Gatecrashing a Family Gathering Event

Saturday 7th March. GMT+ 0.03 Kanyariri 1.00 pm. It is hot. Torrid heat percolates in through my BedSitter mabatis as though it helps me pay rent. I wonder how those kales that the landlord planted in his green house are feeling as I write a few articles for a client. I am piecing a comical story and I giggle as I do it. The scorching sun seems to have descended a few feet lower to see the funny typings on my Dell desktop. Man, you should have seen how I was sweating!

Gospel music from a public address system arouses me from my reverie. “Someone decided to hold their pre-wedding right outside my nose? I am not contributing anything!” I say as I walk out to see what ceremony it could be.

A stone throw-away from my Bedsitter is a tent erected with big speakers on each corner blaring with loud gospel music. Kanyariri folks seem to be streaming in from their holes into the tent. I walk back into my room wondering what the event might be. No one sent a memo,letter, email or whatsapp message alerting me that they would be having an event. Nkt! These people of Kanyariri...

I try to finish up my article but my creative juices seem to have all dried out. Suddenly, pangs of hunger strike me. I look at my food shelf: packet of Pembe unga, tea leaves, sugar and an unsliced cabbage stare back. Damn, am poor. The thought of eating ugali yet again gives my empty stomach bouts of nausea. “Karibuni. Karibuni. Tutaanza na maombi...Asante sana Bwana kwa kutufikisha katika..,” goes the microphone. I lazily look at my food shelf again. Shake my head. I look at my clothes suitcase and see that my checked Nairobi shirt is clean. Nod my head.

You guessed right. I am going to gate-crash that event.

In ten minutes time, am in a pair of Blue Jeans and the well pressed Nairobi checked shirt. “ If they can dare distract me from my writing, I should revenge by gatecrashing their event,” I console myself as some guilt feelings cross my mind. “ If anything, I heard them praising. The Bible says that where two or three are gathered, even God is there. I too should go,” I say to myself. Since the place is just a few steps away, I am there in a few minutes. However, I try as much as possible not to look as though I live nearby. I briskly march to the jukwaa and take a seat. Image is everything. The checked shirt does the trick. I look Nairobi.

Looks Nairobian., doesn't it?

 

I am working on the assumption that not everybody knows each other in such jukwaa events. So, they might as well think that I am one of those who came from far. I am eager to know the main aim of the event. As normally happens with most Kikuyu ceremonies, people eat before the agenda of the day is discussed. We queue as some guys wearing those white chef caps serve us.

Delectable Kikuyu njahis expertly marshed with a mixture of sweet bananas and Irish potatoes colorfully decorated the buffet table. Green peas mixed with red sweet carrots floated in the thick tomato paste soup. Well sliced onions, dhanias blended with raw julienned cabbages adorned the kachumbari bowls that begged you to 'taste me'. The meal would not have been complete without the nyama choma chunks that ostentatiously stood in huge trays standing on a slightly higher table than all other meals. You did not have to look at this scenario twice to be told that nyama choma was the king here. The chunks seemed to confidently thump their chests as all the other meals bow low to the meat. “ We report to those guys up there,” the pounded njahis whispered timidly pointing at the direction of their kings.

Ostentatious royalty

After the food, the MC says that the next person to speak is Mrs. I do Not Remember Her Name. She is this type of boisterous bold ladies that speak too much, lacing their speeches with humor here and there. As she speaks, it is then that it dawns on me that I had gate-crashed a family gathering event. “Umuthi nirio ndetikia nyumba ya Hiuhu, ya mbari ya Gitaru ni nene.. Angi anyu ona ndimoi na ndire ndamona,” she says, a thing that makes me fidget uneasily in my seat.

I feel like walking out of the jukwaa and slipping back to my Bedsitter. However, there is an unopened mtungi of fermented porridge and crates of soda awaiting us. You do not leave a family gathering event without sipping a soda, do you? It would be preposterous; a thing that might make the very foundations that 'your family gathering' is built on crumble.

The speaking woman goes on for far too long mentioning all the popular family's ancestors, a thing that obviously bores me. “ Why is she mentioning all those 'our' grandmothers. They died before I was even born,” I wonder.

It's a family-gathering event

“ Na muririkane Cucu WaGithioro uria watuire atuirite tunyitane na twendane. Guka Gichimu nake atuire aririte niundu wa anake ake kuhikia airitu a maithe mao...” she goes on unperturbed. Much to my relief, she ends her speech and calls everyone to stand for a song. You guessed right—it was 'Ngatho ici Ndacituma'. Why do we Kikuyus insist on singing that song everywhere? Burials, graduations, birthday parties, when sweeping, when eating...Why can't we at least change it to something else like 'Ngatho iria ndatumire' or something close to it? Come on, we have sent these thanksgivings for far too long! Let us pick another song Jaruos don't know because they already know about these thanksgivings we send.

Throughout the event, nobody realized that I was a gate-crasher. I fit in so well. This was guided by the knowledge that not everyone knew each other. I therefore assimilated in so well with the others and was almost tempted to call a well-to-do looking man with a distended beer belly 'Uncle'. I would then go ahead and tell him that we live in Nyahururu, Karoboithi village--my name is Hiuhu, the last born son of Gitaru who has two ranches; one in Soilo and the other in Injinia [I had gathered that the family had so many Hiuhu's and Gitaru's] Throughout the event however, I feared that someone who knows me surfaced. Like my landlord. He would automatically cut my water supply that night! Luckily he didn't. So, I thrived.

The art of blending in

Blending in, my friend, is a skill. Last month, I was at Honourable Muchai's memorial service at Kanyariri High School. I almost went back for my black suit and tie after realizing that the organizing committee members who sat at the dais wore them. Unfortunately, the gates were already closed when I realized this and I was therefore denied an exit.

The secret to blending in is to never talk first until others have started a convo and then you join in. You also need to dress the part. Blending in is the power of hiding your cards and only showing them out when it is safe.

Introductions

Things were moving on well with us sipping drinks when the MC announced that we would all introduce ourselves and point to our families. I choked on my Fanta. [ I had ordered for a black Currant, my favourite and stressed on the 'rr's as I did so to sound posh.] I was seated on the third seat from the right.

“ We will start from my there,” the crazy MC said pointing my direction.

The first guy rose. Said that he was Kimani, son of Hiuhu. He asked his family to rise and his wife and kids rose from different parts of the jukwaa.

I was sweating. I prayed that Serengeti would make one of those rare phone calls of his that he does on Saturdays. The Nigga didn't. Ritho too didn't.

Kimani, son of Hiuhu spoke so fast that I couln't not help cursing him under my breath. In a few minutes time, he was done and I almost raised my hand to tell him that I did not get whose son he said he was.

The guy next to me then rose confidently. I hated his confidence. My heart was beating so fast that I couldn't hear where 'Mr. Confidence' said he was from. Mr. Confidence seemed to be a great talker and I thanked God that he was one. “ Help him tell us how he met his wife, Oh God,” I prayed.

Even Kammy didn't call me. Why didn't you Kammy?

Mr. Confidence was winding up his intro since I could hear him say, “ Ngai wa muoyo amurathime”.

The earth under me was trembling.

Fortunately, my phone alarm rang. I had set it to wake me up at 4.00pm from my Friday siesta and apparently, I had set it for a whole week since here it was ringing on a Saturday.