A Very Kenyan Saturday

We have an acquaintance called Mabongha. He is an elderly gentleman, tall, thin, and always neatly dressed in white clothes. Most Sundays we bump into him at church, and also as we walk to the market. His 'home' is next to the main road, between the school and the market. When we walk past he always comes out and beckons us over for a chat. On one such occasion he informed me that he had once talked to a wise man from his village who told him that he was destined to meet and befriend a European. Even though Australia is a long way from Europe, I fear that I am that European.

Mabongha has been asking us for many months to visit his shamba (farm) in the village where he grew up. We would also get to meet his wife and children. We thought that he lived with his wife in Kamukuywe - apparently she is one of his relatives (we hope). Mabongha describes himself as a marketer. We assume that he sells farm produce in Kamukuywe market during the week and sometimes gets home to see his family on weekends. He has four sons who look after the shamba while he is in town.

A number of times a date was chosen, but for one reason or another it fell through. One weekend was the time the builders started to construct the new kitchen at the school - they dug trenches and built up huge mounds of dirt, then we realised that our car could not exit our driveway. That took a few days to solve (eventually a fence was removed temporarily).

So today (Saturday) was the day. We were keen to see his farm but also aware that he was a fairly eccentric sort of character. At 8 am we arrived promptly outside his home. As expected, he was sitting on the wooden seat outside his front door, waiting for our arrival. Upon seeing us he quickly ducked around the side of the house and came out with two live chickens (one hen and one rooster). These were tied together by a piece of rope about 50 cm long. He put them in the back of the van, informing us that he could not possibly go home without fresh meat. They were certainly fresh, and so were the deposits they left in the back of the van.

Without a word Mabongha then scurried off across the road to the 'general store'. After a couple of minutes he was visible in the doorway with a plastic bag in his hand, however he did not move in our direction. He must have been having a good conversation with the shopkeeper, because he did not return for at least another 10 minutes.

Finally Mabongha is in the van and we are on our way. As we pass the market (500 metres down the road) he asks us to pull over by the side of the road. He leaves the van without a word and starts a conversation with three men sitting outside a shop. After a few minutes he hurries back to the car to tell us that we must be patient for a while. Another ten minutes passes and Mabongha returns with a 'relative' who is going to accompany us to his farm.

We had already been told by Mabongha that his farm was near Kimilili, a town about ten kilometres from Kamukuywe. In one way he was right, it was nearer Kimilili than Kamukuywe, because it was at least another fifteen kilometres past Kimilili.

As we entered a small village with no obvious signs, Mabongha asked us to pull over again. He entered a shop and, after a quick conversation, was back in the car. The four of us head off again. Two minutes down the road he asks us to stop near the trees. There were trees all along the road. We slowed and soon found the next place we were to stop. At this location he entered a house, being gone about five minutes. Out he comes with another 'relative' who is also going to join us on our trip. Before we leave, the rest of the family comes out and shakes our hands through the window of the van. After many 'habari's' and 'nzuri's' we were on our way again.

Two minutes later we approach a rural lane. "This must be the farm" I thought erroneously.
At this stop we met another three people, one of whom loaded up the back of the van with firewood. Off again, wondering if we would have to soon set up the third row of seats in the back.

A short distance further on we left the main road and twisted our way down a narrow, rutted dirt track. The van is four wheel drive but it has a very low plastic guards on the front and back. My main task now was to ensure that another visit to the auto repairer was not required (don't ask, okay!!).

It was now coming up to 9:30, but the house was in sight.

We pulled up near a mango tree which offered some shade. The five of us got out to stretch our legs at which point Mabongha once again disappeared from sight. We stood around wondering what to do next. Ten minutes later a young man arrived with some plastic seats. He had not come from the house ten metres away, but from a track on the other side of the car. Minutes later Mabongha appears, telling us that his wife is not home and he doesn't know where she is. The five of us sit under the shade of the mango tree. Around us, except for the grassed area outside the house, is six hectares of farm land planted with maize and sugar cane. The sugar cane is a new variety with a narrower stem, which has not proven superior to the traditional variety. Yields, Mabongha tells us, are very low.

