Welcome to the slopes…

Sons of the slope enjoy many events in their lives, but none comes closer to the day they go to the village with their significant others. Lets walk through it.. Together.

Good chilly afternoon Amour, I want us to talk. I want you to know about the events that will follow my breaking the leg of a goat, that I won’t just watch wobble and fall away, but which I will carefully lay it on a pile of rocks and slaughter for the ancestors.

A time will come and we will have to go visit the old folks in the slopes, the land of Cassava farmers and steep hills, the land of cold nights and Tea bushes. The place you visit and you hear conversations like:

Stranger 1: Let me Tell you the last night’s cold was so bad, it put off my fire in the house

Stranger 2: Ooh really, and you thought yours was bad? My blankets feel like using glass panes to cover myself.

Stranger 1: You heard Kamau’s wife ran away?

Stranger 2: Yes I did, I wonder why she would leave him in the cold..

Stranger 1: There is word that she ran with a man who lives in town and has heaters in his house.

Stranger 2: So it means she will be back when the sun returns.

Stranger 1: Of course!

And then they laugh and laugh.

Am not sure if we will have our means of transport, or what my siblings call kichimbi, so I want to get you ready just in case we won’t. 

First of all, the slopes supermarket (they insist it’s a supermarket and not just a bigger shop), doesn’t have enough space to stock everything we might need for the shopping. Sometimes they don’t stock tissue papers, and we all know, you can’t shop for maize floor and not take some few rolls of tissue paper. There is a whole three pages in the “Visiting the Slopes” book condemning that act. Due to this concern, we will be forced to do some shopping in the capital, then wriggle our way with the bags through sweaty armpits along River road, through Duruma Road to Nyamakima where our vessel will be revving, as it waits for the last ‘two’ passengers.

We will board alright and ensure we hold our luggage; incase it gets ‘lost’ or ‘accidentally forgotten’.

Amour, we will have to board that Nissan, since the next one will take three hours to fill up, and we don’t want to get home so long after dusk. A big possibility is we will not get adjacent seats, so you will have to sit next to a semi drunk middle aged man, whose fingernails look like they have been scratching the devil’s back, and a breath of stale meat and beer (you will smell the breath because he will say hallo in the tongue of the slopes). He will try to get his way, and will constantly throw in a few stale lines unto you, but don’t you worry, am well known, and someone in the matatu will give him some free advice.

‘Boss, that is the son of the slopes’ rib you are hitting on....’ He will be told. I will smile.

‘Which son of the slope..?’ He will ask.

‘The one whose grandfather milked elephants sited on a porcupine…’ I will crane back and whisper to his ear. This will motivate him to fall asleep.

The bus will take more than one hour filling up, because you will realize it needed four not two people, but it will fill up, and take off. Nissans that go to the slopes play no music.

We will wind the Murang’a hills, and I will curse that am not by your side to explain to you the terrain, but then again, at a place called Kiria-ini the Nissan will stop and drop some few passengers, and the drunkard will groan, as he walks out into another beer den. I will come and sit next to you and you will be relieved for the remaining part of the journey. We will reach the village town as the sun starts its descend, and you will get a glimpse of the sun as she gracefully sinks into the ranges far away. It’s a spectacle and you will pull out your phone and take a few photos of the rare natural beauty, as the people there stare at you, wondering why you don’t have anything better to do. I will understand.

I will make a phone call to someone saved ‘Kamau Taxi..’ whose phone will be off, and on asking around I will be told he fled to Rumuruti to grow onions after he hit the Chief’s cow with his taxi.

I will call ‘Kamaa Motorbike’, who will take a cool forty minutes to come pick us, and after some talk you won’t understand about some few former classmates, we will stack ourselves behind him and start the climb to kanjuiri. You will sit in the middle and staff your face into his puffy biker jacket, and Kamaa will hold our shopping over the fuel tank. I will sit on the extreme rear where the third pillion should be. (Yes, that cop was right when he said the motorbike had 2 pillion passengers) ha-ha.

‘Beb, will the shopping be fine there..?’ You will ask in all innocence.

‘Woi.. it will be fine, in fact I carry three baskets of tea leaves there…’ Kamaa will jump in, ignoring the fact that you asked me. You will look at me for an answer.

‘It will be okey..’ I will answer, and we will take off.

Kamaa will talk to himself all the way home because he is a cool chatter box. He will smile at us when we get to our gate, and he will start using words like ‘Boss’, ‘Mheshimiwa’ … as I reach for my wallet. I will have to tip him generously.

When we plan to visit the slopes, I will make no prior plans with the folks, because they get hysterical. I don’t want us going there and finding all kanjuiri women running up and down the tiny compound beyond the huge avocado tree, all washed up, women wearing wigs and kitenge dresses, complete with plastic moccasin shoes and badly done qutex. Trust me they will be many, cooking for the son of the slope’s visitor. I don’t want it because they will say they are cooking for you, but they will be cooking for themselves, because you will only take a few mouthfuls and start whining. I want you to see them for who they are. We will just happen, like thieves but on a weekend I know they will be home, because I have a spy there.

I want us to walk in as my mother walks from her arrowroots garden with dirt clinging on her legs like gum boots, carrying a huge kiondo and dried up tea bush stabs stacked on the kiondo for firewood, or as the neighbor is asking her why our dog pooped on her now forming cabbages. I want you to walk into my old man as he leaves the coffee plantation where he has been pruning all day, with one leg of his trousers folded to knee length. Young Shiro will be running around chasing chickens back to their cages, still in her school uniform, which will now look more of grey than blue. She will see us and freeze on her tracks, and shout ‘Uncle is here...!’

Panic mode alert. My mother will almost lose it, she will hurriedly put down her luggage, hurry to us and embrace you, and give me strict orders to slaughter a rooster, and then you will become her favorite. My old man is not one to show much affection, but he will smile at us, and trust me, that smile is a big deal and happens rarely.

That time it will be too late to call her friends, I will get the finest rooster, slaughter it as she cooks some sweet smelling rice and a few chapatis. It will be a silent evening when we finally settle in the sitting room, you will yawn when the sweet smell hits your nose and young Shiro will laugh and whisper to her grandma “Auntie is hungry…” The daughter of my grandmother will then lead us in a lengthy prayer, blessing the Nissan that carried us and even the bubbly Kamaa for bringing us home safe. That evening the Television will remain off, as we all eat and talk and talk, with the only external noise being the cows as they turn, and crickets singing into the chill of night.

My old man will ask you where you are from, do not panic. i repeat do not panic. None of the two are tribal, the man will only be seeking to stamp on his bragging rights, and no matter where you say you come from, he will definately know someone there, or at least know someone who knows someone there.

'My daughter, where were you born...' He will ask.

'So and so place', you will answer, timid as a rat. 

'Aaaah... You know so and so..?' He will ask. you will shake your head. He doesn't lose 'That was before you were born, he did so and so, and also there is someone else called so and so..' 

Your eyes will lighten up, because you know that other person, and he will sit back and pat his beard. 

'That was my friend'. There - that will be a bond you will have created.

Slightly past 1.00 my old man will walk out to close the gate, and walk in with the shopping bags which were forgotten at the gate. We will all laugh and blame it on the excitement. My mother will try to add you a chicken wing, but you will be so full and will beg her not to, and she will agree. I will try to pick it and she will playfully stop me, then I will look at my old man, and in our heads tell each other “Women… huh”. My mother will yawn and ask you to go with her to bed, as I remain behind with Mzee. I will reach into the papers with our shopping and remove a wine bottle, and using metallic cups we will drink into the morning.