A few years ago I bumped into this song by an artist whose musical prowess I respect. I have a lot to say about Ayrosh and his music but my focus today is on one of his songs ‘Karanja’. Normally, when I listen to a new song, I like to enjoy the musical composition. You know, the vocals, the instruments and the general feeling it gives me. The second time I focus on the lyrics and try to get into the mind of the writer. If these aspects of the song speak to me, it’ll be on  replay for 78 times. Now, I loved everything about this one, ‘Karanja’, so add 36 extra replays. 

The song is a story of a guy named Karanja, who left home for Nairobi in search of greener pastures. On getting there he went MIA and totally ‘forgot’ about his people back in shags. He never went back home. He lost all contact with his family, including his mother, wife and kids. For fifteen years! This one time his family received news that he’d been arrested for stealing someone’s goat, slaughtering it and enjoying the meat with his friends. Honestly, I don’t judge him for that. The young man had probably missed nyama choma. Or the goat had eaten up kales in his kitchen garden. I don’t know. But I’d totally understand him if it was the latter. I once contemplated doing exactly that. I digress. The song is basically a plea for Karanja to go back home. The writer goes ahead to let him know that he’s willing to give him an ear if things are not well with him. He invites him back home, because there, he’ll find some rest. He ends the song with Walter Keating Kelly’s proverb, ‘East, west, Home’s best. (Now you know the origin of the proverb ;).

In my obsession with the song, I realised that in some (maybe many) ways, I actually related to the character ‘Karanja’. I don’t know why he wanted to stay away from the one place that he should’ve ran to when he got into trouble. I don’t know what memories were created there when he was little. I don’t know what it reminded him of. I don’t know why he looked for rest everywhere but home. I don’t know what home felt like for him but I felt like I actually get him. You know what I mean?

I have recollections of what home was like when I was little. It was a happy place. Really. I remember my dad coming home over the weekends carrying loads of goodies. It felt amazing running into his arms, attempting to unload him of the ‘Horseman’ yellow bags he’d come with. I remember him giving my sisters and I baths together in a big basin and dressing us up afterwards. He always used Geisha soap. The pink one. Smelled nice. Really nice. 

My dad was a very neat and clean man. Whenever he was home, he helped us clean up the compound and burn every piece of garbage in sight. We’d stand alongside him, at dusk, watching the trash burn away. To date, the smell of burning trash reminds me of him. And talking of smell, I remember the smell of him smoking. Gosh, I loved that man that I thought cigars had a pleasant smell. (Sad that he’s also the reason I hate it today. Lakini si ni life.) He was a man of class and only smoked ‘Embassy’. That name may ring a bell to some of you, ‘younglings’. But I also understand that your parents were born again and they didn’t smoke or do all those worldly things. Again, I digress. I remember how secure I felt whenever he was home. Like, I wasn’t even scared of the dark. I knew he’d protect us from anything. 

Now, home was not home without Mama Njeri, my mother. My departed mother. (There’s no getting used to that phrase) Oh she was a gem! She was the kindest, most generous person I’ve met so far. As long as she had the ability, she catered for the needs of everyone that needed help. I vividly remember her hosting missionaries and homeless people at home. I remember her teaching us how to pray. I remember her teaching us values that I still uphold to date. I remember her teaching us basic life skills; how to knit, how to weave, how to bake, how to cook. Don’t even get me started on her chapatis! Her sense of humor was unmatched. Her laugh was infectious. I remember cosying up around the fireplace roasting maize (or is it corn lol) and cracking up about any and everything. From giving every neighbor a nickname to mimicking church people’s dance moves. I remember my sisters and I fighting to sit close to her. Winning at that fight felt like a lottery win. Her discipline was something else but I loved that woman more than I’ve ever loved anyone. She was my home. 

