Gone is the man who inducted me into the art of storytelling

Mzee Kabaji kwa Midalimu was a gifted story teller. He gave me my first lessons in the art of storytelling. From my experience with him, I can confirm my position on one contestable fact, that a parent can consciously craft what he would like his son to be. 

I am, therefore, not just a product of his copulation that defines my DNA formula, but also an invention of his deliberate attempts to transfuse his creative and moral standards into me.

In a condolence message, a colleague of mine has argued that Mzee Kabaji had interesting innings. Perhaps he is right. To exit at the ripe age 93 is no mean achievement.

True, Mzee Kabaji scored on many fronts.

As a story teller, Kabaji drew much of his inspiration from the Bible and the culture of his people. As late as last week, he traced his genealogy to me through generations to Mulogoli, the founder of his community.

There was always that childlike sparkle in his eyes as he dropped the names of his great grandfathers and his relationship with his Kisii brothers. Mulogoli and Omugusii were sons of Andimi, he intoned, albeit visibly tired.

MULTIPLICITY OF LANGUAGES

In his narration of the parting of the two brothers to form Maragoli and Abagusii communities, Mzee Kabaji always gave it a biblical connotation. Was this because he spent much of his adult life amongst the Abagusii?

A hustler in the true sense of the word, he chose to live and work amongst the Abagusii for most of his productive life. It was at Nyakemini (now Jogoo) Primary School in Kisii County that I got my first lessons in the craft of storytelling from him.

Those days, nursery schools were unheard of in rural Kenya. Before passing the simple test of folding your left hand over your head to touch the right ear, one would not proceed to Standard One.

For a number of years, I couldn’t pass this test and so Mzee devised a method of babysitting me. He would take me to his classes and ask me to sit and keep quiet throughout the lesson.

I was about four years old. I admired the respect he commanded in the classroom. But more remarkable was his ability to navigate around languages. He was a fluent speaker of English, Kiswahili, Ekegusii and Kimaragoli. 

I think it is the experiences of these formative years that made me take on the art of telling stories in a multiplicity of languages. In the evenings, Kabaji would take time to read stories in Kimaragoli for me.

I interacted with the famous Kisia Nengida Yeye (Kisia with his bicycle) long before I went to Standard One. Books in this language are, however, few. I made my contribution to literature in this language when I published Akanyonyi Kokogenyia. I also immortalised one of the stories he told me about his brother, Idionyi, in The Magical Bird of Navuhi.

I really do not know why he chose to live with me all alone at that age away from my mother. To scare me from venturing out of the home in his absence, he told me about evil spirits that inhabited the thicket next to our house in Nyakemini.

MY FATHER, MY FRIEND

A consummate reader of biblical stuff, his house, up to now, has so much printed matter in boxes. And yes, he could not miss a newspaper daily.

I think Kabaji’s success as a preacher of the Salvation Army Church lay in his ability to breathe fresh flavour into biblical stories. He also had a sharp memory. And this is something that I suspect I inherited from him.

Joe De Graft once said that a man’s last seed is sowed at home. Kabaji returned to his native Navuhi village and founded Navuhi Primary School in the 1980s. But as a human being he also had his weaknesses.

He was an extremely proud man who grabbed every opportunity to boast about every small achievement, including the fact he sired Egara Kabaji. But was he my father really? I doubt. He always treated me as a friend.

That is why I pleasurably paid bride price for his new wife when his wife (my mother) died 10 years ago. I did this as a friend, not as a son. Rest in peace my friend. One day I will put the story of your life in a full novel. That is a promise.