In Gitithia, religious faith was more than just a belief—it was the very air the villagers breathed. From the first generation, the villagers had known the doors of the church as well as home fellowships or mwaki in their own homes. They revered the men in collars, treating them as intermediaries between them and the divine. Even in their last breaths, they asked for prayers, sacraments and the anointing oil, "kuhakwo maguta," as if these final rites would cleanse their souls for the journey ahead.
Yet, despite their outward devotion, the villagers of Gitithia carried hidden burdens. In their hearts, they harbored heaps of files—mental records of past wrongs, slights, and grudges. These files, some dating back to 1964 when the villagers first cleared the dense Gitithia Jet Scheme bushes, were handed down from generation to generation like a twisted heirloom.
Within these files lay the roots of ancient family-to-family grudges, petty disagreements between brothers, the lingering sting of a mother-in-law's disapproving glare, and the simmering tensions between teachers and parents of Gitithia primary school, among other rubbish. Though these grievances often lay dormant, buried beneath the surface of daily life, they never truly disappeared. They festered quietly, waiting for the right moment to resurface.
When a problem arose in Gitithia, the villagers would retreat to these files, reopening old wounds with the same reverence they reserved for their Bibles. They would recount, with startling accuracy, the year, month, and date when an offense occurred. “Reke one uguo,” they would say, meaning, “Let him or her face that,” as they found a grim satisfaction in recalling past misfortunes and triumphing in the current hardships of others.
But the gods of Gitithia were not idle. They observed the villagers’ behaviors with an unforgiving gaze, and from time to time, they intervened to help those in need, leaving the villagers ashamed and bewildered. The gods knew that the files, though tightly held, were flawed records of a flawed human memory. They knew that the villagers often forgot that the people they held in contempt also sought forgiveness through umburi, confessions, just as they did.
The true tragedy of these files was not just the bitterness they sustained, but the hatred they bred in subsequent generations. Children were raised to despise neighbors for reasons they could not understand, fueled by a history that was not their own. The most senseless of these divisions arose between those descended from Mau Mau fighters and those from the Ngati, the loyalists. The origins of their enmity had long been forgotten, yet the resentment persisted, like a shadow stretching across the decades.
The gods, in their wisdom, would sometimes cleanse the village of its bitterness, but the cycle often began anew. The villagers would gather in church as one people, clasping their hands in prayer, seeking the peace that their religious faith promised. But deep in their hearts, the files remained—an unspoken history, waiting to be reopened when the next tribulation arose.
And so, the people of Gitithia lived with this paradox: they were devout believers, yet prisoners of their own unforgiving memories. They prayed for salvation, yet held tight to the very grudges that kept them from truly receiving it. And as the years passed, the burden of these files grew heavier, casting a long shadow over the village—a shadow that only the gods could one day hope to lift.
Yet, despite their outward devotion, the villagers of Gitithia carried hidden burdens. In their hearts, they harbored heaps of files—mental records of past wrongs, slights, and grudges. These files, some dating back to 1964 when the villagers first cleared the dense Gitithia Jet Scheme bushes, were handed down from generation to generation like a twisted heirloom.
Within these files lay the roots of ancient family-to-family grudges, petty disagreements between brothers, the lingering sting of a mother-in-law's disapproving glare, and the simmering tensions between teachers and parents of Gitithia primary school, among other rubbish. Though these grievances often lay dormant, buried beneath the surface of daily life, they never truly disappeared. They festered quietly, waiting for the right moment to resurface.
When a problem arose in Gitithia, the villagers would retreat to these files, reopening old wounds with the same reverence they reserved for their Bibles. They would recount, with startling accuracy, the year, month, and date when an offense occurred. “Reke one uguo,” they would say, meaning, “Let him or her face that,” as they found a grim satisfaction in recalling past misfortunes and triumphing in the current hardships of others.
But the gods of Gitithia were not idle. They observed the villagers’ behaviors with an unforgiving gaze, and from time to time, they intervened to help those in need, leaving the villagers ashamed and bewildered. The gods knew that the files, though tightly held, were flawed records of a flawed human memory. They knew that the villagers often forgot that the people they held in contempt also sought forgiveness through umburi, confessions, just as they did.
The true tragedy of these files was not just the bitterness they sustained, but the hatred they bred in subsequent generations. Children were raised to despise neighbors for reasons they could not understand, fueled by a history that was not their own. The most senseless of these divisions arose between those descended from Mau Mau fighters and those from the Ngati, the loyalists. The origins of their enmity had long been forgotten, yet the resentment persisted, like a shadow stretching across the decades.
The gods, in their wisdom, would sometimes cleanse the village of its bitterness, but the cycle often began anew. The villagers would gather in church as one people, clasping their hands in prayer, seeking the peace that their religious faith promised. But deep in their hearts, the files remained—an unspoken history, waiting to be reopened when the next tribulation arose.
And so, the people of Gitithia lived with this paradox: they were devout believers, yet prisoners of their own unforgiving memories. They prayed for salvation, yet held tight to the very grudges that kept them from truly receiving it. And as the years passed, the burden of these files grew heavier, casting a long shadow over the village—a shadow that only the gods could one day hope to lift.