In order to get something (anything) happening, I ask Mabongha to give us a tour of the farm. "No", he says "first we must take tea". So we sit and wait for at least forty minutes. Our two hitch-hikers chat on in Swahili - they don't know English, and we don't know Swahili. Mabongha is flitting around, although sometimes present to start some conversation. "Do you grow maize in Australia?" He asks. "No" we tell him. "How then do you make your ugali?" he adds. "We don't eat ugali" we reply rather sheepishly. This idea must stun him because he remains silent for quite a while. Then he asks "how many cows do you have?". Des informs him that we live in the city and have no room for cows. Our grass is kept short with a mechanical lawn mower. "What about fowls?" he asks hopefully. "No, we don't keep fowls either. We buy our chickens and eggs from a supermarket". More silence.

Finally, one of Mabongha's daughters-in law arrives with tea. Fortunately it is not pre-sugared (you would not believe how much sugar Kenyans put in their tea). The tea is poured from a thermos, coming out milky and hot. Mabongha then retrieves his shopping bag from the van and hands everyone a small loaf of bread. Tea and white bread is a very common combination here. Both are usually very sweet.

The four sons live in separate houses scattered around the property. They have their own families and so, from time to time, grand children would arrive and introduce themselves. The youngest of these was not more than four or five years old. We suspect that she had never seen white people before because she fought vigorously so that she would not have to come near us. We were reminded how remote this corner of Kenya really is.

After our tea is cleared away, Mrs Mabongha finally arrives. She is welcoming but knows very little English. After a few minutes she disappears into the house. Mabongha disappears too.

All this time, the hobbled chickens have been clucking around near us. Outside the house, one of the sons is sharpening a knife on a rock. Mabongha comes out of the house and gives him a hand. Mabongha takes the knife and the son picks up the two chickens ( read "boilers"). The chickens are taken into an open-sided hut. One of the 'relatives' comes over and starts to chant at the chickens. This continues for a few minutes. Not much later the chickens are dispatched. They are taken away but come back half an hour later, completely plucked. The largest bird is laid on a table (under the mango tree). A swift incision opens it up, and the same 'relative' begins to dig inside and inspect the bird's vital organs. He holds some up to the light and seems to be pleased with what he sees. Did I really just see someone examine the entrails of a fowl?



At this stage, encouraged by Des, I remind our host that we must be back at the school by two pm. He seems okay with this request, although I was expecting the insistence that we stay for lunch.

Mabongha invites us into his house. It is a traditional mud and stick house with a relatively new corrugated iron roof. The front door leads straight into a lounge room, as it does in most Kenyan homes. The room is filled with armchairs and lounges, there is hardly enough room to move around. We sit on one of the lounges to find that there is no padding under the slip covers. We are left alone, presumably while the family attends to the chickens.

Our parting gift is one half of a chicken (to cook at home we are told), a bag of sweet potatoes and a bunch (yes a whole bunch) of green bananas. Des organises plastic bags for the fresh meat and we remind Mabongha, once again, that we must be leaving. "Perhaps a walk around the farm before we leave" he suggests. We do not refuse the offer. We walk past some of his sons' houses, past the sweet potato plot, the sugar cane and then out to the road. There is a largish group of people hanging around the nearby primary school and we are taken down to meet them.

Back at the farm we say our goodbyes to the family and take a few photographs. Mabongha's wife tells him something in Swahili and he translates that she wants him to keep reminding us to come back another day. We do not give a definite guarantee.

The trip back is much quicker, although each passenger asks to be let out at a different location to where they were picked up. We arrive back at the school at about 1:30 pm. Upon reflection we both agreed that for one morning in Western Kenya we were "Mabongha's white trophies" for the day.

It is certainly a day that will provide us with some unique and humorous recollections for many years to come.