A Marriage in The Valley

PEOPLE from all the surrounding villages of Matunda and Lukhome, with sad, doleful faces, were already gathering for Jane’s burial in Peter’s home, in our small village of Nyasi. It was around eleven a.m on the twenty-third of February 1993; a dry, cloudless day marked only with intervals of dry, dusty whirlwinds.
Meanwhile, Peter and I were hurriedly compiling Jane’s short life history, which to my amazement, seemed to stretch between strange towns and villages in East Africa. It began at Naivasha, her cradle, weaved through Central Kenya, Mombasa, Voi; then all the way to Kigumba, a strange village in northern Uganda. Then from Kigumba back to Naivasha, then down to the bottom of all the bottoms in the world: The Great Rift Valley; she now lay motionless on the bed at the centre of Peter’s house, in Nyasi Village, Kiminini Location, Trans-Nzoia District, awaiting her final and eternal descend into Sheol. It was only Peter, her bereaved husband, who knew much about her background, so he narrated while I wrote. We were seated under the rich canopy of the bougainvillea tree in front of their house.
Then all of a sudden, we heard the roar like that of a car engine. People started in the direction of the noise. And there it was. The sight of a car was a rare occurrence in our remote village of Nyasi, about twenty-five kilometres west of Kitale town. Out of the blue, a white matatu Peugeot 404 appeared struggling along the narrow bumpy path towards Peter’s home. The drove directly into the crowded compound and parked under the wattle tree in front of Peter’s parents’ house. Strange passengers started alighting from the car. One after another, strange women, conversing in Gikuyu, alighted from the car and formed a small ring near the car. All eyes in the homestead were now fixed on these strangers.

One burly brown woman came forward and enquired, coincidentally, from Peter’s mother:
“Where have you laid Jane’s corpse?”
“Come along,” Peter’s mother said and volunteered to guide the woman and her colleagues into Peter’s house. As they walked, none of them spoke. A few other mourners followed them into the house. I also followed them.

While inside the house, they stood around Jane’s bed, staring expressionlessly and emotionlessly at Jane’s corpse. Who are these strangers and what do they want to do to Jane? I asked myself, but this brown, burly sure has some semblance to Jane. Could she be her mother? I pondered. But they did nothing to Jane; they just continued staring expressionlessly and emotionlessly at her.

Suddenly, a bizarre thing happened. As we were staring curiously at the strangers, while they were staring silently and remorselessly at Jane’s corpse, Jane’s brown, smiling (the smile she loved to smile when she used to be alive) face turned black and ugly and then colourless; black tears started streaming slowly down both sides of her face. While we were still baffled, awestruck and horrified by this awesome phenomenon, a malodorous stench ensued from Jane’s corpse and filled the entire house. Poignant, wordless, spooky silence tightened the entire room and everyone in it. The obnoxious odour increased in intensity until no one could withstand it; the strange women, led by the burly, brown woman, all visibly shocked and horror and fear written all over their faces, started filing out of the room. They headed straight back to their car.
While the other women were hurriedly packing themselves into the car, the burly woman called Nambuye, Peter’s mother, and asked her:
“Are you Jane’s mother-in-law?”
“Yes.” Nambuye replied, “And are you Jane’s mother?”
“Yes,” the burly woman said between tight teeth, “I have given you my consent to burry my daughter.”
“Thank you. That is what we were waiting for. We have been vainly trying to get you or your brother.” But even before Nambuye had finished what she was saying, the woman got into the car and ordered the driver to speed off.

