Day with Mr. Jackson

Yesterday morning I had a date with Mr. Jackson (the man drinking tea in the middle of my facebook profile photo). We had agreed the day before that he would come and fetch me at 09h00 and take me to see where he lives and meet his wife.

The concept of “African time” that prevails here is such that when someone says 09h00, they actually mean 09h45. So at 09h40 I made my way up to the school to see Mr. Jackson striding into the grounds. Thinking about it now, living in France is actually excellent preparation for living in Africa…if you want your meeting to start at 09h00 in France, tell everyone it is starting at 08h00 and they’ll all turn up at 09h00.

The formalities over, we made our way back down the school track towards the road. Appealing to my spirit of adventure Mr. Jackson revealed his plan for the day. “We will be having an exploration isn’t it?! I will show you houses, farms, rivers, gardens…we will be like Livingstone and Speke … Livingstone died in Africa!”*. As I tried to disregard last remark, I couldn’t help recalling I promised my Grandma I wouldn’t have any adventures or climb any trees.

As we walked Mr Jackson waved his stick around like he was conducting the surrounding countryside. He pointed out every land mark and home, and everyone we met, he named them. He then put me into a terrible state of mind by announcing: “I will now tell you what your forefathers did to us in colonial times”. I never know quite how you are supposed to react to a statement like that. Of course I am ashamed for the way we treated many indigenous peoples but at the same time, I didn’t do it. He proceeded to tell me how from 1954 – 1963 the British created the village of Mutuya by displacing the peoples of 7 villages: Kahinga, Gatare, Gaturumbari, Gatunguru, Mbuya, Karega and Kangwaci. Mutuya was a gated community where all the residents of the other villages were forced to live, and if you were found outside after 18h00 you were shot (you’d probably be given and ASBO today).

With a definite sense of pride, Mr. Jackson explained that the tribes of the central province of Kenya were fierce warriors and resolved to cause as much trouble for the British as possible. Indeed most of the Kenyans campaigning for independence (including Kenyatta the first post-independence President) came from this part of Kenya.

In the company of Mr Jackson, we walked across the hills and valleys of Gatheki-ini (our sub-location). We walked along a road made in 1952 by Chief Haber Githaigo to the Wathege Coffee Factory (if he is still around, he should come back and repair it). Wathege Coffee Factory is where the residents of the 7 villages take their coffee following the harvests of August – December. They each receive KES20/lb (£0.20, $0.31, €0.23) from the factory owner, then, if sold on to the brokers for much more, they sometimes receive KES10 or so more per kilo. When I checked the ICO Composite Indicator Price of coffee last night, it was trading in New York at $1.24/lb; that’s a 400% mark up on the original price paid to the farmers.
There is a genuine sense of anger amongst the local coffee farmers as they too have made this simple calculation. It is the brokers who are considered the villains, skimming all the profit for what they (rightly?) see as little to no work

By 12h00, the sun was beating down and I was glad to arrive at Mr. Jackson’s home. I met his wife Violet who showed me inside and insisted I take some lunch. As we ate our lunch of mangos and tea, I asked him about his life.

Mr. Jackson was born in 1947, the son of a local chief. After finishing Theka technical college he got his first job in 1968 as a plant mechanic at the local police department. After a couple of years, he moved on and became a bus conductor. It was during this time that he met his wife Violet who was taking his line everyday to her job as a typist in Murang’a. Their first date was over breakfast in Murang’a.
As their romance blossomed the time came to go and see her father and his father. Kikuyu tradition dictates that all parties must agree to the alliance; if any disapproves the deal is off. Fortunately for our young lovers everyone was very happy with the arrangement and in 1971 they were married in a mass ceremony (many couples at the same time).

Mr. Jackson left his job as a bus conductor in 1972 and joined the Cooper Motor Corporation (of Mini fame). During his time at CMC he worked on the President’s Rolls Royce and the first Jaguars to be imported into Kenya. Working his way up to shop steward, in 1999 he received his certificate of merit for 25 years of service and a handshake. He retired in the same year and since then he has been keeping busy doing odd jobs at St. Anna and tending to his garden.