So far I’ve only let you in on some of the beautiful memories I have of home. And I wish those were my main memories. Unfortunately for us, at some point our paradise was overturned. The devil came, killed, stole and destroyed everything he could lay his dirty hands on. How he got a loophole, I don’t know. But by the time I was turning ten, things had taken a turn for the worst. It started with witnessing my parents fight. Deep down I knew they were good and loving people but their exchanges were lethal. They demeaned and hurled unspeakable insults at each other in our presence. I’m talking about death threats, attempted murder(calling it as it is), police calls, you name it! After the big fights my father would often take off and would stay away for months. No contact. No nothing. That definitely took a toll on mother’s health, which had been a concern for the longest time.

I observed how neighbors peeked from their fences to watch the drama unfold. I always felt like they enjoyed it. Ever since I was born, our home had always been everyone’s envy. Now everything was crumbling right before our eyes. And they (neighbors) were there to witness it. It was shameful. It was humiliating. I hated to see my mother cry. I hated feeling helpless. I hated living in constant fear. I feared that one day, my mother would die from all that. That maybe the death threats would eventually be actualised and if not, that she’d succumb to her sickness. (Actually, that had been my biggest fear until we lost her two years ago. A story for another day.) I remember promising myself that the moment I’d get a chance to leave, I’d never look back. 

I did get that chance when I joined boarding High school. During those four years, I can count the number of times I spent my holidays at home. Even though things had settled down a bit around that time, I still feared that violence would break out. I looked for excuses to be everywhere but home. Being there made me feel unsafe. It reminded me of the traumas I had experienced. It was a glaring reminder that mum wasn’t doing any better and sooner or later we’d have to face the inevitable. I couldn’t bring myself to that reality. So I kept fleeing, even into adulthood. (Next time remind me to talk about repression)

I’d say that I’m in a much better place, where dealing with the childhood trauma is concerned. God has been at work in my life and I’ve been through lots of therapy. But the thing with life is, once you overcome one hurdle, it has a way of throwing another curveball at you. Maybe it’s God’s way of teaching us to rely on Him. Today, going home means coming to terms with the reality that Mama Njeri is no longer there to receive me. And she’s not coming back. Ever! Going home means that I’ll be greeted by two graves, side by side, of the people that brought me into this world. Going home is a reminder that I’m actually an orphan (Never used that term before to describe myself).  That is a new reality that I’ve been trying to adjust to. It’s not been easy but I’m trying. Probably still fleeing.

Now, in the beginning of this (short) article, I told you a story about Karanja. The song. Remember? Not sure if the story is fictitious or not but I’m sure Karanja had a valid reason why he chose to stay away. And I know you do, too. We are all Karanjas in one way or another, you know. Maybe like me, growing up, you witnessed a lot of violence. Maybe you were abused and belittled. Maybe you were constantly compared to your siblings and you feel like you have nothing to offer. Maybe it’s sibling rivalry that keeps you away. Maybe you have been ridiculed or treated some typa way because you’re not as monied as your siblings or because you’re the only one who is yet to get married. Maybe you’re the black sheep. Maybe you’ve been rejected constantly so staying away is your way of rejecting them back. Maybe the person who made you feel at home died on you and took ‘home’ with them. Whatever your story is, I see you. I feel you. No, you’re not a bad person for creating excuses just so you don’t go home over christmas or any other time. You’re not aloof. You have been hurting. You’ve been trying to cope. And your pain is valid.  

So, I’m extending this invite to you. At Artheal foundation, we’re just a bunch of broken people on a healing journey. We’ve been working hard to create a home for ourselves. We realize that home is not necessarily a place but a feeling. As someone once quoted, ‘Home is where love resides, memories are created, friends always belong, and laughter never ends.’ At the same time, we have a place, a safe space prepared just for you so that we may have these conversations. A space where you can be your unfiltered, authentic self. With us, you don’t need to hide or act ‘proper’. You don’t need to pretend. Here, we are loud. We are silly and we like to have a good time. Also, we get vulnerable. We tell our stories. We listen. We empathize. We wipe each other’s tears. We create a network of support around each other. We invite Jesus into the crevices of our broken hearts because we know that we carry wounds so deep that only Him can access. And the good news is that our Home is open to you.

Sounds like a space you’d want to be in? All you need to do is register at www.artheal.org.