Even long after the car had gone away, Jane was still weeping. Then, one of the eldest women among the mourners approached Nambuye and said:
“Nambuye, she is grieved. Go and console her.”
“Oh, Anyesi, how do I do that? I have never done it before.” Nambuye replied in consternation.
“My daughter, I know this is a totally strange phenomenon to you children of nowadays. But to us old folks, we understand it, we are closer to it. She is still here with us; her soul has not yet departed for the ancestral land, it is still hovering over the body, guarding it. It will start its journey the third day after burial. Now, my daughter, you know she is grieved, just go and talk to her. Persuade her to cease crying.”
The old woman persisted until Nambuye agreed to go and console Jane. Anyesi called other elderly women, and together, they escorted Nambuye back to Jane’s bedside. Encouraged by the elderly women, Nambuye held a handkerchief in one hand and stood over Jane’s weeping corpse.
“My daughter, she uttered solemnly, “You know that I am your mother. I sacrificed all I had in my struggle to save you, but death, oh death, you prevailed against me! And so it snatched you, the Peter’s pearl and the charm of my home, from us. Please Jane!” Nambuye shrieked, “Stop crying! I will keep your word. I won’t let them take you away. They only came to see you, but I am the one who will bury you…We love you…So stop weeping now, Jane…”
At this Juncture, Nambuye stooped and wiped the tears from Jane’s closed eyes, and Jane ceased weeping immediately. A few moments later, the nauseating stench also vanished from the house and Jane’s smiling, brown face returned.
* * * * * * * * * *
The day Peter had brought Jane home from Naivasha, where they had met, loved and married each other while working in a floricultural company called Sulumac Flowers Ltd, their arrival in Nyasi Village had caused quite a sensation for several days. They had arrived, walking hand in hand at a leisurely pace, with resplendent travellers bags strapped neatly on their backs like tourists. They were smartly dressed: Jane was in a blue sports jacket, a well-fitting white blouse, a red mini-skirt, white Reebok shoes and white socks. Peter was clad in a green sports jacket, red T-shirt, blue cowboy jeans and white Reebok shoes. This peculiar sight attracted the attention of the entire village.
The strange, little lady was extremely beautiful in every aspect: she had a short, slim stature, a young flawless, a very rosy-brown face with curly black hair, and full, sensuous thick lips that readily parted in smile to expose spotless white teeth. Her big beautiful innocent eyes that rolled keenly as she squinted around, were fixed on Pater;s face most of the time as she posed curious questions in reaction to the new, strange environment with scattered mud houses, gurgling rivers and streams and mowing cows. It was in the glamorous sunset of November 20th 1991; the sun was just a gigantic red ball over Mt. Elgon, the entire western horizon was splashed in flaming golden colours. The splendid couple was coming home for honeymoon and matrimonial settlement.
“Peter, is that the famous Mt. Elgon?” Jane pointed excitedly at the jutting peaks of the hazy mountain, basking in the rich golden rays of the setting sun.
“Yes” Her enchanted spouse replied.
They conversed in Swahili and English all the time, an indication that she was of a different ethnicity.
* * * * * * * *
In the afternoon of the following day, I was at Peter’s house seated under the sprawling bougainvillea flower in front of their house, listening to Peter’s rare melodramatic love spree with Jane while the bride prepared a cup of tea for us. It transpired between us, and later throughout the entire village that the beautiful lady was not only Peter’s visiting workmate, but his wife, and phenomenally, she was of Kikuyu origin!
“We married against the will of Jane’s mother,” Peter confessed to me, his brown handsome face beaming with satisfaction. I smiled admiringly at him.
“Actually Simiyu, we could not help it! It was a Romeo And Juliet affair! I know you are as educated as I am but you are a born again Christian, and therefore, I doubt if you believe in romance. Have you ever heard of love at first sight? Love so deep and unfathomable that you are ready to risk anything for the sake of that love? I have never loved like this, Simiyu, and I don’t think I will ever love like this!”
“Now, Peter, why was Jane’s mother opposed to your marriage?” I queried, knowing very well it was because of the strong cultural prejudices between our two tribes.
“Are you not a Bukusu? Don’t you know that there have always been strong cultural clashes between the Luhyas and the Kikuyus,” Peter answered without hesitation.
“When Jane’s mother learned of our blossoming love, she sternly forbade her daughter never ever to commit her life to me. But, as I have already confessed to you, our love was deeper than the deepest lake in this country, and it transcended all the prejudices of the two tribes put together, and we soon declared our unwavering plan to marry. When Jane’s mother heard about our adamant plan to marry, she pronounced a curse over our marriage, and vowed never to visit Jane’s matrimonial home if she ever got married to me. You know, Jane’s her only child, her most precious thing in the world, and she has no father. Poor old woman; She went mad with rage, and was completely pissed off when we finally abandoned our jobs and headed west. We are head over heels in love with each other, pal.”
By now, Jane had finished serving us with milk-rich tea and she had now taken her place beside her spouse. As Peter confessed his love for Jane for the umpteenth time, he put his hand tenderly around Jane’s shoulders. At her husband’s loving touch, she responded with a direct amorous look into Peter’s eyes, making go green with envy! It is very true indeed, this Romeo And Juliet affair, I pondered silently. Peter’s young, boisterous, romantic and adventurous character closely resembled that of Romeo, while Jane’s rare, rosy, sensuous beauty perfectly marched that of Juliet. Jane admired Peter’s face with its brown complexion and its black, bushy side whiskers, to say nothing of his hairy body---especially around the chest, hands, and legs---and his deep, soft sonorous voice.

