SURVIVING USHAGO

Returning to the Ancestral Land Without Getting Bewitched,Broke, or Buried

Listen. Going ushago is not travel. It is not vacation. It is not a “weekend getaway” the way Instagram girls describe Naivasha. Going ushago is a tactical military operation that requires planning, prayer, paranoia, and at least one bottle of anointing oil tucked between your socks.

If you are a Nairobian preparing to descend to Kakamega, Nyeri, Bomet, Kisii, Ukambani or wherever your umbilical cord is buried, please sit down. Adjust your posture. Today we discuss the unwritten constitution of Kenyan village survival.

You will not eat everywhere. I repeat. You will not eat everywhere. When Auntie number seven, the one nobody can fully explain how she’s related to you, brings you a steaming sufuria of porridge with a smile that is fifteen percent too wide, you will say, “Asante auntie, nilikula town.” You ate in town. Town being Nairobi. Nairobi being seven hours away. Doesn’t matter. You ate in town. The porridge will be respectfully poured behind the kitchen, into a banana plant that has been absorbing family betrayals since 1987. That banana plant has seen things.

Your Carry your own water. And your own soda. And if you drink, your own whisky, sealed, with the security cap untampered like you’re a forensic scientist. You will arrive at the funeral with a full crate of Coke and people will whisper, “Huyu ameleta supermarket.” Let them whisper. A whispering villager is a non-poisoning villager. You did not survive Nairobi traffic, kidnapping rumours, and three robbery attempts on Thika Road just to be finished by a cup of unsolicited meal from a cousin who has been watching your Instagram for two years with quiet hatred.

Choose your bed like you’re choosing a husband. Somebody will say, “Lala kwa room ya babu.” Babu is deceased. Babu has been deceased since 2004. Babu’s room has not been opened since the burial. There is a Bible on the bed that is now part of the bed. You will say, “Aki nimezoea kulala kwa sofa.” Sleep in the sitting room. With the lights on. With a Joyce Meyer sermon playing from your phone at low volume. With one eye permanently open like a Nokia 3310 charging.

Hide everything. The iPhone goes inside a sock. You will not flex. You will wear that one t-shirt with a small stain, the Tetema jeans jeans, and slippers that have outlived three relationships. When somebody asks what you do in Nairobi, you say, “Natafuta tu, manze.” You are not a Senior Data Analyst at a multinational. You are not a software engineer earning in dollars. You are someone who is “tafuta-ing.”

The car situation. If you must drive there, take the smallest, dustiest, most apologetic vehicle in your possession. A Probox is acceptable. A Vitz is humble. A Demio is forgivable. You do not arrive in a Prado. A Prado in the village is an announcement. An announcement is an invitation. An invitation is the beginning of a very long story involving herbs, a chicken slaughtered at midnight, and your sudden inability to wake up before 11am for the next six months.

The baby protocol. If you brought your child, that child does not get passed around like a communion cup. Auntie Rosaline can admire from a distance. The baby stays on your hip. The baby is not “being shy.” The baby is being protected. Compliments are screened. “Aki huyu mtoto ananona” is fine. “Aki huyu mtoto atakuwa wa maana sana” is suspicious. Why are you prophesying over my child, madam? What do you know? Why is your left eye twitching?

Move in silence. Do not announce the new job. Do not announce the upcoming wedding. Do not announce the land you are buying in Juja. Do not announce the trip to Dubai. The moment you announce anything in the village, the announcement enters a WhatsApp group called “Family Updates” which is actually a covert intelligence agency. By the time you reach Nakuru on your way back, three people have already booked appointments with practitioners to “discuss your matter.”

In conclusion, going ushago is beautiful. It is healing. It is your roots. It is where your name comes from. The sunsets are unmatched. The mandazi hits different. The air does not contain a single particle of Mombasa Road dust. We love the village.