Growing up as a hustler is nostalgic, fascinating

Cows had to milked and fed daily. Holidays were a myth. You couldn’t say it was Christmas so you wouldn’t milk the cows.

I grew up a hustler – and it was a nostalgic, fascinating experience

If I were to live my life again and were given a choice between growing up in the countryside and in an urban setting, I’d still choose the countryside. It’s not just about the fresh air and wide open spaces; there’s also the unbridled freedom.

It’s only years later after living in a city like Nairobi that you start appreciating what you hated when growing up in the countryside.

Childhood hustles made the countryside the perfect place to grow up. (If you grew up in the city, you may find some disconnect with this week’s column, but you’ll be entertained nevertheless.)

In the countryside, we grew up close to nature and its cycles. When it rained, we planted crops, but hated the weeds that had to be removed manually. We never sprayed our food, making it very healthy.

Cows had to milked and fed daily. Holidays were a myth. You couldn’t say it was Christmas so you wouldn’t milk the cows, which had strange names like Ngunu, Karendi, Nyameni, Thambu.

Borrowing fire

When it dried up, you looked for water kilometres away; there were no boreholes. We looked for everything – there was no gas for cooking, so you cut down trees for firewood; there was no electricity, so you bought paraffin for the lamp.

With no radio or TV, you visited the local town centre to get the latest news. No one sold newspapers in my village, which will remain a secret for security reasons. We read the papers used to wrap meat, or from our teachers occasionally. 

We made our own toys. There were no play stations or imported toys from China. Using available materials, from metal cans to plastic containers and polythene bags, we made cars, balls and even spectacles.

There was no English Premier League on TV, so we made up our own games, from wrestling to board games. We played our own version of baseball and competed on who’d be the best at killing birds with catapults. Occasionally, there was game to hunt, like gazelles and rabbits. There was never a dull moment, and we were busy from the rising of the sun until its going down. 

In the evening, because there was no radio or TV, we listened to stories from our parents and occasionally the neighbours who visited. It was common for our neighbours to come borrowing things like tea leaves, fire (yes!) or salt. Few youngsters reading this will believe the previous sentence. Visiting your friends was standard procedure. 

In the evenings and by the fireside, we roasted maize and tubers as stories flowed. My father was 50 when I was born. He had enough stories to share, from migrating from one county to another, to his encounter with the white man and seeing the first plane in 1927 – and even how and why he married my mother. He once worked at Tatu City, then called SOCFINAF.

Outdoor plumbing made sure we had time to admire the stars and the moon. We slept on beds without a mattress, on sheepskin, which was a great alternative, and waited to be woken up in the morning by cockerels.

Growing up as hustler might sound hard, but it was fascinating and gave me some of the best days of my life. And don’t think I’m that old – it’s Kenya that has changed fast.

I wonder what stories the current generation will share with their grandchildren. Did you grow up as hustler? What’s your story?