For several weeks, Peter and Jane faced hostility and fiery criticism from all the people in Nyasi Village, but despite this scathing attacks, the young couple, like a lonely lily in a desert, was here to stay.
Opicho, our old next door neighbour lashed out at the strange marriage:
“This women from central Kenya are notorious for running away with children! And children are our most precious legacy; Peter is ruined unless he marries a second wife who is a Bukusu. In fact, according to our culture, marrying from a strange tribe is not a strange thing, but this kind of marriage is void, and therefore, a man has to marry a second wife who is truly a Bukusu. Now, I pity Peter. These Kikuyu women are also very well known for their boundless greed for money; they even murder their husbands in order to inherit their wealth. Can they make good wives for our sons?”

Jane and Peter had not only abandoned their parents but their jobs too. No sooner had they been married for barely one year than Jane was completely assimilated into our Bukusu community, absorbing all our cultural values and practices with relish, and learning the Bukusu language at an extraordinarily rapid rate. Jane also esteemed the elderly folk and treated us young folk with courtesy. This earned Jane a soft spot in the hearts of both the young and the old in Nyasi Village. In fact, by the time Jane and Peter had their first born, Davy, more than a year later, one could hardly distinguish Jane from the rest of our community; she was like one who was born and brought up there. The cultural prejudices were just a social man-made barrier; and what man makes, he can also break.

Jane’s industriousness in farming and business ventures soon started bearing some wealth for them, and soon they opened a business in Kisumu town, in Nyanza province, about one hundred and fifty kilometres from Nyasi Village. Jane ran and managed this business while Peter, like myself, enjoyed farming, and we were always together, exchanging farming technology and ideas.

Soon, we were surprised to hear that Jane’s mother was also running a business in Kisumu and that she was meeting frequently with her daughter, but she was adamant on her stance that she would never step in Jane’s matrimonial home. There was this fateful day on which Jane’s mother walked into Jane’s business stall with some packed lunch and insisted they share the food. As mother and daughter enjoyed the dish, the mother said she could just do with a cold soda. The innocent girl swallowed much of the food; the mother was inwardly filled with ecstasy; her long desired sinister, vindictive mission was being accomplished through the food that her daughter was eating.

The following day, Jane fell suddenly sick, and she never recovered from that sickness; it was a slow, excruciating sickness that gnawed at her slowly, for eleven interminable months; it defied all the stout endeavours made by Peter and his entire family to save her life.

On the morning of February twentieth, that year, while Peter and the rest of the family were weeding maize on the farm, and Jane was lying on a sack next to where Peter was digging, Jane said to her husband:
“Peter, since all my people have refused to visit me while I am sick and bedridden, don’t let them see my corpse when I am dead.”
Peter was stunned. He gazed wordlessly at his once lovely wife, who was now slightly wrinkled at the forehead, her once rosy, brown face now emaciated and haggard.
“Jane, what are you talking about?” Peter asked in a disturbed, anxious voice.
“I mean every word of it, Peter.” Jane replied even more dolefully, tears gleaming in her beautiful eyes. Her once young flawless face was now aged and haggard.
“Don’t let them see my corpse.” She repeated sternly.
“Don’t talk like that, Janny.” Peter said. “You are not going to die, darling. God knows you are not going to die. I need you. David needs you…”
Then, suddenly, when the other members of the family were just starting to show their reaction to this strange conversation between Peter and his wife, Jane’s facial expression changed and she smiled at Peter and changed the topic.
“By the way, my dear, in a long while, we have not taken a family photo,” she suggested, “is it possible for us to take one today?”
“So you are suggesting we take one today?”
“Yes, please after work.” Jane replied and lay back on her sack.
She passed away quietly, at eight o’clock that evening.
* * * * * * * * * * *
A sizeable crowd of women had already gathered in Peter’s compound when I arrived; they were all wailing bitterly. I walked straight into Peter’s house. And there on the bed, at the centre of the sitting room, Jane lay serenely, as though in deep sleep. She had not lost even a bit of her jovial mood. There was now a permanent, triumphant smile on her emaciated face and lips, the smile of one who had conquered a stubborn enemy.

