In Gitithia village, land was not just a possession; it was the essence of lineage, heritage, and respect. The village pioneers, seasoned and wise, held the responsibility of dividing the land among their children. They didn’t rely on surveyors or the principles of equal distribution; instead, they looked deep within their hearts and ancestors, and apportioned the land based on a concept that was known as utungata.
Utungata was more than a method; it was a way of life. It dictated that the children who showed the greatest respect and care to their aging parents received a large portion of land. There was no fairness in the modern sense—no splitting the land equally among the heirs. Instead, the respect one gave to the old man or woman determined their share.
In cases where an old man had two wives, the land was divided into two distinct portions, each given to the wife and then subdivided among her children. However, in some families, there were complexities beyond the village’s knowledge. Many old men had a second wife, one known only by family members and few villagers and hidden from the village, often living in the far-off lands of Ruguru. These wives, although unknown to the villagers, were still included in the land allocation. The old men referred Ruguru as volatile. The village known wives, aware of the consequences of defying the old man's wishes, accepted this without question, knowing that any opposition could bring misfortune to their children.
For the daughters, there was the ruthanju rwa airitu—a piece of land set aside specifically for them. This was not land to be sold or used for profit but a sanctuary, a place to call home if they ever needed to return from their marriages. The old men of Gitithia knew too well the pain of displacement, likely a memory from the colonial concentration camps, and they didn’t want their daughters to live in exile, in places they called kambi.
When an old man passed away before dividing his land, the responsibility fell to his wife. She, however, did not make the final decisions on her own. Instead, she called upon the village elders to carry out the division, adhering strictly to the words left behind by the deceased. These words, spoken or unspoken, carried the weight of law. Any child who attempted to manipulate their mother into swindling land from their siblings was doomed to be haunted by the old man’s curse. Life rarely went well for those who defied the will of the ancestors.
As time passed, however, the village elders began to lose their grip on the land. The new generation, eager for quick resolutions and uninterested in the old ways, turned to surveyors to divide the land. Unlike the elders, surveyors were men of business. They didn’t care about the history or the wishes of the old men. They measured, marked, and divided the land with an indifferent hand, bringing in the notion of equality where none had existed before.
The village elders watched with heavy hearts as the families began to disintegrate. The utungata was abolished, daughters were neglected, and the sacred land meant for the unknown wives was ignored. The issue of land division became a son’s affair, and the once cohesive village started to crumble. With surveyors came division—not just of land, but of hearts. The respect and reverence that once held families together turned into bitterness and rivalry. Brothers fought against brothers, and the old mothers wept for the unity that once was.
Gitithia, once a village bound by the wisdom of its elders, became a place where hate bred in the shadows of surveyor's beacons. The villagers soon realized that the surveyors had brought them something far worse than just boundaries and fences—they had brought the seeds of discontent and abandoned land that would haunt the village for generations to come.
Utungata was more than a method; it was a way of life. It dictated that the children who showed the greatest respect and care to their aging parents received a large portion of land. There was no fairness in the modern sense—no splitting the land equally among the heirs. Instead, the respect one gave to the old man or woman determined their share.
In cases where an old man had two wives, the land was divided into two distinct portions, each given to the wife and then subdivided among her children. However, in some families, there were complexities beyond the village’s knowledge. Many old men had a second wife, one known only by family members and few villagers and hidden from the village, often living in the far-off lands of Ruguru. These wives, although unknown to the villagers, were still included in the land allocation. The old men referred Ruguru as volatile. The village known wives, aware of the consequences of defying the old man's wishes, accepted this without question, knowing that any opposition could bring misfortune to their children.
For the daughters, there was the ruthanju rwa airitu—a piece of land set aside specifically for them. This was not land to be sold or used for profit but a sanctuary, a place to call home if they ever needed to return from their marriages. The old men of Gitithia knew too well the pain of displacement, likely a memory from the colonial concentration camps, and they didn’t want their daughters to live in exile, in places they called kambi.
When an old man passed away before dividing his land, the responsibility fell to his wife. She, however, did not make the final decisions on her own. Instead, she called upon the village elders to carry out the division, adhering strictly to the words left behind by the deceased. These words, spoken or unspoken, carried the weight of law. Any child who attempted to manipulate their mother into swindling land from their siblings was doomed to be haunted by the old man’s curse. Life rarely went well for those who defied the will of the ancestors.
As time passed, however, the village elders began to lose their grip on the land. The new generation, eager for quick resolutions and uninterested in the old ways, turned to surveyors to divide the land. Unlike the elders, surveyors were men of business. They didn’t care about the history or the wishes of the old men. They measured, marked, and divided the land with an indifferent hand, bringing in the notion of equality where none had existed before.
The village elders watched with heavy hearts as the families began to disintegrate. The utungata was abolished, daughters were neglected, and the sacred land meant for the unknown wives was ignored. The issue of land division became a son’s affair, and the once cohesive village started to crumble. With surveyors came division—not just of land, but of hearts. The respect and reverence that once held families together turned into bitterness and rivalry. Brothers fought against brothers, and the old mothers wept for the unity that once was.
Gitithia, once a village bound by the wisdom of its elders, became a place where hate bred in the shadows of surveyor's beacons. The villagers soon realized that the surveyors had brought them something far worse than just boundaries and fences—they had brought the seeds of discontent and abandoned land that would haunt the village for generations to come.
