Growing up in Marsabit was a blend of proximity and distance that allowed us certain freedoms. I was lucky to be a child before electricity and televisions of Mrasabit (That’s a lot later than for most people) and often, we were left to our own devices, both in my home and the homes of the relatives whose places we frequented. We had vast lands that went forever, toys provided by the discarded objects of the daily use and the security of society.
My auntie lived near the Catholic church and monastery/convent, famously known to us as the pastoral centre, and we didn’t pronounce it like that exactly but I will not bore you with our Banjumen Benjamin pronunciations. Anyways, my auntie worked at the centre, I think she did. The buildings, church and classes, and trees, grass, and shrubs, lined the compound of the premise, with a wide gate that was more open than closed. Within the compound were statues of Mary holding baby Jesus, with fountains around it and on some Sundays, we were within the premises. Without the knowledge of the adults, my cousins and I, Muslim children in the Sunday school classes. We loved the sweets and the treats and so we sang the ‘Kanisa lita jengwa na kina nani, iyo oh oh oh…kanisa lita jengwa na kina Sista, na kina sisi…’ and ‘Who built the Ark, Noah, Noah, who built the ark brother Noah built the ark…’ and whatnot and we were vibrant and excited and we didn’t care that we were blaspheming against our own gods and whatnot. And then on the other days, we were at the madrassa, chanting the Arabic alphabet, memorizing the Qur’an and learning how to be proper in the ways of Islam. And then sometimes, we were herding goats or their kids in the faraway fields, responsible for the whole families’ livelihoods and I am unsure how much of this we understood, but somehow, the goats came home safe night after night. We were, even then, many many things, a vastness incomprehensible to ourselves.
I am aware of children being raised by more than their parents/guardians now, whatnot with the internet, but in my version of upbringing, I had a lot more participants too, most of whom my parents, even now, have no clue about. And I look back and I am grateful for that freedom, and that being left to my own devices, all of which have contributed positively to who I am. And our parents were more than cautious about us but still, we were wayward and also very governed in a way and all of it contributed to what I am today. We knew that somehow; we were free but we belonged to the community and either one of those adults could fix what they thought was wrong in us. And if we expected to grow up and live within that community, we had to accept it.
I am, if any, very little of the things I was raised to be, or maybe all of it in the ways unintended by the society that raised me. Yet I understand still, how much of our upbringing becomes who we are. I am unable to reconcile it of course, but I am of the idea that our children do not need a round-the-clock policing. You can’t trust me though, because what do I know? I am a paradox, even to myself and on most days, I am fighting to reconcile what’s good and what is right, what is true and what is right. It is not as clear-cut as it should be, but the bottom-line remains, that the pursuit of our dreams should not be detrimental to humanity and to the environment in which we hope to thrive. We belong to earth and to the communities within it, ours and otherwise and if you are conscious enough, all of the world’s communities become yours in a way.
This writing is a nonsensical endeavour on my part, to at least write something here after such a long period of time has lapsed. I heard myself sing one of those Sunday school, songs on this Sunday night and I went back in time to the child that my parents raised but would never truly know, and how much pride I take in that, in being something nobody that knew me then, evisioned. Take it as you will, but always with an open mind.