Pwani Tribune

Somewhere in Garsen Constituency, along the banks of Tana River, lies a sleepy place called Shirikisho. I found myself there as I am often found in many ‘mashinani’ areas around the Coast, work. In many ways, I feel at home away from the hustle and bustle of major towns and in Shirikisho I found a place as unassuming as anywhere you will ever find. We were put up at Shirikisho Primary School and I have to say it was nothing as glamorous as many associate outdoor living and camping with. Yes, it was a starry night that would be quite the romantic setting but there were also mosquitoes and we were always wary and on the lookout for snakes. A snake would be found in the school pit latrine-cum-bathroom the next morning, with one of us running out with his bathing water in a basin like a scene straight out of ‘The Gods Must Be Crazy’. As for the mosquitoes, that was a traumatic experience. It seemed like they enjoyed mosquito repellent and were with a buzz as irritating as the musician you’d love to hate. You get used to this kind of life, if you are cut out for it. The next day was a chance to really experience Shirikisho. A good look at the school compound during daytime gave us a glimpse of life in the area and many areas of the larger Tana River County. Plastered on the school walls were informative warnings and early signs of conflict and floods and what to do when they happen, the reality of the hurdles some children in the country face in their education journey. On another wall was a proud announcement by the Rural Electrification Authority that the electrification of the school was done and completed by them, all this with no electricity pole in sight. Nothing. Only solar panels, with ‘dead’ batteries. I am yet to understand this but it reeks of corruption (if looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck then it probably is a duck). But the compound was not filled with all doom and gloom, the school desks were branded ‘Wasichana Wote Wasome’, a campaign going by a similar names has succeeded in getting girls to school, the enrollment board proves that. However, the learning conditions can be and should be better. Some classroom floors looked like a murram road in Maralal. Outside the compound, our misjudged eating schedule would be punished. We had opted to have brunch and in our minds brunch was a meal with meat in plenty. Shock on us. The first kibanda, run by two beautiful Pokomo ladies, had only a quarter kilo of lamb available for the day, enough for their clientele. Turns out there is just one butcher in Shirikisho area, who slaughters one lamb or goat a day and on alternate days. There is no way a quarter kilo of meat would be enough for 4 grown hungry men, who had spent the previous night properly suckled by mosquitoes clearly out to kill. So we had to rush to find the butcher before he was out of his day’s supply, we found him with only half a kilo left. Well, as they say, si kama kukosa. We went back and had the two ladies prepare the extra meat for us. In the meantime, we had sturungi and doughnuts. If you have been to Tana River or North Eastern you won’t be too surprised when I say the sturungi had like 6 teaspoons of sugar in each of our cups. Any area with a Cushitic presence or influence has the kibandas and cafes having no qualms about serving piles and piles of sugar in beverages, before you even ask. But the sturungi had a nice spicy twist to it and the ladies whipped up a great ugali and lamb meal for us. We would later chance on Kyalo, probably the only Kamba in Shirikisho area, he has an eatery of his own and his business model is getting matumbo from the one and only butcher. If you want matumbo then you go to Kyalo and to Kyalo we went in the evening. We found him reprimanding a customer who was out to have a meal on credit. His exact words were “Sikuja hii njia yote kutoka Ukambani kupatiana chakula bure” (add a Kamba accent for complete imagery). Again, great cooking here, chapati and matumbo stew. Kyalo’s eatery turned out to be multi-faceted once it’s dark, it turns into a muguka chewing hub once the Sabaki SACCO bus comes in carrying goodies from the other major towns. Shirikisho is majorly an Islamic zone and you won’t find any bars or pubs here, bring your own poison if you are of the drinking persuasion. Just before we left, Shirikisho showed us its best side, genuine benevolence. Once you are accustomed to long travel, you will be accustomed to mechanical problems. Trust me, they will happen. So it happened that we needed a mechanic, the car we came with just refused to cooperate. We came to know there was no mechanic there, only an apprentice, Omar, just learning the trade. Himself explaining he got into this line of work after a long dream at night interacting with his ancestors had him waking up with the ability to fix motorcycles. I kid you not. Omar took a look at the car and things were way out of his depth. He recommended the services of his master who he was presently learning from. He didn’t want to settle at just fixing motorcycles, he was now on conventional learning after a foundation of the extraordinary and a whiff of spiritual realms. His master was Abdalla Chagaso, who I had to take a bodaboda to go and find in nearby Semikaro. I found him in his humble aboard preparing sturungi and easing himself to a day of not much to happen. All the pending work he had he left to his other young apprentices present outside. He was kind enough to change the course of his day and follow me back to Shirikisho