I stood beside the bed, gazing down at her smiling face. I felt a strange impulse and I obeyed it. I stopped over, stretched my hand and touched her cheek. It was still warm. Peter sat motionless in a chair at the head of the bed, staring tearfully at Jane’s face.
“Dan, she has left me.” He said in a voice laden with tears.
“Jane,” I called, “so you have left us?”

As I uttered those words, my own suppressed emotions also came cascading with them, and tears gushed uncontrollably down my cheeks. In all my life, I had never wept publicly in a funeral, but in Jane’s funeral it was different in a strange way. I walked out of the house, wailing a loud. Then, something that had never happened before in our village happened: Peter followed suit. Then all our male age mates and peer friends joined us. It was so strange to see young men wailing in one enormous group. We had broken yet another taboo; men were not supposed to wail in public. But at Jane’s death, it was good to weep.

THE TAMED SNAKE.

One Wednesday evening during our August holiday, I was weeding cowpeas in our banana garden when I heard hens clucking and making nervous, jerky motions. I left my hoe and snooped cautiously towards the scene.
What I saw nearly knocked the last breath out of me. It was a long, thick, gleaming, black serpent with a chain of beautiful, multi-coloured beads around its neck.
There had always been rampant rumours around Nyasi village that Martie’s late father had been a keeper of a hideous enormous snake, although I had personally never encountered the monster. In fact, people were so much used to the snake that they never bothered themselves so much whenever they spotted it among the bananas or in the bushes. One could just remark in cynical, helpless horror: “There’s the monster!” and hurry away.
And nobody ever dared to kill the snake, because you do not do that and stay alive; the snake possessed potent powers of witchcraft. Marties’s father had been a fearsome neighbour and no one in the entire village ever trifled with him. We children were always sternly warned not to trespass or pluck a fruit on his farm. Even long after he was dead, his spirit still haunted the farm and the banana garden.
Martie’s homestead was next to our banana garden in the moist depression at the extreme western end of our farm. People had always feared passing through this valley at night claiming that Walucho, Martie’s father used to snoop among the bananas after twilight to take his monstrous pet out for an evening stroll…
I seized a stout lose pole from the fence and started stalking the serpent. She was staring at me unblinkingly, fearlessly, and somehow mockingly. There was something mystic, mysterious and daunting in her small, still eyes that gave me the jitters.
For one horrible, breathless moment, my entire body trembled with fear as our eyes met. Her eyes were so cold and merciless and haunting. My hand started shaking violently as I lifted the pole up. So I decided to hold the pole with both hands; I lifted it up above my head, and then brought it down swiftly upon the head of the serpent. The words in the Bible, which God addressed to the serpent, “I shall put great enmity between you and the woman, and between your seed and her seed; her offspring will crush your head, and you will bite their heel,” rang clearly in my mind.
With another frantic stroke, I crashed the head of the serpent. She writhed in pain for a long, long time before she lay limp and motionless on the ground while I stood there, gasping for breath and perspiring furiously around my forehead and under the armpits. Then, when I was sure the monster was completely dead, I turned and walked away towards the entrance.
As I emerged from the garden, the first person I spotted was Eliza’s brother Tom, who was strolling outside their homestead.
“Tom!” I shouted nervously at the top of my voice, “I’ve killed a very huge snake! Can you please come and help me drag it to the toilet?” My voice sounded tremulous and shaky. But instead of Tom coming to help me he disappeared quickly into their compound. After a moment, Petro and his entire family popped out and all curiously rushed to the garden.
In no time our banana garden was flooded with curious people. And since nobody wanted to have anything to do with this dreadful serpent, which was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people near and far, I decided to drag it to the toilet pit unassisted.
The unconcealable horror on the faces of the people, and the whispered conversations were enough to convey the magnitude of my offence. And to accentuate the dreadfulness of my disastrous act, no one from Martie’s family came to the scene, which was just about two hundred metres away from Martie’s compound.
Fortunately for me, at that time, my father was still away at work at Lulu Lulu Farm, and mother had attended a church function at Shangalamwe Catholic Church.
That night, there was great mourning and lamentation in Martie’s compound. Martie’s mother gathered all the family members and performed a mourning ceremony close to that accorded a dead human being. Later that evening, Martie was sent to our home to notify our family that the total number of days the person who had murdered their ‘daughter’ had to live on this earth was thirty days!
“Serve you right!” Father growled in a startled response, “You will go into the grave alone! Yes, let all your evil deeds go with you! As for me I’ve played my part to bring you up. For the last four months, I’ve persistently warned you against these lunatic protestant ideas, which claim there is no power and harm in witchcraft. But you have given me a deaf ear all along. For now, I wash my hands. Let no harm come to any other members of the family. In fact, soon I shall slaughter a sheep to perform a cleansing ritual to purge my family of the potency of the witchcraft.”
“Father,” I replied dauntlessly and almost cheekily, “What I know is that snakes are there to be killed, says the Bible. Oh, in fact, they are a symbol of Satan! I shall always kill every snake that I come across, whether it is black, white, red, or blue! And there’s no harm in killing snakes, in Jesus’ name!” I retorted aplomply.
Father narrowed his dazed eyes and stared at me wordlessly for a long, long moment without saying anything. Then he dipped a hand in one of his coat pockets, took out a cigarette, stuck it to his lips asked Mildred to give him a glowing faggot. He and lit the cigarette and small billows of smoke started ensuing from his lips and mouth as we sat there in dreadful silence, in our kitchen, waiting for supper.

