They turn taps today, not knowing their village once walked for every drop.
In Lare forest, the sound of clattering jerrycans echoed through the early morning air as villagers walked and gathered at Githiyi, the communal water point. The queue stretched long, with young men, women, and children all waiting their turn to dip their containers into the precious water source. Githiyi was more than just a spring and a place to fetch water; it was the pulse of the village, where gossip flowed as freely as the water itself. It was also a place where village women bred hatred because of water.
Apart from Githiyi, we had Muchiri wa Mai, a man revered by the villagers. Muchiri regulated Bathi Dam water in the village. The villagers believed that Bathi Dam’s water was only replenished when someone drowned in its depths. They dreaded the thought that the water might be contaminated by the tragedy, but the thirst of Gitithia could not be ignored. Whenever the dam’s water ran low, Muchiri would disappear leaving the villagers without water. But, Bathi dam seemed to benefit Ndeiya people.
Past Lare Primary School, lay Kwa Mbai well another place where the villagers fetched water. It was a place of mystery, with water that tasted faintly of salt and a legend that kept many villagers at bay. The well, they said, had a snake and few villagers dared to fetch water from it. Those who did would whisper of the snake’s shadow in the water, a dark, coiled presence that watched them as they drew their buckets up the well.
As the years went by, the villagers realized they could no longer rely on the unpredictable Bathi dam and tiresome Githiyi and Kwa Mbai sources. The villagers bought donkeys, sturdy animals that became essential to their survival. The donkeys trotted tirelessly up the steep paths to Uplands, Matangi-ini ma Mai, pulling a cart laden with water containers or a drum. Later, the villagers found a more reliable source at Kwa Big Money, a place that would later become Uphome Funeral Home. The irony was not lost on the villagers—they had once drawn life-giving water from a place that would eventually be associated with death. When the mortuary began its operations, they stopped fetching water there, as if the presence of the dead had poisoned the very ground they once trusted.
Can I mention Wanjai? Wanjai was a familiar figure at the Gitithia shopping center, where he sold water to the villagers. He operated under the authority of the Kiambu Council, which had established a water point where the current Gitithia water point stands. However, the council's water supply was notoriously unreliable, often forcing the villagers to seek alternative sources.
Today, as the fourth and fifth generations of Gitithia enjoy the luxury of Limuru Water flowing directly into their homes, they cannot fathom the hardships their ancestors endured. They turn on their taps without a second thought some leaving the water to flow on the ground, oblivious to the fact that their village was once defined by the search for water. They do not know that their great-grandparents matiarà akonyoku, that is, had skin discolored from the lack of cleanliness, a result of the long, dusty treks to find water. They cannot imagine a time when both boys and girls carried heavy containers on their backs and pushing stubborn donkeys up steep hills was a daily business.
The story of Gitithia’s water is one of struggle and perseverance, a reminder that what is taken for granted today was once a daily battle for survival. The waters of Gitithia carry the memories of those who came before, flowing through the veins of a village that has seen both scarcity and abundance.
