my father and my uncles and all the men of the village dig the channel that became the river today. If the river had been left where Mola had placed it, the sea would not be attacking our land. Even now the days are too hot. Or too cold.
We, the Pokomo, come from Comoros. Because Comoros is small, our forefathers had to leave and over many days and nights came in small boats to Shungwani. I hear people calling it Shingwaya. It is Shungwani. Like I said, it is because people get the message wrong that things are the way they are in the world today.
All this place that we call home was forest and animals and all the peoples of the Coast were one. We were all Wakomora. Wakomora of the grass houses. The Galla made us start building mud houses. They were always fighting and we agreed to do what they wanted so that we could keep our land. Here at least, it was warm. Others were chased to where the Gikuyu have their God on top of a mountain. The age groups that we still have in our heads are part of the legacy of our forefathers: Gigiwa, my grandfather; Loda, my father; Japanisi, which is me; and the Gasa; Sinbad, the younger members of Gasa; Shombe, our sons; Moto, their younger brothers; Nyuki, the sons of my son and the ones who now think they are strong and call themselves ‘Generation Man U’. Wembe, the sons of my son’s younger brothers.
But first the Wakamora forefathers spread in Shungwani – some of you call it Shungwaya. Then they spread to Siu where that real Faisal was said to be, Pate, Kizunguti, Majimwale, Makoe. Then, they started travelling up this river we now call Tsana on their Kinga. The river was called Gamba then. They passed Lango la Simba where there were hundreds of lions but had to stop to rest.
One woman fell pregnant and when she stopped to give birth that is where the Pokomo settled. It is in the place that is now called Panda Nguo. Here the people started separating. Their tongue got twisted and because of the state of being pregnant (mbakomo) we became the Pokomo. Then they started spreading into Ndera, Gwano, Gwale, Kinakomba, Ndura, Zubaki, Malalulu and Malakote.
We had also separated from the Digo whose common food was mihogo; the Rabai who stopped because they liked raha hii (easy living); the waDavidi, also called the Taita because they looked white. And that is how we came to be here and live next to the river.
Our government was the Kijo. And every so often we made sacrifices on the river after planting and harvesting. We danced the kitoko and mwarabe. And we spread from Kibokoni to Garsen where the Ormah and their enemies the Somali live. The Ormah ran away from Ethiopia and on the way they started fighting the Somali who had always lived on the other side of the river. The Ormah came to us and asked for help and we hid them in huge baskets from the Somali. Ever since we have been enemies with the wakabira.
There is nothing wrong between us and the Malajuu. I have been travelling to them for years. There is also nothing wrong with us and Kenya. What is wrong is always the message. There are too many people talking. About us and them. About us and the Orma. About us and the Wakabira. About us as different peoples. Wandera, Wagwaro, Wasumbaki, Milalulu, Kwakomba, Mwinamwina. This river was our shield. Our Ngao.
His grandfather finished talking and Komora Kijana could hear the old men of the Gasa inside sneezing snuff from their noses. He heard them talk about how the Mbakomo lived in the balance of Tsana and Indian Ocean. How many of the people of the Tsana would die from this ancient battle now renewed but it was a death that was better than most. It was better than the desperation that was brought on by failure of the crops. The Gasa gave thanks to the strength of the Indian Ocean for nine years that allowed their sons to go upriver to fish. They talked of the risks of death by hippo or crocodile in the small boats on these fishing trips. They talked of death by the strong curses of other villages when Ozi was forced to steal from their shambas – clans up the river where the sea never reached and where crops thrived. This was better than death by buffalo, when Ozi was forced to go deep into the forest to look for food.
Over a low fire the Elders of Gasa murmured and gestured over all these things and commiserated with the people of the Sea, the Mswahilis whose lives would be taken away till the sea came back. They prayed that the other clans, their other people, the Malajuu, had not already been swept aside from the outpouring of the river from the Mountain and the opening of the Seven Stone Men.
Komora Kijana sat outside the hut of Gasa and wondered whether Mariam was okay.
All the young men who had climbed into boats and danced their way to Mlangoni to cheer the Tsana had now wisely left the river. Not far from the hut of Gasa there was a half-built stone hall with a flat roof – this was the youth social hall that was yet to be completed. The money from the Constituency Development Fund had dried up before the windows and the floor could be put in. But the Tsana was yet to climb onto the roof and so, happy and distracted, the young men stood on this vantage point and cheered the river against Indian Ocean.
The young men had been drinking maize beer since the War started. Most of the Nyuki and Moto generation were too young to remember the ’97 El Niño War so they celebrated the majesty of the river shouting: ‘Man U, Man U.’ There was no electricity since the rains had started and they could not watch their Premier League DVDs so they sang the song of their favourite team.
Semikaro the councillor was among them and he put his hands up and they all fell quiet. Now he told that the water came from the upriver dams, the Seven Stone Men built by a government that did not care for them. The young men listened and became animated again, drunkenly shouting that they would go upriver and destroy the dams.
Semikaro hailed their bravery and promised to find them money from Nairobi for transport to carry out this important task. He also told them not to heed the words of the old men of Gasa who led the village and were past their ‘expiry date’. The young men shouted they needed to choose a leader (Semikaro cleverly declined the great honour when they shouted and cheered Siad Barre, Siad Barre, his nickname from the aviator shades he always wore, that made him look like a giant insect) who they could send before the old men for support of their plan to kill the Seven Stone Men.
One tall, wide-toothed young man with a big mouth, the best soccer player in the village, wearing a Manchester United T-shirt, nicknamed Ronaldo, offered himself as their new leader. When the young men gave him their drunken vote of confidence he jumped from the roof of the stone building and waded confidently to new ground, to the ancient hut of Gasa and asked to be heard. He removed the earring he wore in his right ear like his hero, Ronaldo, and stood and peered through the open doorway. He spoke to the shadows as he could hardly see inside the hut and the old men grew grave when they heard his proposal. Komora Mzee Wito said: ‘Kijana wa Mimili, you wear an earring like our daughters and mothers. Do you know what you speak of when you tell us of the Seven Stone Men found up the Tsana?’
‘Fathers, with the blessings of Gasa all is possible.’
‘Have you ever seen the Seven Stone Men? You speak with a mouth that should still be suckling. The Seven Stone Men cannot be destroyed. The whole of Ozi from a hundred years knows this. Even if my grandfathers from the time of Gigiwa and Loda, fathers and uncles from the time of before Sinbad, my brothers and cousins from that of Sinbad and my sons and nephews of Shombe were brought back together as young men – they cannot destroy the Seven Stone Men. So you children from Moto and Nyuki have become nothing because you worship a football club far away. The Mbakomo have to live with the Seven Stone Men. It is time for you to start using your young arms to add mud onto the dykes of the river. The floods are here. If I still had the strength I would have locked you in the kizio myself. Ati you now call yourselves generation Manchester United!’ Komora Mzee Wito spat on the ground.
Ronaldo left the hut and thought about the trip up the Tsana to destroy the Seven Stone Men. The furthest he had ever been from Ozi was when he rode upstream on a canoe with two of his best friends to ‘steal’ his wife from Ngomeni, which was half an hour away by boat.
He