I FOUGHT WITH SPIRITS FROM THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

THROUGHOUT my childhood my mother Magdalena often used to remind me of my unusual birth. I was born on November 11th 1971 on a white settler’s farm in Trans-Nzoia District where my parents were squatters.

While I was undertaking a computer course at Microtown Computer Centre in Kitale town in October 1994, I managed
To feed the above dates into the computer and asked it to tell me the exact day on which Iwas born. The amazing machine
Revealed that the day was a Thursday. And , indeed, facts in my file at Kiminini Catholic Church where I was baptized at the age of three months reveal the same details.

Three months after I was born, I developed a baffling abnormality. My stomach bulged and remained inflated like a balloon.This strange symptom was soon accompanied by persistent crying, restlessness, and sleeplessness at night.

After many sleepless nights, and the agony endeavouring vainly to lull me to sleep, my mother decided to consult a witchdoctor to establish the cause of this strange malady.

Julius the Diviner was the most powerful witchdoctor in those days. My mother said that no sooner had she stepped into the diviner’s eerie hut than the spirits called her by name.
“Our daughter,’’ they said in eerie unison, “We know you. Your name is Nabangala.You have a sick child at home and you have come to consult us about the cause of the sickness.Is that true our daughter?’
“Yes, my esteemed grandfathers,’ mother answered in a tremulous voice, bowing at the shrine.
“Then do as our master will tell you and we shall solve your problem.’Then their eerie voices receded into whispers.
At that juncture, Julius the Diviner spoke, requesting my mother to sit down. She sat down on the lone traditional stool opposite the weird shrine.
“My daughter,’ the famous witchdoctor said, “pay the usual consultation fee, and five shillings for the herbs’

After she had paid the consultation fee, the spirits told her that I was being haunted by the spirit of my paternal grandfather who was seeking I be named after him .The spirits elaborated the nature of the sacrifice and the rituals it entailed in order to appease and invite the restless spirit of my grandfather into our home and into my life.

On the night after which this ritual was performed, I slept very peacefully, and a few days later, my distended stomach diminished.

Since that time, I was fondly called by the name of my grandfather, Murambakania, and reared up as a pious Catholic Sunday School child; in fact, I was one of the Massboys at our Kiminini Catholic Church, until I attained the age of eighteen. At that age, a very strange and supernatural experience occurred to me that changed my life for ever.

It was on the fateful night of Sunday the 16th of April, 1989, at around 9:30pm, while in the kitchen with our eldest sister Mary Nekesa , who was preaching to me , that I decided to change and be a born again Christian.

