Gitithia village, at first glance, appeared to be a closely connected community. But beneath the surface, there was a wall of hostility that divided the villagers—remnants of wounds inflicted during colonialism. The scars ran deep, and the past hung like a shadow over the present.
At the heart of this division was an area known as Kwa Ngati. After the colonial era, this land had been allocated to soldiers who had sided with the colonizers. To the villagers whose families had suffered under colonial rule, Kwa Ngati was not just a place—it was a mass grave, soaked in the blood of their ancestors. The bodies of those massacred during the infamous Lari Massacre were said to have been dumped there. That section of the land, in their eyes, was cursed.
The villagers who lived in Kwa Ngati were never fully embraced by the rest of Gitithia. Though they coexisted in a fragile peace, a deep-seated mistrust lingered. The remnants of the Mau Mau, the freedom fighters who had resisted the colonial government, harboured an intense bitterness towards those they viewed as traitors. Intermarriage between the families of the Ngati and the Mau Mau was unheard of in Gitithia. The wounds were too fresh, the memories too painful. To the Mau Mau inclined villagers, the Ngati were responsible for the hardships they had endured, and they passed this resentment down to their children.
The second generation of Gitithia grew up knowing exactly who they could and could not associate with. Those who dared to defy their parents' wishes and mingle with the "enemy" often found themselves haunted by tales of 'evil spirits.' In the eyes of the Mau Mau families, even joining the military was an unforgivable betrayal, a path that aligned one too closely with the Ngati.
Religion, another powerful force in the village, did little to bridge the divide. Gitithia was home to several churches: AIC, PCEA, SDA, and the renowned Independent Church. The villagers who followed the Catholic faith travelled to Ngarariga for mass. Despite the animosity between them, both groups often found themselves sitting side by side in church, their grievances momentarily set aside in the face of shared worship.
But not all churches were equal in the eyes of the villagers. The Independent Church, in particular, held a special place in the hearts of many. It was lenient, accommodating, and, most importantly, it did not condemn the villagers for holding on to certain traditions. For instance, while other churches preached against female circumcision, the Independent Church turned a blind eye. This practice was a significant point of contention in Gitithia. The Mau Mau remnants, staunch defenders of their cultural heritage, viewed circumcision as essential. Women who refused to undergo the procedure were labelled irigu—unworthy, unclean. Marriages between circumcised families and those of irigu were often refused, further fracturing the community.
Gitithia was a village of contradictions. On the surface, it was one community, yet it was divided by invisible walls—walls built from pain, loss, and deep-seated beliefs. The past was never truly past in Gitithia; it lived on in the hearts and minds of its people, shaping their present and their future. The villagers tolerated each other because they had to, but true unity remained elusive, as the shadows of the past continued to cast long, dark lines across the village.
At the heart of this division was an area known as Kwa Ngati. After the colonial era, this land had been allocated to soldiers who had sided with the colonizers. To the villagers whose families had suffered under colonial rule, Kwa Ngati was not just a place—it was a mass grave, soaked in the blood of their ancestors. The bodies of those massacred during the infamous Lari Massacre were said to have been dumped there. That section of the land, in their eyes, was cursed.
The villagers who lived in Kwa Ngati were never fully embraced by the rest of Gitithia. Though they coexisted in a fragile peace, a deep-seated mistrust lingered. The remnants of the Mau Mau, the freedom fighters who had resisted the colonial government, harboured an intense bitterness towards those they viewed as traitors. Intermarriage between the families of the Ngati and the Mau Mau was unheard of in Gitithia. The wounds were too fresh, the memories too painful. To the Mau Mau inclined villagers, the Ngati were responsible for the hardships they had endured, and they passed this resentment down to their children.
The second generation of Gitithia grew up knowing exactly who they could and could not associate with. Those who dared to defy their parents' wishes and mingle with the "enemy" often found themselves haunted by tales of 'evil spirits.' In the eyes of the Mau Mau families, even joining the military was an unforgivable betrayal, a path that aligned one too closely with the Ngati.
Religion, another powerful force in the village, did little to bridge the divide. Gitithia was home to several churches: AIC, PCEA, SDA, and the renowned Independent Church. The villagers who followed the Catholic faith travelled to Ngarariga for mass. Despite the animosity between them, both groups often found themselves sitting side by side in church, their grievances momentarily set aside in the face of shared worship.
But not all churches were equal in the eyes of the villagers. The Independent Church, in particular, held a special place in the hearts of many. It was lenient, accommodating, and, most importantly, it did not condemn the villagers for holding on to certain traditions. For instance, while other churches preached against female circumcision, the Independent Church turned a blind eye. This practice was a significant point of contention in Gitithia. The Mau Mau remnants, staunch defenders of their cultural heritage, viewed circumcision as essential. Women who refused to undergo the procedure were labelled irigu—unworthy, unclean. Marriages between circumcised families and those of irigu were often refused, further fracturing the community.
Gitithia was a village of contradictions. On the surface, it was one community, yet it was divided by invisible walls—walls built from pain, loss, and deep-seated beliefs. The past was never truly past in Gitithia; it lived on in the hearts and minds of its people, shaping their present and their future. The villagers tolerated each other because they had to, but true unity remained elusive, as the shadows of the past continued to cast long, dark lines across the village.