My father hails from Moka village – Mbale ward, a hidden gem within Wundanyi constituency, Taita Taveta County. My mother, a Mbale resident by virtue of marriage, says Mbale reminds her of a book she read decades ago, Cry, the Beloved Country. Published in 1948, the book by Alan Paton narrates how the city life in Johannesburg stole the heart and soul of Ndotsheni village, taking its offspring along with it. In many ways, the comparison rings true. It is common to see shops and stores locked in old rusted padlocks that were last opened decades ago. Many sons and daughters of Mbale moved on and never looked back, except for occasional festive reunions or when met with bereavement, homes and compounds left to caretakers to maintain. It is a far cry from what Mbale was pre-independence, almost every other homestead produced a World War II veteran, serving in King’s African Rifles colours. They came back with technical know-how and improved on the architecture in the area, evidenced by the enduring structures in place. Even way before, Mbale had already taken its first steps into modernity with the arrival of the Anglican Missionary clergyman, Richard Absalom Maynard, in 1910. He stayed until 1921, setting a great precedence for early education across the Coast region. Indeed, when Ronald Ngala was transferred in 1950 from Kaloleni school to Taita as Mbale School Principal, it was a move up the career ladder. Mbale school was by then a prized institution. Richard Absalom Maynard’s legacy lives on in Mbale, Maynard Primary School is named after him. Somehow, at some point, the pace and growth of the area came to a halt, I can’t exactly pinpoint how or why. But there’s good in everything if you look closely enough. Amidst all the solitude in the hills, I have often found solace and lessons in Mbale’s sense of community among those that stayed. This being from my experience with the Nyumba Kumi and the larger Kijiji network in Moka village, I am sure it is the same with the other villages in Mbale. The two networks here function as a colony of bees or ants does, the most well-coordinated community network I have seen anywhere I have been. My first interaction with this was the whistle and loud announcements of a town crier, called Mwalugongo in kiTaita. Lugongo means uphill, I would imagine in the old days, a Mwalugongo would go up a hill to deliver his message to the village and that is how the name came to be. In one of the cases I experienced, he delivered news of the passing of a villager and that all men (of adult age but excluding the old) in good health, were required to gather at the deceased’s homestead the next day to assist in digging the grave. I did avail myself the next day and the numbers present made light work of the task. Within no time we were six feet deep into the deceased’s final resting place. Burials in Mbale are a cheap affair, unless the bereaved family themselves wish for an extravagant send-off. Apart from instantaneous funeral arrangement contributions of 100 Kenya Shillings minimum from every adult Kijiji resident, there exists a Kijiji and Nyumba Kumi kitty. The monthly Kijiji contribution is set at 50 Kenya Shillings per household while the monthly Nyumba Kumi contribution is separately agreed upon by members of the several 10 household groupings within the Kijiji, anything from 50 to 100 Kenya Shillings. There is also an added 300 Kenya Shillings per year from every Mbale native, living in the ‘diaspora’. Mombasa, Nairobi and elsewhere that is not Taita Taveta count as ‘diaspora’ too. With grave-digging costs already nonexistent, the figures raised cater for food for the mourners and everything else to do with funeral arrangements, all kept within a modest budget. Throughout the year, the contributions also provide emergency cover for medical bills and schools fees for members of the community. With regard to sticking to the original idea of Nyumba Kumi i.e the security aspect, the set-up here is exemplary. Every head of household has a duty of informing the Nyumba Kumi Chair of any arriving newcomer or visitor and their intended length of stay who in turn informs the Kijiji Chair. Nothing ever goes unnoticed. This is not to impy guests are not welcome. It might seem too invasive but with the crime rate here at a commendable low, you would have to agree with the modus operandi. This kind of positive ‘invasiveness’ has extended to monitoring the family unit. It is common for the Assistant Chief, who receives reports from the Kijiji Chair, to move around drinking dens to fish out those deemed failing in responsibilities within their households. It is the Bible that says “If a man will not work, neither should he eat”, well, in Mbale you can’t drink unless your house is in order, especially when children’s school fees are concerned. This week, the community ensured every child of school-going age reported back to school. Everything considered, Moka village and Mbale ward in general offers a throwback, to a time most people were well-meaning. When it took a village to raise a child. Many may have moved on from Mbale but Mbale has never given up on its own. It welcomes you right back every time and gives you a route back to the community set-up. In some ways I wish it was more vibrant, but maybe Mbale itself is just as it intends to be, quiet and unassuming. When the wheels of modernity were taking it faster than it could handle, it slowed down, giving blessings to its sons and daughters to try their luck in the big towns and cities. Half-hoping that like the prodigal son, at some point they would come back. 