At the time of this momentous experience I was just completing my first in Form One at Nabunga High School, and I had just sat for my Catholic Seminary interview in preparation to join Saint Thomas Aquinas College in Nairobi to pursue Catholic Priesthood, after my “O’ Level.This was in accordance with my parents’ plans.

By the way, my sister Mary is married with seven children, and she lives in West Pokot District.At the time of this tremendous event, she had just paid us a visit to bring the testimony of her conversion to our parents, but her new faith and testimony was strongly rebuffed by our entire family.

On Monday the 17th very early in the morning, Mary, together with the rest of the visitors, left for West Pokot. After seeing her off at Kiminini bus stage, I returned to our home in Nyasi Village, feeling lonely and vulnerable to the imminent, strong forces of opposition which I was bound to face from my stern parents. My father was a very stern and strict parent, he was also an adhering Bukusu traditionalist.
Now one evening a few weeks later, while we were seated in the sitting room, my father paused amid his smoking session- he liked smoking after supper- and asked me:
‘My son, now that you claim to be born again like your sister Mary, and now that you are calling everyone in this home a devil, and I hear that you are even calling me Lucifer himself when I’m drunk, will you also renounce the great name of your grandfather ?’
I told him that the name in itself was harmless, but the traditional rituals it entailed was what would make me reject it.

In our clan , ounce you are named after an ancestor, it is believed that you have inherited his or her character; in fact, you are his or her reincarnation.
For instance, in January 1989, our entire clan of Bakhwami gathered in our home to offer a sacrifice to this paternal grandfather Murambakania. During this ritual I was placed at the shrine of the departed ancestor, and received the sacrifice on his behalf. They offered blood and meat to this ancestor while I sat quietly at the shrine and watched everything in ewe for the required length of time before I joined the rest in the ceremony.
In fact, I was my father’s favourite son, and I was adored just the same way my grandfather , Murambakania was adored when he was alive.
So my father showed great concern and frustration the moment he realised I was no longer worshiping, adoring or honouring the ancestors including my grandfather. When I confirmed to him that I was totally against that name, he replied:
“Well, my son, I warn you in advance, just as I had warned you earlier on: do not trifle around with that sacred name, Murambakania. Your grandfather can be very deadly and vicious at times when he is provoked. You may deny him now, but be sure he will haunt you to death.I, your father, have spoken to you as I’m the one who sired and named you after him.May his spirit avenge itself.That is all, my son”.
Then I told him: “Father, there’s no power under heaven that’s greater than that of Jesus Christ,and there is no other name that is greater than the name of Jesus Christ. It is the name above all names, and every shall bow before Him and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord! Let me tell you , father, I shall pray and bind this troublesome name and spirit called Murambakania in the name of Jesus !”
My father’s eyes bulged and with total flabbergation and bafflement. He replied in a gruffy tone: “My son, how dare you blasfame the ancestors? We shall see.” And then he retired into his bedroom in a huff.

That night, you can well imagine what the subject of my prayer was .While alone in my cottage, I prayed fervently and rebuked the name and spirit of Murambakania many times. Finally, I commanded and bound it, telling it to leave me alone and go to hell , its respective destination. Then, with overwhelming peace and assurance, I slumped into bed and soon I was sound asleep.
But shortly after midnight, I was awakened by a screeching noise and loud bangs on the door. Then, the door rattled open , and some shuffling , spooky, obscure human-like shadows groped into my room.
One of them took the table noisily and turned it upside down. The other one dislodged all the stools, throwing them in different directions.The third one , with ponderous footsteps, leaped towards me.
He pounced on me like a mighty, angry cat, and our combined weight made my safari bed squeak.
“Who are you?” I screamed in breathless terror, ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your grandfather Murambakania,’ the spook rumbled in a throaty, malevolent tone, ‘You have forsaken me! You are up to no good .You are profaning my name and I have come to kill you because of all these offences! And I’m killing you right now!’
But just before those chilly, lifeless fingers closed in on my throat, I managed to utter a great, ear-piercing scream : ‘In the name of Jesus! Oh, Jes-s-us! In Jesus’ name! Go away! You evil spirits! Go to hell!…’
Immediately, the spooky shadow fell on the floor with a loud thud, then there was some more shuffling and screeching noises, followed by dead silence.