They survived the camps to save the land—only for us to sell it.
I was born in Gitithia village, a time when nearly ninety-nine percent of the people who had been settled by the government in Gitithia Jet Scheme were still alive. These people were our grandparents—men and women who had endured the harshest times in Kenyan history, weathering the storms of colonialism, displacement, and the brutal experience of concentration camps, ichagi. They had survived it all, and after independence, they were finally allocated land in this village. It was a precious gift, a symbol of their resilience, and they treasured it with every fiber of their being, fully aware of the sacrifices and struggles that had been necessary to reclaim what had once been taken from them.
In those days, land in the village was not just a piece of earth; it was a legacy, something meant to be passed down through the generations. The mere thought of selling it was almost sacrilegious. When word spread that one of them had sold his land, whispers would fill the village air, but always in whispered tones, as though speaking too loudly about it would somehow bring misfortune. Land was held close to their hearts, a sacred trust that connected the past to the future. Land was blood in the village. Most of them lived and died in poverty, but their lands remained intact, untouched by the rising tides of modernity and materialism.
As I grew up, I saw remnants of their resilience, like footprints in the dust of a rapidly changing world. I remember the days when groups of elders would gather at Gitithia Mûnanda-iní. It was a sight to behold as we walked home from school, seeing those old men and women, deeply engrossed in discussions, their faces etched with the wisdom of years gone by. They were buying lands in groups—expanding their holdings in places like Thubukia, Munyû, Gítari, ûtheri wa Lari, Rumuruti, and other regions. It was as if they were trying to secure a future that would never forget the struggles of their past. But time, as it often does, began to erode the old ways. As these elders passed away, they left behind lands with migambo, rituals and beliefs tied to the earth and the ancestors who had walked it before us.
These, pieces of land, were entrusted to our parents, but they had embraced Christianity with a fervor that left little room for the old traditions. They didn’t believe in miano, the rituals that had been so central to our grandparents' way of life. And so, it was our parents who began to sell the lands. The old beliefs, the warnings tied to the migambo, were cast aside. They did not care what might be born from the abandonment of these rituals, what new curses or misfortunes might befall them.
Yet, even as the land was sold off, it became clear that our grandparents' words held a power that transcended their time on this earth. Four decades gone now and I am yet to meet a single person who has truly prospered from the proceeds of selling inherited land. Villagers sell their ancestral lands and purchase plots elsewhere, but it’s never long before they find themselves back in Gitithia village or some other place, living as tenants on land that was once their birthright. The worst stories are of those who sell their land only to drink away the entire amount in local bars, their legacy lost in a haze of alcohol and regret.
As I look around my village today, two questions gnaw at the edges of my mind. The first is whether we, the third generation of this village, will be able to reverse this destructive trend. Will we find a way to restore the respect and reverence for land that our grandparents had, or are we simply waiting for our parents to pass the baton to us so that we can finish what is left? The second is whether the person who introduced the idea of transferring the village mother titles to other names somehow cursed our village. For in that act, it seems that the very soul of our village was sold off, leaving behind nothing but hollow shells of what once was.
I think back to the stories my grandmother used to tell me. She was a small, wiry woman, with eyes that seemed to have seen everything. She had lived through the dark days of colonialism, had been moved from her family’s land by white settlers, and had spent years in a concentration camp, gíchagi. Yet, despite everything, she never lost her love for the land. She would often sit me down and tell me about the importance of our land, how it was more than just a place to live—it was a link to our ancestors, a connection to our history, and a gift to future generations.
“There is a reason we were given this land,” she would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “It’s not just dirt and rocks; it’s the blood of our people, our tears, sweat and torture. Never let it go, child. Never.” But as time went on, her words became nothing more than a distant echo, drowned out by the relentless march of progress. My parents' generation, who had grown up with Christianity as their guiding light, saw things differently. To them, land was no longer sacred—it was a commodity, something to be bought, sold, and traded. The old beliefs were just superstitions, relics of a bygone era. They scoffed at the idea of mígambo and míano, dismissing them as nothing more than the ramblings of an older, less enlightened generation. And so, the selling began.
I remember the first time I heard that one of the villagers had sold his father land. It was the talk of the village for days. People would gather in small groups, whispering among themselves, trying to make sense of it. “How could he sell his father land?” they would ask, shaking their heads in disbelief. “What will his children have? What will their future be?” But as more and more people began to sell their land, the shock that hovered the village began to wear off. It became the new normal. The old men and women who had once been the heart and soul of the village began to die off, one by one, taking their beliefs and traditions with them. And with each passing, the land became just a little less sacred, a little less important.
Now, as I walk through our village, I see the effects of the land sales all around me. The fields that once were green and fertile are no more. The homes that once stood proudly on their ancestral lands have been replaced by modern houses that lack the warmth and character of the old ones. And the people… the people have changed too. There is a sense of loss, of something missing, that hangs heavy in the village air.
Our village has become a shadow of its former self, a place where the old ways are forgotten, and the new ways have brought nothing but misery. The children who once tilled and played in the fields now roam the village with nothing to do, their futures uncertain. The elders who once gathered at Gitithia Mûnanda-iní are gone, replaced by a generation that no longer understands what the elders valued. Land.
I often wonder what those elders would think if they could see the village now. Would they be disappointed? Angry? Sad? I like to think they would be all three, but most of all, I think they would be heartbroken. Heartbroken that the land they had fought so hard to keep, the land that had been their lifeline, had been lost. Lost in lavish living and beer.
As the third generation, we are at a crossroads. We can continue down the path that our parents have taken, selling off what little land is left, or we can choose a different path—a path that honors the legacy of our grandparents and preserves the remaining land for future generations. But it won’t be easy. The allure of quick money is strong, and the pressures of modern life are great. It’s easy to sell a piece of land, to take the money and run. But once the land is gone, it’s gone forever, and no amount of money can bring it back.
I believe that we, the third village generation, have a responsibility to the village, to our ancestors, and to our children. We must find a way to reconnect with the land, to understand its true value, and to protect it from being sold off piece by piece, mburoti maguta maguta. We must find a way to restore the respect and reverence for land that our grandparents had, and to ensure that it remains a legacy for future generations. It won’t be easy, but nothing worth doing ever is. And if we succeed, we will have done something truly remarkable—we will have saved our village and generations.
