Usually after a few months in Nairobi I start missing home. Like really missing home. Work drags me down. Social life drags me down. Everything drags me down. The answer to any form of inconvenience becomes “I just want to go home.”
Home is Iten. I rarely go there. Two or three trips a year. That is enough. I know I am home when I jump on the matatu from Eldoret to Iten. The conductor suggests that instead of paying 150, we pay100 and overload the matatu. Everyone is in agreement.
I hate this because it means sitting on the sambaza, that miserable wooden plank they pull out for extra passengers. My behind (God- bless) is not built for it. I do not have enough natural cushioning for a 60-minute ride. An hour on that thing and I will be sore for two days. I would rather wait for the next matatu than suffer on that plank.
Arrival in Iten. Always chilly in the evening, no matter the season. I step off the matatu and grab Smokie Pasua just because it is there. My parents live within walking distance of town (perks of moving to this little town in the 90s). 50bob for a motorbike is not much, but walking is the norm at home, so I walk. There is always a football match happening in the town’s field. I never feel keen to stop and watch. I assume I will run into old schoolmates and be dragged into the dreaded “where have you been the last ten years” na “Umebadilika” conversation. I am not ready for that.
I walk to my mother’s shop. She never knows I am coming. Her face lights up. She hugs me. She comments on my weight and my skin tone. “Eh, umekuwa mweupe na kwani hukuli Nairobi! (as she grabs my shoulders and gives them a vigorous shake to gauge the lightness of my body).” God bless her heart. She is the only person allowed to comment on my weight. She does it every time. I am used to it, acceptable.
Klaus, my old doggo (born in 2020, looks way older than his age) is always there with her. She once swore she never wanted that dog near her shop. Times changed. Now Klaus is her little shadow. He eats her handouts and fights with her cat, another one she never wanted but now cannot live without. A cat, a dog and my mother. That is her shop.
My mom is proud of her little Wakili (emphasis should always be added). She has used that phrase so many times that it feels like a shared title now.I would gladly trade every academic achievement I have earned to give her the success she longed for and sacrificed so much to secure for me. She takes me to greet her friends. I endure the small talk. Klaus tags along as I head home.
Home is always the same. The air feels fresher. Birds actually chirp here (I could swear the birds do not chirp in Nairobi, sijawai skia!). From a distance, Tyson Kalulu, the local drunk, sings his anthem dedicated to his beloved daughter Cherono, “Money Money Cherono, Pesa Pesa Cherono” on his way home. He has sung it since I was a schoolgirl. He is not wrong. Money runs the world and Cherono (as we all) should know.
The gate creaks open. The cow moos, hoping my father has come to refill her water. I fish around for the hidden key, open the door. Klaus hesitates at the threshold, of course he knows the rules born from a couple of scoldings. Inside is the same dim light and the good old green/yellow/cream painted walls or whatever colour that is (in our defense, it was a statement once). I shake the flask. No tea. Typical.
Through the small window, my other cat slips in. Beautiful creature. Magnificent creature this one is. I lift it. I hug it. I bury my nose in its soft, velvety belly like a maniac. I snort it, I snort it again. It smells clean and he is warm, cosy and just so soft. The cat hates me instantly and leaves. My God, a moment of bliss. Why, is that not enough for a whole lifetime? (Niruhusu, because I must slip this quote here as I do not know how to be silent when my heart is speaking!) You get it? No? Forget about it.
The house goes silent. I sit there breathing the stillness. This is home. Home is Iten.