To my children, it was an abandoned bus stop. To us, it was the beginning of every journey.
I sat with my children under the shade of our favorite tree, the breeze gently rustling the leaves above us. They love hearing stories about the past, and today, I had a special one to share. “Did you know,” I began, “that Gatarama was once the main bus station for all the people of Gítithia?” Their eyes widened in disbelief. “Gatarama? The abandoned bus stop?” My eldest asked, her voice tinged with surprise.
I chuckled softly, understanding their astonishment. The Gatarama they know is a far cry from the bustling hub of a bus station it once was. “Yes, Gatarama and also Njíra ya Gítithia were the hearts of our village travels. You could hardly miss to find villagers there. We used to pass through the abandoned culverts to the other side of the road.”
They looked at each other, trying to imagine a time when those quiet, empty places were filled with life and the culverts were passable. “And do you know,” I continued, “Nyambarí, as you see it now, wasn’t there back then. That area was nothing but a dense forest, with a few wooden shops and small hotels near Limuru stage.”
The children seemed puzzled. The Nyambari they know as a bustling center, with shops lining the streets and people going about their daily lives. It was hard for them to picture it as a forest, wild and untamed. “In those days,” I said, “people didn’t have the luxury of bodabodas to get around. Most of the villagers walked all the way to Gatarama or Njira ya Gitithia, even when they had heavy loads to carry.”
“Were there no cars at all?” My youngest asked, curiosity shining in her eyes. “There were a few,” I replied, “but only a handful of villagers owned vehicles. People like Kagara were known for their kindness. They would often give the village elders a free ride, especially on Wednesdays and Saturdays when everyone was returning from the Limuru market.” “And what about the others?” My daughter asked, always the one to seek out the details. “Ah, some cars were known for never stopping, even if an elder was waving them down,” I said with a sigh. “But the villagers understood. They wouldn’t even try to stop those cars.” The children nodded, soaking in this piece of our village’s history.
“Limuru market,” I continued, “was where we went for all our shopping. We sold macaki there, and whatever else we had. Boutiques were unheard of back then. Our village was clothed by mitumba, the second-hand clothes brought in from far away.” They stared at me, their young minds working to piece together a world so different from their own. A world where Gatarama was alive with the hustle and bustle of travelers, where Nyambari was a mysterious forest, and where walking miles to the market was a way of life. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” I said, smiling at them. “But that was our village. That was our life.”
As I shared these memories, my children listened, eyes wide with wonder. The world I grew up in was so different from theirs, yet the values of community, kindness, and simplicity remained timeless. Through my stories, I hope they understand the importance of remembering where we came from, even as they move forward into a future that I could never have imagined.
