure his release. We were in big trouble. No one wanted to say it, but we all knew what we were thinking. A decade prior, my grandfather had also been arrested by the British. His crime: educating the local community on the importance of traditional religion. Clearly interfering with Mr. Fletcher’s great efforts of preaching the teachings of Christ. My grandfather was taken to Kodiaga Prison in Kisumu. He was never seen again. I am sure as my father sat isolated on the cold floor of his crowded prison cell, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would suffer the same fate as his own father.

Colonial police checking the documents of two Kenyan citizens during the emergency period in the 1950s

He was held for two days as we scrambled to raise the steep fine that had been set. Each passing hour drove my anxiety to a new level. The tension in our house was palpable. Uncles and aunties were all in and out of our house, drawing up plans to rescue my father. The guilt I was feeling was certainly not helping the situation. I felt responsible for what had happened. No one said that to me, but I was certain they were thinking it too. Our family was in no position to deal with yet another significant loss. We had no choice but to sell some of our cows to raise enough money for his release. Where is Gofundme when you need it, right? He was thankfully released after we made the payment. The feeling of relief was definitely there. But the overriding emotion was of anger and frustration. The injustice of it all is a scar I carry to this day. A lot of what ifs run through my mind every time my mind reflects back on this day, and many others. In the decades that followed, my brothers and I attempted to get some sort of compensation but with no success. Any hope of this, even in this day, might be dependent on the involvement of the Kenyan government. However, everyone knows, if you are looking to get assistance from the Kenyan government for this sort of thing, you could be waiting until the cows come home, no pun intended.