Chapter Five

At the heart of the Taita community was a sacred tradition so deeply rooted that it rivalled the most solemn rituals. "Visitors Tea!"

It was a kind ritual, an expression of hospitality, an unspoken rule that determined the rhythm of their lives. Every morning at dawn, the entire village sprang into action, their collective yawns drowned out by the clinking of teacups and the bubbling of kettles. Thermoses were filled with visitors in case anyone stopped by. It did not matter whether the visitors were expected or not.

And oh, visitors! They came in dozens, drawn by the enticing aroma of freshly brewed tea and the promise of warm hospitality. Some of them were old friends who stopped by for a quick chat and coffee before they left. Others were strangers, weary travellers, who stumbled upon the village only to be welcomed with open arms and hot chai.

But regardless of their origins, all participants in the Taita Tea Ceremony were united by a common truth. In this small corner of the world, no problem was too big, no heartache was too heavy, nothing could not be relieved, with a delicious cup of tea and like-minded friends. But in all this the worst kind of sin would be to decline the offer of a cup of tea. It was a transgression too great to be forgiven.

As the sun shown its lazy rays over the winding roads of Mwakiki, our little force took a quick, hungry run to Mama Wachia's house. Mama Wachia, bless her soul, lived at the end of a long winding road, flanked by houses that seemed to grow more each time we walked. And in each of these homes lurked the dreaded tea offering, a siren song beckoning us with the promise of warmth and comfort.

Our first encounter with the tea trap came sooner than we expected. A misfortune or luck, only God knew, my mother had many friends in Mwakiki and each could not just watch us pass by. They had to welcome us for a cup of tea! One of the friends popped out with a kettle in her hand and a smile on her face that rivalled the sun.

"Would you like some tea before you leave?" she chirped in a hospitable voice after welcoming us into her compound.

Before we could muster a feeble protest, my brother Mwabili had already chugged a cup, his eyes widening in surprise as the caffeine hit his system like a freight train. And so, began our descent into the never-ending abyss of tea drinking. At first it was a blessing as we had slept with empty stomachs but soon our stomachs started becoming fuller and fuller.

Each time we entered a new home, the offers became more insistent and the cups more plentiful. By the time we arrived at Mama Wachia's door, we were already in a state of delirium from the tea. However, our ordeal was not over, as Mama Wachia saw fit to extend the offer again.

"Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?" she asked with a smile as sweet as honey.

My mother who was always the epitome of politeness could not say no. "Yes, please," she said and I sent a quick warning with my eyes to her direction but it was too late. And with her resigned sigh, we sat there again, staring at another cup.

When my mother, a weary traveller seeking solace with her soulmate, settled in Mama Wachia's humble abode, she unleashed a torrent of stories that would put even the most seasoned storyteller to shame. With every word, she vividly described our misfortunes, from our flight through starvation to her brief stint as a reluctant bride in the name of feeding her hungry children.

Mama Wachia's eyes widened in disbelief and compassion at the same time, and she listened intently. But when my mother told her the harrowing story of her unhappy marriage, Mama Wachia's compassion poured out like boiling water. Clicking her tongue and shaking her head, she disappeared into the back of the store and quickly emerged with a bag of cornmeal and a quantity of peas worthy of a royal feast.

As my brother and I stared in awe at the pile of food in front of us, an unspoken gratitude filled us. Mwabili and I to work with renewed determination, tackling Mama Wachia's pile of dirty dishes and fetching a huge pile of firewood for her before leaving.

After the long day, at last I was able to climb up the custard apple tree in our compound. My mother was boiling the peas we had got from Mama Wachia's place and I decided to busy myself with eating the mouth-watering custard apple. I climbed the gnarled branches with practiced ease, and the rough bark felt rough against my palms as I climbed to my high perch. From here I was able to watch our entire compound. This was also my best spot as I would also keep watch of Mwabili who had a habit of making fun of me.

As I sat in the bend of a sturdy branch, my thoughts drifted back to days gone by, to simpler times when Mwabili, my cousin Gabriel and I would play hide and seek by the corner of Uncle Mwakoma. He was Gabriel's father and my best Uncle.

From the tree I caught the view of an emerging figure entering our neighbourhood. It was she, Auntie Mkang'ombe an old woman with her weathered face and piercing eyes, who always brought joyful news. Mwabili and I, though not being total orphans but children of "deadbeat" dads, this money held our basic hope for survival.

The first thing my mother did every year when she heard the news that the beneficiary money was out was to gather us around her eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. This was always our best time of the year. The funds would be out on December holidays and therefore it was always well planned for. The next day, my mother would dress Mwambili and I in our best outfits. We would the take our foot journey to Voi. The vibrant town would welcome us with the sweet scent of kaimati by the road side and viazi karai. After having a "taste" we would match to one whole shop where my mother would buy us exercise books. From there we would pass by the mitumba clothes sellers, fit two or more and then my mother would buy a shirt for each of us before fitting a skirt for herself. With no dream of going back home we would replace the broken cups and thermos at home with new ones before acquiring some cold soda for each of us to fuel us back home.

I carefully climbed down from the custard apple tree while Aunt Mkang'ombe and my mother had a gruesome discussion. My movements were slow and deliberate as I headed toward the weathered mud wall of our house. I leaned against the wall, listening intently to every word of their conversation, tuning my ear to each syllable.

And as their voices drift toward me like a breeze, I listened with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, letting their words touch me. And then, like a bolt from the blue, came a revelation that shattered my fleeting hopes like fragile glass.

"There is no funding this year," Aunty Mkang'ombe explained resignedly. "The government did not allocate enough money and they said only orphans will benefit this year. It sad but I believe things will be better next year."

Something heavy settled in the pit of my stomach. I felt like I was suffocating with disappointment and guilt. You see, it was not the truth of having an uncertain future that weighed on me like a leaden cloak. It was the realization that I was a burden to my mother, a millstone she carried around her neck with stoic resignation. And as I stood there, hidden in the shadows cast by the fading sunlight, I could not help but feel the weight of being a dependent of luck pressing down on me, crushing me with an unbearable burden.

I heard my mother's sigh, the voice of despair and defeat echoing in the depths of her soul. Tears welled up in my eyes and the world around me became blurred by their saltiness. I did not understand why and my young mind kept thinking of one thing, " It is unfair."