One of the enduring folktales among the Mount Kenya people is the one about a boy who paid a visit to his uncle many years ago. His uncle received him well but his wife, who was fuming for no reason, served him ugali and houseflies stew.
Later, the uncle realised that this might get him in trouble with his in-laws. So he slaughtered a cock for the boy to erase houseflies stew from his head. Then he asked the boy what he was served at his place, only for the boy to answer that he was served housefly stew.
Later, he slaughtered a he-goat but the boy didn’t change his story. Finally, he slaughtered for him his prized ox but the stubborn boy insisted that he was given housefly stew when he visited his uncle.
Many Christmases ago, when I was a wide-eyed boy bridling with youthful angst who wanted to see what lay beyond the next ridge, I visited my aunt who had relocated from Murang’a to Ukambani.
We left for Matuu via the Thika route, cramped in the boot of my uncle’s Ford Cortina, sharing a room with bags of potatoes and a randy he-goat that bleated throughout the journey.
When we arrived in Matuu, smelling like he-goats, I asked my cousins where their river was so I could wash off the grit. In my home area, every valley had a stream or river to wash down one’s life’s dirt away.
Unlike our place, Matuu had no rivers. But I kept bugging my cousins to show me one, which in a way offended them without them saying so. Unknown to me, they planned to revenge my pesky questioning someday.
Come Christmas day, my uncle was hosting a feast at his home. After filling our tummies with chapatis, we stole his Black Mamba bicycle and left. When we were safely away from adults, my cousins told me that there was another party for young men going on at some location.
We peddled through several sandy villages, girls swooning at us along the way. We were 12 years old and girls were an entirely different species to us so we peddled on. The venue of the party was a deserted homestead where several boys of my age huddled around some meat that was sweet as sin.
We ate to our fill then slept facing upwards since that was the only tenable position. I then asked for some water. My cousin pointed out that this was a men’s gathering and none was the wife of the other.
I got his message and headed to the makeshift kitchen. There, on a dirty table, a hairy black head of a strange animal with two ugly fangs protruding from it stared at me. I fled out shaken, having mistaken that head for the famed Ukambani witchcraft paraphernalia.
My cousins who were used to bush meat laughed at this backward boy who didn’t know we had been feasting on warthog choma. I puked since then all the way to New Year.
When I got back home after Christmas, my folks noted my foul mood and ordered me to disclose what soiled it in Ukambani.
I disclosed that my hosts served me warthog meat for Christmas. A beef between our two families simmers to date.
