There is one photo I have been hunting for over the last two decades. It was taken by my cousin and it’s among the photos I treasure the most. It was taken back in 1995 about a month after graduating from college. Maitũ Mũkũrũ on the left and Wakĩmarũ, her co-wife were married to my father’s oldest brother or Awa Mũkũrũ. Culturally, all three are my parents too. All my father’s brothers are technically my fathers and their wives my mothers.
These women were very deeply intertwined with my upbringing and deeply influenced a lot of my thinking to this day. Awa Mũkũrũ, as we fondly referred to him was the first father figure most of my siblings interacted with more often than my biological father as he had been detained for 6 years for his radical actions in the struggle for liberation and then later engaged in food business in the city. He came home whenever money and situations allowed.
I didn’t have the time to miss him as there was plenty to do. Awa Kũkũrũ being the villager with the most cows engaged me in his herding and whatever errands he was engaged in. I found myself being around his homestead quite often.
Back to the women. The bonds between Awa Mũkũrũ, his family and I became deeper than I knew. It was when I gained admission at college out of the country I realized just how close we were with that family.
The last day in the village before heading to college, I met the family to say my goodbye. I remember Maitũ Mũkũrũ fondly asking me if I could be kind enough to a white woman to her pleasure. I was young said I would try.
This picture was taken as soon as I returned after graduation and after exchanging a few niceties and warm hand shakes we sat down for a reunion photo. As the photo was being taken. Maitũ turned to me and asked if I fulfilled her request. We all bursted out laughing and that was it. We then proceeded to enjoy some roasted potatoes and bananas that were expertly the way only the two could do it. I always left the place stuffed because I had to eat in doubles. It’s as if I was a judge of two indigenous chefs. But obviously that’s more than an exaggeration as I we would literally have a comedy jam session with nobody hogging the stage.
we would make fun of each other without bruising anybody’s ego. Man! I loved these women like “lack of importance “ as Maitũ Mũkũrũ liked to say. The beautiful part of this these two women were masters of the old form of communication. The would use gestures, face to the side as if mimicking a Greek mask to show emotions and the raise and lower their voice in melodic ways that made the story more theatrical. Maitũ Mũkũrũ mostly dominated the storytelling but Wakĩmarũ was no light weight either. She was great at adding details that Maitũ might have assumed I already knew. I loved these women three way storytelling as it felt like a dance as much as it felt like theater. It was clear to me that simply because Maitũ was telling the story from her hurt as she roasted sweet potatoes, Wakĩmarũ was lock and step with us inside her hut while roasting bananas or corn, depending on the season or on just how she felt. Each mother would emerge from the short doorway with their heads bent with a guard carrying a smoking hot golden cob or caramelized sweet potatoes that were sometimes boiled in a big clay pot as she cooked other foods like the mix of corn and beans. The sweet potato would then be roasted briefly on an open fire. But that more rare than just roasting the sweet potatoes straight out. The point here is that the flavors were always distinct and a great condiment for conversation.
The mothers would return to the house and get burlap bags that were so brown that you would be excused for thinking they were dyed the exact color of Karurumo dirt, their home. They would both seat down on the burlap bags with their legs stretched straight and the cloth wrapped around their waist tucked between their legs. With a guard of brown porridge in their hands, hospitality would reach zenith. We would converse without any regard for time. That is exactly how I was slowly drown into becoming an anthropologist. But that’s a story for another day.
Maitũ unfortunately passed away while I was grad school.The next time I visited the home, Wakĩmũrũ told the most amazing story that turned my thinking about love upside down. One day I hope to tell the story. Much to my great mothers. Fear is not for this family!