I put alot of thought in the design of our farm in my ancestral home in the village of Gathingira, Murang’a Country. It is the place I spent my early childhood and almost all my school holidays during the two decades of my life. My parent’s farm has since been divided between my two brothers and I. It would have been hard for me to choose which third of the farm was my favorite, assuming that I had that option. There two particular areas that were both almost equally special and close to my heart.
The first was an area I spent many afternoons in grazing our cows, especially Kamore, they cow that was so loved by the family that when its daughter died, there was double mourning in the family as it was the last in the lineage of Kamore.
I was fond of that area which was referred to as the Rocky zone or Mahigainí. The name referred to the volcanic rocks strewn all around the area. Some of the rocks weigh several tons going by the visible part that was above ground but there is no telling how deep the rocks went below ground level.. I used to graze cows in this area as it was not viable for farming.
The second best area was an area known then as Kwa Múgú. The area hosted the only beehive we had and I have fond memories of the only time I went to harvest the honey with the local honey sage from a nearby town known as Rwathia. The honey that the sage harvested magically connected me to his village in even deeper ways. I would find myself making regular trips to Rwathia for some love that was sweeter than honey. My sweet grandmother Njoki would talk in symbolic language that borders on poetry as she subtly sent me hints about the apple of my eye. How my grandmother knew that I was heading there some evenings after work to chance spending a little stollen moments with my queen of Rwathia,
I will never know. What I do know is that the experience of harvesting honey with my mother and also having two types of shrubs on the boundary near the hive made me much attached to the particular location.
The two shrubs were Magio and Kirùrite, both of which were greatly loved by goats. But that wasn’t all the fuss there was about the two shrubs. One Magio was the raw materials for making the most exquisite baskets I know. The women would remove the back of the shrub, then peal a very thin and fibereous inner side of the bark. That petticoat-bark would then be chewed it in the mouth and then roll it on the thigh to make a string that women would use to make baskets. I guess that this was the second manner in which the community microbiom was shared around.
I currently possess a basket that one of the family matriarchs made. That means I have traces of the microbiom of the woman who once chewed my baby food still in my possession. I remember the majestic woman with her dresses folded between their legs to the point where it would look like they were wearing shots. Seated on a three legged stool, she demonstrated her rolling mojo as she majestically peal the inner bark, chew it and then rolled it into strings in a manner that made it look as though she were dancing and ruminating at the same time. It was a cool rhythm to watch.
These particular shrubs are still there to this day. The fact that I am always weary about the “progress minded” spirit that has engulfed my community and its propensity to destroy cultural icons in the name of modernization. I was not sure that the rest of my family would be keen on preserving these childhood memories but again we all have our duties and I was keen to stay on my path. I therefore would have wanted to inherit my childhood’s cultural landmarks.
So when it turned out that had I been allocated the portion of land where the hive and the iconic shrubs were, I was elated. Unfortunately, right above the section where the beehive and the shrubs were located, I had also inherited another more recent less glamorous landmark. It doesn't have the sweet memories of the beehive or beneficial shrubs but it is a story that started sadly but ended up in a triumphant note.
It is on that location that i lost my most significant battle, It will was the lowest point of my work when I stood by as my brother bent down with a bottle of Roundup in hand and carefully poured it into a spraying pump, then boldly handed it to two young guys to start spraying of weeds. As I watched in dismay as the two young men hoisted the poisoned charlace on their back. Oblivious of the damage they were about to cause to my being and the hallowed ground that had nurtured my ancestors, the walked just few steps from where I was standing. Though I could not see thier faces as they pumped their death agent as they walked, their bodies looked ghostly.
I knew very well the dangers they were exposing themselves to for not having the correct work gear. But again the first victim of fire is what the firewood. The young men were both agents and victims all at the same time.
I had pleaded with my brother against the act but to no avail. Luckily, he has since become a born again food advocate for sustainabilityand food Sovereignty. That act symbolized the latent death that stems from the communiy ’s lack of awareness of the connection between food and the global empires.
These are not normal times, they are not times of peace nor is there a lull in suffering of those who are deficient in power.
On account of the foregoing background, we using this culturally rich land as a hub for food justice.
We have plans adrift for having amongst the foodiest one acre piece that can spread both the awareness, love and culture. But besides all the new herbs, spices, vegetables and fruits, we have 9 types of indigenous banana species. One in particular known as Mùtore has been growing in the family longer than anybody alive can remember. The banana species also known as Mùtahato was our primary baby food.
The coolest part of the process is that it used "bioblender" AKA the mother’s mouth to blend it for the child..
The mother would roast it by the fireside and then chew it finer than usual and then using her pointing finger, she would feed it into the baby's mouth. If the mother had to be away for whatever reason, an aunt or other close relatives would step in as the "Bioblender".
If I tell you that I went through the whole experience as a child, I have no doubt that you will not ask me again why food justice is so dear to me. I have the micro biom of many members of my community and that is the fountain of my love for food and community. Capitalism, Jesus and food illiteracy perpuated by colonialism has struggled that magical kingdom I just described.
The village now can neither breath nor chew. A small group however is fighting back. Resurrection is coming and we will march right out of the dark cave of ignorance and a new dawn is what lays on the other side of the Decolonization of our minds and our food. However far wide I travel, the food I ate in my village as a child and more important how I eat it and what it had in it forms a major part of my commitment to food justice. One day, the joy and love I received was enough to share with all those who care to listen and join in the beautiful symphony of my village tune. Even without eating the Mùtore bananas or having it processed the village way , they still can be made whole again through inspiration.