Wagai Hall, bulwark of romance and resistance

Ihithe, a small farming town in Tetu constituency in Nyeri County, is in some ways one that time preserved, or whose past and heritage people don’t seem to be in a hurry to tear down.

There are boarded-up shops with rusty roofs and eaves and crumbling posts. On the outskirts, a disused cattle dip that has existed for over half a century stubbornly hangs on.

It is a cold Sunday evening, and the tepid sun kisses the darkening rim of the earth on the horizon. On the ridges cross Gura River, impossibly green waves of tea plantations are on an endless roll, tumbling into the valley below. In the distance, the Nyandarua Ranges stand sentry.

IMMENSE PRIDE

On the fringes of Ihithe stands Wagai Hall, a relic that, just like the town, has stood the test of time. Locals take such immense pride in it that it is said that when latter-day local administrations wanted to bring it down for a newer, modern version, they resisted.

Its name is an acronym consisting the first two letters of each of the three villages that hall planned to serve: Wandumbi, Gathuthi, and Ihithe. Construction was overseen by Chief Nderi Wang’ombe, a colonial sympathiser, and one believed by many to be a descendant of the legendary Wang’ombe wa Ihura of Mathira and a fixture in Gikuyu lore. Peter Gitahi was barely in his teens when he first witnessed his first dance. Gitahi, a friendly man with a shock of white hair, sells ground snuff from his makeshift stand at the hall.

“Technically I wasn’t supposed to be inside the thoco (social hall),” he narrates. “But I remember the musicians, the instrument players. The shows at times carried on throughout the night.” Gitahi remembers the haunting sound of the Wandindi—the traditional Gikuyu stringed instrument—and how it spoke rather than sang.

It wasn’t just music that echoed inside the hall. Occasionally, a white officer would fire up a wooden radio, and have the audience listen to some important message from the colonial government. Most times, the entertainment was curtailed to stymie dissent.

FREEDOM

These were heady, yet uncertain days. The drum-roll of war — the struggle for freedom and land — was rumbling and it was just a matter of time before a showdown would conflegrate. And it did; but even through that terrible 1952-1962 decade, Wagai Hall still offered respite to an increasingly beleaguered people.

Wagai Hall bloomed to full flower in the sun-kissed days following the attainment of independence. Suddenly, musicians who had shelved their artistic ambitions during the stifling days of European rule found their second wind. They brought their guitars and drums.

In their flannel shirts and hair rising in defiance of the comb, they worked the crowds. Revellers travelled from the farthest reaches of Othaya location and as far as Nyeri town.

Cinda Gikombe, who originally recorded the song Mwene Nyaga—a Mau Mau prayer and a song popularised in recent times by Kwame Rigii—was a regular attraction, and so was Kiruiko Wanganangu from Muchatha, Kiambu whose accordion was a revelation. The music was spontaneous, karaoke-like, not canned or performed on play-back.

There were prizes to be won, and many aspiring musicians found their footing here. As times changed, the vinyl was replaced by the tape cassette. There were weddings, an occasional baraza...

DANCE FLOOR

Harrison Nderitu remembers waltzing across the dance floor, twirling a girl. It was pick-up season too and sometimes the stars aligned and a lucky young man could find his better half right there in the midst of mismatched, awkward footwork.

Younger residents hardly know of it—a young woman in her 20s, who grew up in Ihithe and not too far from Wagai Hall, couldn’t immediately locate the place or the name.

“It is not just a type of music we have lost, it’s a cultural heritage,” a resident, Patrick Ngugi, wrote on his Facebook page.

Several people interviewed for the story preferred the hall remain in its current state: As a memorial to a more innocent time.

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