The Trenches

In the depths of my memory, I recall the day when ruthless Kuramojang raiders attacked our simple home,a Maasai manyatta(a type of settlement or homestead)throwing the peaceful village of Lenges into turmoil. At that time, I, a young girl with a curious mind, was about to start formal education, a journey not yet fully explored. My excitement of joining nursery school was fueled by the ability to count and converse with my mother and siblings. Little did I know, in those days gone by, the strange requirement for admission was a gesture – one’s right hand must touch the left ear over the head, a peculiar test to determine readiness for the nursery school world.

As the sun tried to break through the clouds on that fateful day, the air was filled with a tense feeling, noticeable in every breath. Within the busy markets, men and women spoke in low voices, their tones revealing an underlying anxiety. Distrust lingered between people like an invisible presence, casting a shadow over the once-strong ties within the community.

Rumors, like a whispering wind, swept through the village, carrying a grim message for non-natives. A sense of urgency spread, urging outsiders to devise a plan – a way to abandon their homes and adopt a hidden existence. The Laibon, a respected figure in our midst, had declared the need for non-natives to submit to the true owners of the land, increasing the seriousness of the situation.

Embedded in the decree was a poignant reminder for those who had acquired land – a call to face the truth that they were not the rightful guardians of the soil. The impact of this message resonated through the hearts of those who had once believed they held legitimate ownership. The revelation struck a chord, forcing a collective recognition that the land, an essential part of the community's identity, couldn't be sold as a good.

The effect of this realization shook the village of Lenges, casting a gloomy shadow over its inhabitants. Mzee Ngete, leading our association, headed a delegation seeking clarity from the Laibon. Unfortunately, the Laibon's busy schedule prevented any immediate meeting with his worried visitors, leaving the community in a state of doubt and distress.

Caught in the midst of innocence during my early days of schooling, the shadows of tribal tension draped a solemn veil over our existence. The once harmonious village found itself standing at a crossroads of division, a stark contrast from its previous unity. The growing intolerance among community members resulted in conflicts, creating a vulnerable environment that encouraged raiders to invade our tranquil home.

This pervasive atmosphere of intolerance extended its reach even within the confines of the classroom, turning the school into a hostile environment. The very space meant for learning and growth became tainted by the discord that mirrored the broader tribal tensions, further emphasizing the far-reaching impact of societal divisions on the lives of the innocent.

In the aftermath of the conflict, my father's role evolved into that of a strong pillar, the foundational force that held our family together. His strategic foresight had led him to dig a trench, initially met with disbelief, which later became our refuge when the raiders attacked our home. This once-ignored trench emerged as a silent hero, symbolizing my father's dedication to protecting and uniting us amidst chaos.

Years later, as peace settled in, a peculiar yet heartwarming scene unfolded. In a playful exchange between my parents, my mom teased my dad about the odd trench he had dug. What was once a source of mockery transformed into a narrative of resilience and familial strength.