As a young boy in the village known as Jumbi, I have vague memories of a small pink card that made my mother smile like I had never seen her smile. Anyone who knew my mother would be taken aback by such a herculean task knowing just how easy it was for my mother to smile. She was both a comedian and an accomplished smiler, if ever there was such a thing.
This was around October in 1973 and my mother had just returned from the annual national Agricultural Show helded in the capital city of Nairobi. In those days, it took a whole day and then some just to cover the 72 mile distance in the only bus that travelled the route. I remember my mother waking everybody up on the day she was traveling. I could not remember my family waking up earlier than that before. One of my brothers had to take some of the food bags to the road and keep watch, other members of the family had to warm up some food and help package it to send with my mother and her friends who were accompanying her to the city. Other members had to help start the fire to warm the water and milk the cow, so that my mother could take some fresh milk for a family in the city. It was a hectic morning.
The bus could be heard from miles away. In a silent village such as ours, young children could recognize a vehicle from miles off, just from its horn or sound of the engine. There were so few cars in the whole region that young people would memorize all the number plates, make and model of all the vehicles within a ten to fifteen mile radius. It was such a big affair for a village member to go to Nairobi that my brother had been dispatched to some of the neighboring families to alert them that my mother would be traveling. It was an opportunity for those family members and neighbors to send letters or messages to their relatives in the city. Such an announcement also brought its own demands. Some family members who were not literate would ask the literate members of the community to write letters on their behalf. Such occurrences were followed by a hefty evening of gossip, as those literate members of the community would now know some of the problems that were going on at a domestic level.
Once the bus was within an earshot, the whole family accompanied my mother to the road and waited for the bus to arrive.The bus arrived and the family helped the loud bus attendant to load the bags of food destined for the city. I later learned that the bus driver would drive for about 15 miles and decide that he was too tired to drive. He would park the bus at the next shopping center and then walk into a bar and order himself a few rounds of beer, all while the travelers waited patiently in the bus. The driver of a bus was a very important person and a celebrity in the village in those days. Whenever we would play with other children, it was not unusual for some of us to impersonate the characters of bus drivers. Movie stars and celebrities were very local in those days; nowadays American celebrities are household names even in the village . No one would dare question the driver, lest he get upset and throw the keys at them and demand that they drive themselves to the destination. Luckily, the travelers were mostly people who knew each other very well and had loads of food to eat. It was a great opportunity for folks to catch up with each other.
When I came to the U.S and got quite familiar with the concept of vacation, I wondered why people in my village never took any time to go on vacation. I am now more familiar with the whole cultural difference but if I did not know better, I could use the experience of travel as an example of how small things could have the same value as taking a long excursion to some remote place. Consider for a moment that the same driver who would take two hours breaks would return to the bus and to the cheers of the same passengers who had been waiting patiently. It was not uncommon for the passengers to sing songs of praise for the driver. Whenever the bus would come to a bridge, the passengers would alight and then allow the kamikaze driver to risk his own life by driving the bus across a bridge whose viability was questionable.
But the most famous spot on the whole journey was Kanjama. It was the steepest hill in the region. The spot has been immortalized in famous songs by the biggest musical legend from the region. The was little doubt that whoever was asleep was would be woken up by others seating nearby. The whole climb of the hill was a spectacle. Each bus had a garget, sometimes as simple as a rock that was carried in the bus. The bus attend would get out of the bus at the bottom of the hill and follow the bus as it went up the hill. If the bus just paused a bit as the driver was chaining the gears, the bus attendant would place the rock behind the back tire to keep the bus from rolling backwards. The passengers would be busy singing at full throttle, mostly encouraging the driver and his attendant to deliver the multitude from the tribulation at hand. It was a time of great joy whenever the bus made it to the top of the hill. Many would have sworn that the driver was the best driver that ever lived. From there, it was smooth sailing to what the locals called “Kiamatawa” or literally the place of light. It was called that as it was the only place with electricity and street lights.
I would imagine that the trip back could not have been any different. The hill that made the toughest spot on the first leg of the trip would still be a nightmare on the return leg. More accidents had happened on the downhill drive than uphill drive.
My mother was gone for a few days and must have attended the whole agricultural show over the four days. She also spent a few days with my father, who had a business in the city. Upon her return, she brought many goodies from the city, the favorite of children my age being biscuits. I was too preoccupied with eating the biscuits and playing with a toy of a wooden carving of a Maasai warrior to pay attention to much else. Now that I think about it, jumping up and down is a universal way of celebration. “Ouch” is the universal language mishap.
From all the activities that were going on I still managed to gather that my mother was most excited about a small pink card. The whole family huddled together as one of my sisters read the message it carried. You could have thought that she was a judge reading out the judgement for a capital offense. Whatever, the verdict, it could not have been that bad. Everyone was overjoyed to the point of jumping up and down just like the Maasai people do in their dance. The idea of hugs had not yet been incorporated into the culture in our village. But, my mother was the one who appeared to be most joyous.
I was not in the least bothered with the festive family. I was busy enjoying biscuits and candy that my mother had bought for her youngest son. My mother walked into the house with the card she had been holding and filed it somewhere. When she returned, she entertained the family with the adventures of the trip and updates about my father. Then the next day started just like any other and that was the last I have ever heard about the trip or the pink card. That is until this year when my oldest sister sent me a picture of the card below. I could not believe my eyes. It was the pink card from back in 1973 and it clearly indicated that my mother had won first place in a national competition at the Agricultural show of Kenya for being the best farmer in a particular class. Like a stream of a mighty river, my memories went back into the recess of my mind and brought back the memories of the card.
It occurred to me that farming is not just something I like to do but it is something in my blood. As I close one of the toughest years of my life. I am glad to announce that I am opening the Thayu Food Literacy & Sustainability Centre at one of my mother’s farms. IShe might not have been literate about books, but she was literate about food. That is the message that will be advanced by the center. The food that will be grown and the message that will be carried will be about a profit to the soul and the food system. I am carrying on her legacy and turning my memories of the pink card, and what it represented to her into black for profit. Black is the signifying color for profit. It is probably the few positive references of the color black. Our goal is to make the small Food Literacy & Sustainability Centre a positive force for the community and broader world through its impact. Our focus is food as a medium for liberation, sustainability and empowerment. Join us and find out how you can be part of our mission.