Nostalgia can make us or break us. Forget the part about breaking us for a minute and read this one that has made me what I am today.
My right hand never leaves my cheek whenever I painfully remember my sweet past experiences. Today, I remembered those sweet childhood games and plays and wondered why these days the kids we sire do not possess such kind of creativity. One wonders whether they even know what "mkebe" and "chapata" are. One also wonders whether they know what "kuruka uzi" means. Besides, when asked to play "kumuchurusia" and "kumutecha"(these were the games we played with balls made of polythene bags and some strings around them), will they even know where to start from?
In those days, girls would go to the posho mill and play "kati" for four hours. Only the approach of dusk would remind them that it was time to go home. They would fold their skirts and tuck them in on one side. This was meant to make them free to jump in all directions without any difficulty. Beatings of the previous night would not even be enough to remind them to concentrate on the flour production process rather than playing. They would only remember what awaited them back at home once the playing sessions were over.
Once at home, their mothers would hit them hard on their buttocks for not shaking the mill to ensure that no single particle of their flour was not collected. I don't know how God created those mothers. They always knew that one had not shaken the mill the moment they looked at the flour brought home in the baskets (chindubi). I never cease being surprised by their all-knowingness.
Another of their abilities that surprises me up to today is their ability to speak in parables just like Jesus did. They would always address us as if they were encouraging us to do things the wrong way. It was not always strange to hear a mother saying, "Instead of shaking the mill to produce all our flour, go and play with your friends until the posho mill guy calls you to pick your flour." I also remember them for not daring to run after troublesome kids. My mother, particularly, would simply say, "Endekhelo emali elakhurera." I didn't know what that meant back then.
Mkebe was another interesting game. Those days when I visited my aunt. There were always very many kids to play with. Preparations would start as early as 7am with the passage of invitation messages to all the players. They had to know early enough in order to attend to their chores before being part of the big team in the evening. My good friend Dennis Makete was particularly very good at this game. He would always run faster than the ball, which was usually hurled at any of the players. In case he realized that it would hit him, he would always duck methodically and run back to arrange the cobs on the can. Being hit with the ball meant being out of the game until it restarted. Elias was very good at hitting the can on which maize cobs were arranged delicately. Once it was hit, all the players, except one would disperse and run away from the ball carrier.
Let me sleep, I will pick it up from here tomorrow.
My right hand never leaves my cheek whenever I painfully remember my sweet past experiences. Today, I remembered those sweet childhood games and plays and wondered why these days the kids we sire do not possess such kind of creativity. One wonders whether they even know what "mkebe" and "chapata" are. One also wonders whether they know what "kuruka uzi" means. Besides, when asked to play "kumuchurusia" and "kumutecha"(these were the games we played with balls made of polythene bags and some strings around them), will they even know where to start from?
In those days, girls would go to the posho mill and play "kati" for four hours. Only the approach of dusk would remind them that it was time to go home. They would fold their skirts and tuck them in on one side. This was meant to make them free to jump in all directions without any difficulty. Beatings of the previous night would not even be enough to remind them to concentrate on the flour production process rather than playing. They would only remember what awaited them back at home once the playing sessions were over.
Once at home, their mothers would hit them hard on their buttocks for not shaking the mill to ensure that no single particle of their flour was not collected. I don't know how God created those mothers. They always knew that one had not shaken the mill the moment they looked at the flour brought home in the baskets (chindubi). I never cease being surprised by their all-knowingness.
Another of their abilities that surprises me up to today is their ability to speak in parables just like Jesus did. They would always address us as if they were encouraging us to do things the wrong way. It was not always strange to hear a mother saying, "Instead of shaking the mill to produce all our flour, go and play with your friends until the posho mill guy calls you to pick your flour." I also remember them for not daring to run after troublesome kids. My mother, particularly, would simply say, "Endekhelo emali elakhurera." I didn't know what that meant back then.
Mkebe was another interesting game. Those days when I visited my aunt. There were always very many kids to play with. Preparations would start as early as 7am with the passage of invitation messages to all the players. They had to know early enough in order to attend to their chores before being part of the big team in the evening. My good friend Dennis Makete was particularly very good at this game. He would always run faster than the ball, which was usually hurled at any of the players. In case he realized that it would hit him, he would always duck methodically and run back to arrange the cobs on the can. Being hit with the ball meant being out of the game until it restarted. Elias was very good at hitting the can on which maize cobs were arranged delicately. Once it was hit, all the players, except one would disperse and run away from the ball carrier.
Let me sleep, I will pick it up from here tomorrow.
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