Lulunda (our guardians)

Sometimes we would be in our mud walled kitchen. Yes that kichen that bore more holes than a milk sieve. Boiling Mukeu (Githeri) is no mean feat. One of us would be instructed to get more firewood.This meant getting a piece of wood from the "kiveta" (kiveta- a stack of firewood) literary explains the saying (ula wi kivetani uthekaa ula wi iko). In a lucky occasion,, you would see the fire. Let me call it fire for I don't know the right English word for it (flames/fre). Across the valley, you would see it burning, flaming, yes blazing brightly. the flames would glow embrace and reassure you. It is the most beautiful flame I have ever witnessed. The flames were radiant, illuminating and assuring. I recall grandma placing her hand on my shoulder and saying (In a voice she can only command) that is not normal fire. Our village is protected from all evils. What you see is not fire, it is "athiani " (living dead) they take care of us, protect us. It only strikes me now that I have a very vague memory of my great- grandmother who was a mundu-mue (she knew the ways of magic. I bet she would have given Harry Potter a run for his money in wizarding ways. J.K Rawling hear that....wink ..wink) back to the flames, there was a cardinal rule, never point at the flame. Next, upon witnessing the flaming glow torch of security we would summon our neighbors to witness it. some of us  remember us huddling on that rotten excuse of a fence? To cap it all, as we went to bed, we would be certain of where we saw the fire. We would be certain of the exact spot the flames were for we knew the ways of the hills. our blood breathed Nunguni hills. We were the hills and the hills were us. However, at the break of dawn, no matter how early we woke up, early enough to witness the frogs mating at "wakulila" stream (I don't know why they named the stream wakulila ) we never witnessed a scorched portion of land. It felt as if the flames of yesternight were floating, a figment of our collective imagination. The flames that never burnt a single leaf of dry eucalyptus tree leaves. The flame that mesmerized us, held us in perpetual awe. We gasped, we trembled, we were scared,we were safe for 'athiani' were with us. We simply named them (too scared to call the fire by its name) 'LULUNDA' That was my world, It is small because it does not have a voice. It is big because it rests on the crest of shattered dreams. It is wild for it is a ship who's captain lost it all. We are losing, we have lost everything, no more dances (kilumi, kithembe etc) born in a generation wallowing in a pool of lost identity. I can not claim to be Kenyan if I have no answer to the question, ' Who am I?' (oh the vitriol that follows you when you speak. Yes that accent I am trying to drop. I will be 'kienze, not KYENZE (PRONOUNCED CHENZE)) tuendelee ...... The next day, I would be chanting and memorising Catechism lessons. Getting tamed to be a good Catholic. Under the tutelage of Methodius Mitusi. The catechist who served the church for 36+ years. The catechist who Pope John Paul II acknowledged (I hope our parish did not lie about this) I recall the days and the joyful comfort of sleeping on grandma's Vono bed (it was springy and comfy) wetting it every other night. (remember Nyakake in John Ruganga's Burdens) I would wake up. (not prompted by pee on my bed) they would happen, they always did, tom tom, oh the sounds ,the sounds would come on risinng into a wild orgasmic crescendo of vibrating and 'adulating' Akamba music (lost and will never be recorevered). The mwali, nzeano,kilumi, lullabys would go on. I used to sit on that bed with my hair literary on the roof. Then she wakes up, Grannie wakes ups and says, 'I hear them too. Do not answer them. They are taking of us' I am not writing for Africa, I am trying to remember my moments of bliss . ohh Nunguni. Ohh Home, where i never belonged