This is the story of a respected member of our household growing up. Were it not for lukhendu, we wouldn’t have turned out this good.
Quite a bit, I have written here about my childhood. Thus, regular readers will know that I spent my formative years deep in the village under the strict eyes of full-bloodied Mulembe parents. What I might not have mentioned is that my mother gave birth to the nine of us; two boys and seven girls.
In our formative years, when we posed for a family picture, youngest to eldest, we formed a perfect staircase with the top of our heads. This meant that mother had to be strict. First for her’s and dad’s sanity. Secondly, as she loved to say, if she wasn’t hard on us, we would malinger around, not get an education and worse start siring/birthing kids in her house.
Attaining these three marks of successful motherhood (at least according to my mother): kids who don’t malinger, are educated and don’t bring forth grand kids whilst still under their grandparents; required the trusty help of help of lukhendu.
Has the demise of lukhendu contributed to a declining average family size?
Now, I get why in modern day Kenya the importance of lukhendu is lost on us. After all, as the preliminary 2019 census report revealed, even in Mulembe, the average family size is falling. Women are bearing one, two or maximum three children.
My grandmother Nakhatama likes to tease us that those among us with three kids pose like the government owes them big time! That we walk about beaming with pride for the good job done expecting the world to bend before us bearing gifts and favors. I have earned my medals with four successful births. As much as I would have wished for more, my heart is willing but my spirit is broken. My experience with four little humans without the luxury of calling on lukhendu as liberally as our mothers did, dims the lights on my girly dreams of a big family.
Dealing with a pre-teen, two other ‘ambiguous’ ones in between childhood and adolescence, and a terrible two, all under one roof has made me understand the load on my mother’s shoulders. Think about it, our mums had to raise the six, nine… even twelve of us and still run the home. Today, with an average family size of 4.9 thereabouts, that’s a task meant for three women and three men.
Good cop, bad cop routine
That said, lets face it our fathers weren’t dead beats, but somethings about bringing up kids they just didn’t do. Nor did they consider themselves responsible. All the same, it worked like clock work: dad pays the school fees mum does the back to school shopping; dad ploughs the fields, mum sows the seed; so on and forth.
My father in particular was quite the specimen. He was ‘the man’ out there leading other men doing ‘men things’ in the village. But at home, he was the good cop. To date, I am yet to figure out if he played good cop as part of an agreement with mum on a good cop-bad cop routine. Or (as I’m coming to learn and love about him) he’s just a prickly pear: tough and thorny on the outside but soft and sweet on the inside?
Whichever the reason, it meant that lukhendu duties were solely left to mum. For lukhendu, mum had a special stick carved from the palm tree branch. To date, I can’t stand the sight of palm tree. Never mind that I once attended Catholic school and we had to walk around waving palm twigs on palm Sunday.
— I digress —
Mum’s lukhendu had dried properly to a trusty state. When not using it on us, she used it to rub gently on the mouth of the guard when washing her milk guards. With such important functions mum’s lukhendu had a designated storage place; in a corner behind her bedroom’s door.
Red Tape
Let it be that the lukhendu is found lying about in any other place. Wueh! The last person that it had been used on had automatically earned another ‘teaching’ from lukhendu. This was because mum was a woman of structures. Actually, bureaucracy is her other name! We even nicknamed her madam red tape! In a household with nine little ones, those tapes, didn’t we cut them! Subsequently, oh how the lukhendu worked on us.
It was no joke. Let me tell you. My mother’s kitchen has specific places for specific things. It has been that way all these years. Today, I can pick munyu musherkha, munyu kwa lukhaye and any other ingredients, in my mum’s kitchen with my eyes closed. You cannot, for example, visit her today and keep her salt in a different place. Even if you are the one who’s bought it. This is a tradition she has carried forth for the 30+ years I have known her.
Now picture the nine of us. Some of us at that age when climbing and wrecking stuff is our sole mission whenever we are awake. Others among us at that age where we’d do anything to skip being responsible and everything to blame a sibling when we abdicate our duties and responsibilities.
Beyond ‘reminding’ each one of us about our responsibilities, lukhendu often went along way settling sibling disputes. It also did exceptionally well as a ‘lie detector test’, bringing to light the truth. Most of the times though, it was enough for mum to invoke its name for order to be restored. She would simply ask: “Should I send you to the bedroom to go get likhendu?” And you’d be off doing what’s expected whilst at the same time profusely apologizing and promising to not ‘do it again’.
The etiquette of handling lukhendu: The three cardinal rules.
- As we had mentioned earlier, lukhendu had its special place in the house. It was to be returned there without fail.
- Whenever one had made a mistake to warrant lukhendu, you had to go and get it yourself. Making mum stand up and go looking for lukhendu to discipline you earned one more licks off it.
- Any mischief like hiding lukhendu or pretending not being able to find it would earn one an extra beating. In short, mum did not give us room for excuses. If there was anything to be done and it was your turn, you would either do it or lukhendu would visit your poor little butt.
Those were the days when children respected the rule of law according to mum; and as exercised through tools bestowed on her such as lukhendu. These children of today apana tambua hiyo… hahahaha
