The Grandmother Continues to Amaze

My grandmother knows a lot. She knew that President Kibaki was in Mombasa for the holidays. Most of the rest of us, even those relatives who live in Nairobi, didn’t. She knew that there was a coalition government in Kenya. She advised that the Commission looking into the events that took place after the Kenyan elections earlier this year should take place outside of Kenya because a domestic Commission would be susceptible to corrupting influences. She asked why someone would fly planes into buildings in America. She said the new President of America is a Luo. Obama’s dad was a Luo from Western Kenya. (And then she asked if the white people really allowed a black person to rule them. I told her that many people of all colors voted for him to be their next leader. I also told her that people of all colors voted for him not to be their next leader. After all that she's seen in her over century of living, I can't even comprehend how she processes this recent development.)

Now let me put this into perspective. My grandmother cannot read or write. She is illiterate, as are most people that she grew up with largely because there were no schools for them to attend when they were young, at least the way we think of formal schooling today. She can’t read the paper, doesn’t have a television or a computer, and doesn’t listen to the radio. As a matter of fact, I remember when she got electricity. Before that, we would have to use kerosene lamps when it got dark. The same lamps that my parents used to do their homework. Up until relatively recently, her only option was to get information the old fashion way.

Her world is surrounded by several acres of animals, corn, tea, coffee, banana trees, orange trees, and more tea, corn and coffee. So the extent of her knowledge beyond her immediate world amazes me.


To walk to her house, which she and many of her children have had to do over the course of their lives, you would have to walk over an hour down a dirt road that runs off the tarmac road.



Ask someone what the name of the road is and they’ll laugh at you. The road doesn’t have a name. You just have to know where to turn. Walking at night, you’re basically walking in pitch black becasuse there are no street lights. Technically, there are no streets. If you’re lucky enough to be driving by car at night down one of the dirt roads, you’ll see figures passing you by sans light and wonder, “How in the hell do they find their way around?” I guess we’re all creatures of habit, and I‘m just fortunate enough to live in a place where streetlights are the habit. Or would I rather be less “fortunate” and be fortunate enough to live near my grandmother? These are life’s quandaries.

The area that my grandmother lives in is a relatively wooded area from which you have a beautiful view of Mount Kenya when it is clear outside. The area used to be densely wooded, and was frequently used by Mau Mau freedom fighters to hide from the British during the fight for Kenyan independence.


As you can tell from the pictures below, there isn’t much to distinguish one hill from the next rolling hill.




You get places because you know where you are going, not because of road signs or GPS navigation systems. If you get dropped off around here in the dark and think you can find your way out to a main road, I hope your first name is Bear and you host Man vs. Wild. Otherwise, best of luck to you.

I’ve grown up in the States with a concept of the middle of nowhere. Yet, in all my travels across six continents, I’ve never been anywhere inhabited by people more in the middle of nowhere than this place. But for some time, it hasn’t been nowhere. It's somewhere. It's my roots. Over the years I have become intimately familiar with various shortcuts around these dirt roads. But drop me off in the dark on one these roads, and I’d never find my way out without assistance. To think that my parents made it out of this nowhere to the States is pretty mind-boggling each time I come back. I often feel like if I had grown up in their shoes in the 1940s and 50s, I would have been a huge success if I had just heard of this America place. Stories just don’t do their journey justice. You’ve got to see where it started to fully appreciate it.

As we pulled on to my grandmother’s land, the place looked deserted. Our visits are typically unannounced to avoid unwanted guests who may show up to get Christmas. Christmas is what a guy asked for this afternoon, and what he meant was "some money". “Can I have some Christmas?” You are destined to encounter a few people who tangentially know somone you know who will ask for something like Christmas because in their eyes, you made it to America. It’s a strange feeling to be stared at celebrity-style when all that I’ve done is be born in the States, which may arguably be fortunate, but certainly is not a testament to any particular skill that I have. By now, however, I'm oddly accustomed to the looks from the numerous times I've been back to Kenya. I know ... I keep getting sidetracked.

We parked and saw my uncle standing on the cusp of the corn field. He came out said hello. Then we saw my aunt who emerged from the kitchen. (Here's a picture of my grandmother's kitchen just so you know where my aunt emerged from.)



So where’s my grandmother? Shouldn’t this dear old lady be crumpled up on a bed being spoon fed and reminded about the good old days? Not a chance. She's in the coffee fields working. I mean you just can’t script this stuff.

We found my grandmother in the coffee field supervising workers picking coffee.


(She's the one on the right with the walking stick)

Here’s a woman who is at least 106 years old (see the 1901 comment below -- I now suspect that she might be older), outside instructing people what to do, how much they can expect to get paid, and then staying outside to supervise. She was sitting on the ground on an empty coffee sack with her walking stick laying next to her. We walked up to her and greeted her in Kimeru. Her face lit up. It’s rare that my presence makes an old person happy. But it also could have been my parents’ or my brother’s presence. I’m thinking it was probably the cumulative effect. Anyway, I hope that our random surprises don't cause her heart problems in the future. I’d feel pretty guilty about that.

She reached for my hand. I helped her up, handed her the walking stick and off she went unassisted to tell the workers that she would be back. Then, back to the house with us in tow.

We sat down for a few minutes in her living room. Suddenly, she grabbed her walking stick, reached for a hand to help her up, and then shuffled out of the house. After about five minutes, I started wondering where she disappeared to and scurried out of the door to go look for her. I didn’t have to go far. My grandmother was seated on a stool with about ten to twelve women sprawled out around the compound holding court. She was effectively laying down the law and distributing money. At least that's what my cousin told me. I don't know if I've mentioned this, and I don't feel like going back to check, but I don’t understand a word my grandmother says. Well, actually, I probably understand one out of about every ten words she says. She only speaks Kimeru, her local dialect. And in typical American fashion, I'm fully fluent in English, and losing what competence I had in French very quickly. So we use whoever is around and hand gestures to communicate.

So my cousin tells me that our grandmother is closing by telling the women when she expects them back, and then she heads back to me and we head indoors for her to retake her seat in the living room.

She amazes me more and more every time I see her. I’ve never seen a person so old, yet so full of life, mobile, and with a sharp memory. I can barely remember things from ten years ago, and here she is telling stories about 1901. Seriously. 1901. I'll get to that next time.