Murugi Nyaga

Memories of Kenya by Murugi Nyaga 

I squatted on my heels, leaning over my open suitcase, scooping clothes and items out of it. The ebony suitcase was stained red and sandy, as were the used sketchbooks I pulled out of it. My clothes were spared from the staining only because my parents made sure that I cleaned them before we traveled back home to Massachusetts. I laid them in a folded stack on my bedsheets, along with some sock pairs, my hair brush, toothbrush, and toothpaste. Near the bottom of the suitcase laid a black dress. I had only worn it once during the trip and honestly doubted I’d use it ever again, but my mother insisted that I would find some occasion for it. Beside the dress I spotted four shoes--- two elegant, black dress flats and two worn, leather sandals. The sandals, which were soiled with the same red sand as the suitcase, told the story of a week spent in the village. Gently sliding off my heels to sit on the hardwood floor, I lifted the sandals to my forehead and shut my eyes. Memories began to flood my thoughts, transporting me back in time. 

There I am in Embu County, Kenya, seated on the concrete ledge that lines the perimeter of my grandmother’s house, watching my mom standing with her mother in the kitchen, and listening to the calls of native birds. The sun is sweltering hot; its rays burn through the fabric of my navy capris to cook my skin. I’m wearing a loose orange T to cool off. My hair is tied up in a bun to prevent my sweat from ruining it. I dig my shoeless feet into the warm sand and sigh with comfort. Even when I get up to walk around the extensive compound, I don’t put on my sandals. I don’t need to! The sand is soft and there are few pebbles thanks to people and livestock beating them down over the years. For the day and a half my family spent with my mother’s parents, I can’t remember wearing shoes for more than an hour a day. As a result, a thick layer of callus had formed on the soles of my feet. I wiggle the sand grains between my toes, kick them up, and swirl patterns on the dirt. My capris and my shirt--and probably my hair, too-- are sprinkled with granules. I chuckle as I wonder how the region’s geography could change so drastically within a few miles-- from the tan soil in my mom’s village to the rusty dirt of my dad’s. 

Abruptly, my mind switched memories, teleporting me two days into the future. In the memory, I’m seated on a plastic garden chair below a spreading muriithi tree, hovering over a rickety wooden table, doodling in my notebook. My chair is planted on the uneven surface of the tree’s roots, so each time I move it rocks back and forth. My notebook is stained red by the iron-rich soil. Its cover is torn and falling apart. I look up and around to spot something to draw. In front of me stands my grandmother’s stonework kitchen. I watch as a chicken wanders around it, then stops to peck at the door. Not far left from the kitchen, another, larger muriithi tree extends its branches over the compound’s fence towards the farm. I squint my eyes to see if any of its tamarinds are fresh, but they’re too far away. Unlike my mother’s village, where the air is hot and mildly moist, here it is humid and dense. Even in the shade, the heat is sweltering. I dangle my sandals half off my feet. After being bashed against pebbles countless times, the fronts of them have become frayed. Gazing down at the sandals, I see that they’ve also gotten stained. My feet have an awful tan line where the sandal straps sit and, all the way up toward my grey capris, rusty soil coats my legs. The ground where I’m seated has loose soil. But, near my grandmother’s house, it’s covered with rocks. I scoop a handful of soil and let it run through my hand like a waterfall. It leaves my palm tinged red. Beautiful, I sigh. 

I opened my eyes and lowered the sandals from my forehead. The last images of the memory faded, giving way for the present to fill my thoughts. The cold floor stung my calves. My toes felt restricted by my socks.  Even the air circulating ‘round me seemed unfamiliar. Two weeks. I had only spent two weeks away from home and my body had already acclimatized to the foreign environment. During those days in the village, part of me craved the comfort of Canton. But, at that moment, all of me longed to return to Kenya. So, I sat there on the floor in front of my suitcase, reminiscing on my time in the village. The heat of the sun and texture of sand stained all my memories of it, just like the soil that would permanently stain my leather sandals.