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I retreated to the village last weekend, yet again, to bury one of my relatives. I think it’s a generational thing. All the men and women who peopled my village are now elderly folks in their 80s and 90s.
The man we buried last week was popularly known as John Walker, which was a corruption of his favourite drink, Johnnie Walker. A retired civil engineer—I must clarify he retired well ahead of his time—he was an amiable man who just minded his business.
In moments of inspiration, he designed and built virtually anything and everything, from the house that he lived in, to the gardens that he initiated from scratch, providing shades that he garlanded with hammocks. Indeed, his retreat to the village, after lengthy stints in Mombasa and Nairobi, was the beginning of a new life that was oiled by litres of slow-brewed muratina.
Mzee Walker’s wife was my aunt and one of her enduring acts of kindness was when she bequeathed me pens and inks at the beginning of my elementary schooling. She had closed down her shop and donated her stocks.
Mzee Walker exited as colourfully as he lived: He penned a moving obituary recounting his journey of life and which he decreed was to be read at his funeral. Some of the highlights included his three unsuccessful attempts at Common Entrance Exam, in 1950s, and his lack of recollection of the name of the man who baptised him. Such candour, such valour. They don’t make them like this anymore…
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I retreated to the village last weekend, yet again, to bury one of my relatives. I think it’s a generational thing. All the men and women who peopled my village are now elderly folks in their 80s and 90s.
The man we buried last week was popularly known as John Walker, which was a corruption of his favourite drink, Johnnie Walker. A retired civil engineer—I must clarify he retired well ahead of his time—he was an amiable man who just minded his business.
In moments of inspiration, he designed and built virtually anything and everything, from the house that he lived in, to the gardens that he initiated from scratch, providing shades that he garlanded with hammocks. Indeed, his retreat to the village, after lengthy stints in Mombasa and Nairobi, was the beginning of a new life that was oiled by litres of slow-brewed muratina.
Mzee Walker’s wife was my aunt and one of her enduring acts of kindness was when she bequeathed me pens and inks at the beginning of my elementary schooling. She had closed down her shop and donated her stocks.
Mzee Walker exited as colourfully as he lived: He penned a moving obituary recounting his journey of life and which he decreed was to be read at his funeral. Some of the highlights included his three unsuccessful attempts at Common Entrance Exam, in 1950s, and his lack of recollection of the name of the man who baptised him. Such candour, such valour. They don’t make them like this anymore…
By Peter Kimani