When the time came for us to continue, Violet presented me with a bag of mangos and made me promise to come again. I thanked her for her hospitality and told her that now I can find my own way, I will be back soon.

As we left, Mr. Jackson showed me proudly around his garden and introduced me to his goats (Migule, Dune, Wamwitha, Tuthu & Kirima) and his cows (Gathima & Mwangaza). I made him promise me to call his next cow Daisy.

He led me further into his garden to see his plants and vegetables; few of which I recognised, and finally his bee hives hanging high in the trees. He put them up there after his first colonies were exterminated by “thugs” spraying Doom (a household pest killer) into them! There are clearly mindless idiots the world over.

I lost track of the number of homes and people we visited. We met Mr Jackson’s last surviving uncle, referred to as father (all uncles are referred to as father here). We visited guardians of children at St. Anna. We visited Jane again (the lady whose house is being washed away) but this time she looked much worse than last week. Her mouth had become covered with abscesses and she had a cut on her forehead as if she had had a fall. Whereas last week she was alert, she did not seem at all conscious of our presence. We met Wilson & Samwel who live with and look after their parents Joseph MButu & Florence Njoki. We met Grace & Leah who live together and are learning to survive without their husband Jeremiah who died in August of 09.

Just when you think you have seen the worst possible living conditions, you see something else. Everyone appears to me to be suffering from the same issues as they struggle to survive. In an economy still predominantly based on agriculture there are simply very few jobs and opportunities for people to find any work other than casual labour.

With no work and no income, families continue to work what little land they have in order to feed themselves. They grow and harvest what they can to eat (invariably bananas and maize) and if they are fortunate enough to have land to spare they may cultivate a few cash crops: coffee & macadamia. If they are very fortunate they will have a cow or two and may be able to sell some milk.

With no welfare state, no social security, no pensions (state or private pension) you are obliged to work when and where you can in order to continue to make ends meet and feed yourself and your family. There is no chance of sitting back and enjoying your golden years…there are no golden years. In many cases you have lost your children to HIV-AIDS and so you have inherited your childrens’ children. You now need to feed, clothe and put them through school. If you need medical treatment and don’t have the money, you must go without. The best you can hope for is for one of the faith based organisations to step in.

Their daily lives and living conditions are punishing and most people look older than they are. However, although their lives are a continual struggle, they have not lost their dignity and there is even something noble about their stoicism and their greater hope. You cannot help being humbled in their presence for they are only poor in the material sense of the term.

Our final call was to Mr. Samson Karanja who had recently lost his mother. The family had all gathered to mourn and, as they live off the beaten track the diocese’s motorcycling evangelist had also come to address them during this time. Although we only planned to pay our respects, we were invited to join them for tea. And so as we sat under the mango tree sipping our tea, we listened to the vicar read chapter after chapter of the bible. Now, recent experience has taught me to always have a few words ready on the off chance someone calls upon you to address the congregation, and true enough no sooner had the vicar closed his bible he turned to Mr Jackson and me to say a few words. Playing for time, I respectfully deferred to Mr. Jackson who gave an impressive 5 minute eulogy. An impossible act to follow, I gave a succinct but heart felt few lines thanking them for receiving me and expressing my sorrow at their loss.

After all speeches were concluded, we said our goodbyes to Samson and his family and started to make our way home. By this time Mr. Jackson and I had been walking for over 6 hours, so when the evangelist offered to give me a ride home on the back of his motorbike, I gladly accepted.

Thanking Mr. Jackson sincerely for a great day, looking after me and taking the time to show me around, we parted, agreeing to meet again soon to talk about dried fruit; we have a tentative plan to set up a fruit drying centre at the school. As he clearly knows everyone in the area, I cannot think of anyone I better qualified to act a liaison with the local farmers.

Finally before I sign off, news of Joyce. Joyce had her scan at Thika hospital yesterday and the results were clear which we are all happy about. However she continues to lose consciousness. The doctors told our nurse it is just residual effects from the bang on her head. Thoughts?

Night night xx

* Livingstone died in May 1873 in the swamps around Lake Bangweulu. Speke didn’t fair much better, he accidentally shot himself whilst hunting in Wiltshire on 18. September 1864