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Let us travel back in time, back to the late 1800s. A period of time when Africans still had the scourge of slavery meted out to them, albeit in its dying embers (at least officially). Now picture yourself as a freed slave rescued by British naval officers from a slave ship from Zanzibar on the Indian Ocean. Alternatively, you could be a runaway slave escaping from your master’s cruel hand just within our present Kenyan borders. Your ex-slave status will most probably have deprived you of your identity and roots. Tanganyika, Nyasaland (Malawi), Mozambique or Zambia could be too far off to retrace your steps back home. The common path your life would take is a struggle to belong in a ‘freeman’ community setting, missing out on basic privileges like ownership of land. That is what informed the establishment of Freretown by the British rescuers of slaves on the East African coast as a settlement for ex-slaves. To build a new community for the ex-slaves from scratch, shielding them from any potential prejudices of an already existing community suspicious of their culture or intentions. For all Freretown’s and its residents’ undeniable outstanding contributions to life in Mombasa, it is Rabai that offers the better lessons in ex-slaves finding somewhere they belong. This is the story of ‘WaMisheni’. WaMisheni is the local terminology for ‘those of the Mission’, literally alluding to people staying in and around the Mission. In this particular case referring to the Church Missionary Society station in Rabai. 19th and early 20th century Rabai is described as ‘an extremely heterogeneous yet harmonious community’ in spite of clear contrasting forces; ‘Born free’ and ex-slave, European and African, Christian and Muslim, African tradition and modern religion. In other areas, ex-slaves were deemed free but were under direct control of the Missionaries economically and psychologically. This was not the case for WaMisheni. They succeeded in carving out an independent niche for themselves, greatly complimenting the existing Rabai community and the neighbouring Kambe. They integrated well with the existing Coastal culture and even achieved what to me would be an ex-slave’s ultimate dream, land ownership. WaMisheni also proved very resourceful with their knowledge in diverse disciplines, making them indispensable. A lot of things came together for this to happen. First, the Rabai Mission didn’t have nearly as much land accorded to it as Freretown, which had 600 acres at its disposal (Freretown initially spanned all the way to Nyali, Mkomani and Kongowea area). Ultimately, the influx of ex-slaves had to result in them co-existing with the Rabai in the community land. Second, some of the ex-slaves were Muslim, coming from Muslim master-slave households. It is one thing to convert an African from his traditional beliefs to Islam or Christianity. It is a whole other journey having them convert to worshipping Allah, then midway tell them they missed just one small turn and they have to turn back to the Christian God. Or vice-versa. Indeed, by 1902, there was a Mosque built just a kilometer from the Mission and a Muslim cemetery nearby. Put simply, the Rabai Mission superseded religion, it was a safe haven over and above everything else. There was thus no room to superimpose on the ex-slaves as was evident elsewhere. Another factor was that some runaway slaves actually came from Mijikenda master-slave households (yes Mijikenda slave-owners did exist) and were no strangers to the Rabai way of life. Third and most importantly, the Rabai community actually saw need for the newcomers. At the time, insecurity was rife in that part of the Coast and the Rabai had pushed themselves further back into the interior to prevent enemy attacks. The arrival of the ex-slaves (numbering over 1,200) in and around the mission provided a ‘buffer’ or a defence front line. They settled in the vacated areas of Mwele, Jimba, Kaliang’ombe, Mgumopatsa, Kokotoni and Simakeni. The Rabai welcoming gamble paid off. WaMisheni notably partnered with the Rabai to push out Kwavi rustlers in 1882 and Mbaruk bin Rashid’s mercenaries in both 1882 and 1895, with the aid of rifles from the Mission station. WaMisheni arrived in Rabai at a time when the community was almost entirely dependent on the coconut tree for their basic needs and trade. By 1850, the Rabai were already the premier producers of coconut products around the Coast and the mnazi (palm wine) trade was thriving. Ludwig Krapf when he lived with the Rabai, noted that whatever they did not produce, they acquired from other communities by selling mnazi. WaMisheni brought the knowledge of distilling surplus mnazi into ‘piwa’, a clear and potent form of the drink that increased its shelf-life. It is not clear where that knowledge originated from but it was an invaluable addition to the mnazi trade. ‘Piwa’ is still taken today. Missionaries adopted a ‘hands-off approach’ to the ex-slaves’ participation in the liquor business, perhaps as a means to afford them their own livelihood, something they had been preaching against to the Rabai community, before the arrival of the ex-slaves. WaMisheni were also very capable farmers, many having learnt from their time as slaves working in the fields. They planted mangoes, oranges, cereals and vegetables in their new settlements. The late 19th century and early 20th century was a time of bountiful harvest in Rabai land. It was a win-win situation for all involved. Added to that, WaMisheni came with them a fascination that drew large crowds at the Mission station, drum dances and magic. Two in particular, Brown Baraka and ‘Bemaasai’ are named as magicians who showcased spectacular acts. The two are said to have been able to set their fingers on fire, transmogrify (to transform in a magical way) and travel great distances in seconds. Before we rubbish it all, tales of transmogrifying and travelling great distances in seconds are not news to the Mijikenda, especially those in touch with their history. Mekatilili and Wanje Wa Mwadori’s tale of escape from a cell in Kisii back to Kilifi personifies whatever