- Kinagosi from Tanzania to Vihiga – The plant that was a taboo for women to touch, yet only a woman could heal those sick from its poison
- A cry for the lost children of Maragoli: The sad tale of peasant farmers dash to dreamy Ujamaa lifestyle in Tanzania’s Mara region, that ended in tears
This is the story of the lost children of Maragoli. A story told to myself, in passing, by my beloved late paternal uncle Herman.
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Unfortunately, baba Herman’s passing on in late 2020 at the ripe old age of 88 denied me a chance to be versed as-it-was on this little talked about, but significant chunk of the modern history of the migration of my people, the Maragoli.
Despite his advanced age, baba Herman until just two months to his death from cancer, had dutifully tended to his tea crop. Even though he had one of the smaller tea plantations in my village (by my estimates less than eighth an acre), but by the time of his passing, baba Herman ranked among the top producers of tea leaf in that part of Vihiga county, Kenya.
Unfinished business
I talk of his tea, as the root of Herman’s expedition to North West Tanzania lay in my other uncles Kigunzu. Today, much aged Kigunzu a prominent tea farmer in Vihiga county. As far as relations go, he is the husband to my senge Loise.
As far as I know, they didn’t grow tea there in Mugumu in the Mara region of Tanzania, but they did get to instill in themselves the discipline to work the land patiently; a trait useful to any small scale tea grower. This work ethic kept baba Herman young, or at least young looking, thus the reason why his death caught me out.
Among other unfinished business that a nephew may have with a parental uncle, I missed the chance to get to the meat of his sojourn in Mugumu. That said, there’s sufficient detail, at least as far as my memory goes, to explain the case of the lost children of Maragoli.
The conversation
I remember the conversation as a brief chat one afternoon in my father’s sitting room. We had gathered awaiting our other relatives to plan the last rites of a clansman who for decades had got lost on the city; then died there alone and unknown. We were gathered as kinsmen to plan for a decent burial for a lost brother, uncle and father.
Maybe it is this lost kin situation that prompted him to speak out. Before then, it was something that had remained hidden in my family’s closet for decades. Thinking about it, could be that the events of the moment triggered in him longing thoughts on the lost children of Maragoli. Whatever the case, baba Herman’s story has since been corroborated by members of my family.
The tragic events sometime in the sixties to late seventies took place in North West Tanzania off the shores of Lake Victoria. In particular, somewhere a couple of hours from Musoma, in the lands close to present day Mugumu, just by the Serengeti.
These events cut deep and close. Here is the story.
Brotherly love
Baba Herman is my father’s elder brother. He’s the one we Africans in this part of my world refer to as: “Anamufuata kwa mgongo, toka ni toke.” Meaning, the one ahead in birth order. It’s unclear how his brother-in-law, Kigunzu, husband to their eldest Loise came to know about the dreamy life by the Serengeti: acres upon acres of land, virgin fertile land. And all you needed to do to claim a piece of the action was to work the jembe as far as your back could take you.
Now, if you have been following the Mulembe Nation series Ikine on Tour, you’ll realize that this is something that we still do. We send a ‘worker bee’ ahead, hope he/she finds footing there. Once they do, they’ll pull the family over one buy one. The purpose of the migration? To exploit already identified opportunities.
So let’s say I am a mason and I migrate in search of work, which I’m fortunate to find. Then, in this new land that has given me opportunity, I realize the demand for painters is huge. What do I do?
As a good brother guided by the spirit of mulembe, I’ll call over a cousin, brother, village mate to come over. I’ll host them as they find their feet. Once they do, they move out and do the same for another kith or kin.
A land of plenty
This is what happened with Baba Herman. Newly married, he heard how his elder sister and her family were living a life of plenty down there in Mugumu. The land gave them plenty of cowpeas, beans, vegetables and all that them and their first born toddler daughter, Emma, needed.
The animals wandered in the open fields and bred like crazy. Chicken, goats, sheep all multiplying as Wele (God) intended. “What to do with all that food!” I remember him rhetorically asking that afternoon in my father’s sitting room.
The only complaint?
Well, they ploughed through lots of jembes in a year. First, there was no need for vinagosi there in Mugumu. Why demarcate land while you can allocate yourself land as much as your back could plough; or as far as you could throw a stick? Second, the land had sandy-loam soil. Therefore, its coarse soil particles would ‘eat’ jembes through and through.
That, a huge appetite for jembes, and the little matter of accessing manufactured goods like sugar, were their problems.
The solution? My father would shop for them in Nairobi and send as a parcel via light aircraft to Musoma. In return, my elder siblings would enjoy fresh eggs or slaughtered chicken, brought in the next day via the return flight, and collected from Wilson Airport by my father.
Or they’d wait for the next Wednesday. On certain Wednesday’s Herman and Kigunzu’s cargo would arrive in Musoma by boat from Kisumu across Lake Victoria, and then by foot or donkey to Mugumu.
Sounds good doesn’t it? The kind of life we all dream of when we nostalgically think about disconnecting and retreating to the joys of farm life. But, but there was another complaint about life in Mugumu; sorry, a need; I beg your pardon, a denied right.
Enter Omido from Kidinye
As the numbers of my Maragoli clansmen swelled from the good of the land and the sweat on their backs, let’s just say the bug of Kenyannes bit them.
Looking back, I picture a group of Maragoli peasant farmers huddled together by the oluyia, scheming and plotting; all in the open. Not because the spirit of mulembe makes us an honest people, but because they tragically and wrongly thought to themselves that there was nothing to hide.
After all, hadn’t they made good use of the land? Hadn’t they by the strength of their backs contributed to the common collective as aspired by Nyerere’s Ujamaa philosophy? Why then, didn’t they have one of their own up there?
I mean, we were one people under God united by the ethos of Jumuiya of the original East African community. Right?
Wrong!
My people’s aspirations, their agitation and hopes as a people rested on the shoulders of an Omido from Kidinye. Or rather, it is Omido from Kidinye who awakened the spirit within my kinsmen to fight for their right of representation.
Specifically, they wanted a Maragoli District Commissioner.
President Nyerere was incensed.
Either that, or Omido and company were blind to the then fever high machinations of a full out cold war between East Africa’s sister states. And just like that them and their families found themselves pawn in a high-stake game of geopolitical power play.
The lost children of Maragoli
Leave as you came!
Do not carry anything!
Not even the children!
All children born in Tanzania are the property of the state..… Emma ni mali ya serekali!
Maaguu! What had Omido done? What have we done!
Indeed Emma, my cousin, our eldest cousin, was now grown up and was attending a girls’ boarding school somewhere in mainland Tanzania. Kigunzu, her father rushed there in the hope he’d get his daughter and scramble up a boat – swim across Lake Victoria if need be – back to Vihiga, Kenya.
The headmaster at Emma’s school was polite, but firm.
“Mzee we nenda kama vile serikali imekuamuru. Tutamchunga Emma kama vile serikali inaweza linda mali yake. Usiwe na shaka!”
Old man follow the directives of the government. We will take care of Emma as she is now state property. Go in peace!
And that’s what they did: they left.
Emma is now a great grand ma. She did come back to her family in Kenya after completing her secondary school studies. All the while cared and catered for by the Tanzanian government. She went on to achieve a successful career here, serving her people and her government. This story is a dedication to the lost children of Maragoli, who like Emma, were either lost for a while, or those, if any, were forever lost never to reunite with their families.
