Of feasts and family

Greetings from the arid and semi-arid lands of Rachuonyo, where my family and friends are spending the weekend.

This issue of Brainwave Musings was meant to go out last Sunday, the 30th, but Karachuonyo’s unforgiving heat isn’t its only extreme—it also suffers from unreliable national services (like most parts of the country). No electrical power meant no issue sent. But nothing is lost.

Our dala homestead sits on acres of land passed down from my grandfather’s family. A sturdy fence encloses our side of the homestead, guarded by thick ojuok and eucalyptus trees that rustle loudly when the wind sweeps through their slender leaves. At the center of the lands stands my grandparents’ home, facing north. To its right, my uncle’s grey-walled house—once barely used but now slowly coming to life as he visits more often—also faces the north. My father’s house flanks the left, but it faces west, a decision made long before my time. So, naturally, most family members from the uncle’s and grandparents’ side enter through our back gate.

I vividly remember when my father first built his house. My elder brother carried the ceremonial cock to the site, where it was prayed over before meeting its end in the bellies of those gathered. The house itself was up in a flash—just a week or two I guess. I was young, so I had a different perception of time. It was a classic mud house: a skeleton of wooden posts, cow dung and soil mixed with spit, grandmothers' blessings, and water, all smeared to form the walls and floor. Building mud houses was an art back in the day. Different patterns in the smearing held meaning, but my dad was a simple man, he went with the basics—just slap the cow dung on.

Today, that house is something entirely different. My mother has transformed it into a home—a sanctuary, even. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s the kind of place I never want to leave. It feels regal and expansive, adorned with family photos that trace our journey from childhood to the present, each one weaving together a tapestry of memories. The couches still carry the rich scent of new leather, offering unmatched comfort. The walls, painted in a soft yellow hue, catch the morning sun just right, radiating warmth and tranquility. Every room is fitted with floor-to-ceiling closets, providing ample space for everything we could possibly need at dala. The floors, laid with smooth tiles, offer a welcome relief from the rough, thorny ground outside. Encircling the house is a vibrant ring of flowers, enhancing its sense of seclusion within the outer barrier of ojuok and eucalyptus trees, which stand tall in a perfect rectangular embrace around the homestead.

Step outside the metallic door, and a gust of dry mountain air greets you—fresh, but fleeting. Fleeting because that air is almost immediately corrupted by the pungent stench of cow dung and goat piss from the nearby shed. My mother is rearing all kinds of poultry and domestic animals at home.

Two towering mountains overlook our home from afar, shrouded in mystery. No one in our family has ever ventured there. Grandma never speaks of them. Grandpa barely remembers his name, let alone the history of the distant peaks. But in my mind, I reckon those mountains were once battlegrounds. Luanda Magere must have treaded there with his ominous shadow. Rachuonyo himself must have climbed them in search of yet another wife. Between them runs a stream, splitting the land like butt crease. Rachuonyo must have drunk from it, surveying the vast (at the time uninhabited) land that we now possess. And he must have felt proud, because Karachuonyo (before it was called Karachuonyo) is a serene place to live.

This time, however, I wasn’t home to admire the ploughed fields, the tranquil atmosphere, or my mother’s artistry in making our house a home. We were hosting a ceremony, which meant no time for leisure—only endless chores. I was either bent over slaughtering a chicken or raking the leaves by the gate or taking count of the number of seats in the visitors’ tent.

"Reagan, tie the goats at the farthest corner."

"Reagan, pluck the hairs off this chicken."

"Reagan, clean the outside toilet.”

"Reagan, get spices from your grandmother’s side."

This and that. That and this. Work. Lots of it.

Unlike modern Gen Zs with their unbothered culture, elders hold guest-hosting in the highest regard. A family’s reputation hinges on how well they welcome visitors. In ushago, everyone’s lives are intertwined. You know each others’ homestead, each others’ farms, each others’ market stalls, each others’ kids and their schools. You even know which marriages are dangling on ropes and which illnesses plague which households—because hospitality, or the lack of it, reveals everything. Some of it is tied to superstition, but much of it is simply decency and good manners.

There’s a saying:

Growing up, my mom ingrained this in me through subtle gestures. Whenever I had friends over, she would quietly slip out through the back, return with fresh bread, and prepare tea while we laughed at cartoons in the living room. About an hour before they were set to leave, she would serve the tea alongside peanut butter and jam sandwiches—perfectly timed so that by the time we finished, they’d instinctively know it was time to head home before nightfall. And every time, after my friends had left, when I’d ask her why she went to all that effort, she would simply say, "Welo nyaka pidh maber"—guests must be fed well.

I gradually picked up the habit. Even in her absence, if someone visited, I’d offer something—water, juice, chips mwitu from across the street, biscuits, whatever was available. Soon, my friends knew: Kwa kina Reagan, there’s always food.

Of course, some ‘friends’ took advantage. But a few embraced the tradition, offering me something in return when I visited them. A cup of soda. A bunch of bananas. Simple gestures, yet significant. Those are the ones I cherish. The other ‘pests’ pretending to be friends I let them be; never let them in our house again! Someone who won’t even offer you water at their home will never be of help to you. I learnt such subtle signs that tell whether my presence is truly welcome in a home.

A good thing is that food is an easy tradition to uphold. This weekend, guests arrived Saturday night and stayed through Sunday. Cooking began that Saturday afternoon, and the last dish was cleaned on Tuesday—after every last bit had been devoured.

A catering team was called in, working overnight to meet the event’s deadline. I was ever passing by their tent to see what they were conjuring up. Their setup was stunning. A touch of African décor—agulus and agwatas at the center of each table, Maasai drapes and African-patterned shawls hanging above us, shielding us from Karachuonyo’s relentless sun.

The aroma wafting from the catering tent tormented me all morning as I lingered by the gate, snapping photos and preparing to welcome guests. Inside, the event stretched on endlessly—formalities unfolding, names exchanged and forgotten in an instant. But my mind was fixated on one thing: the food. I didn’t need to know that you were my grandmother from the other side of the lake or my grandfather from my dad’s uncle. I just wanted the food!

At last, the moment arrived. I filled my plate with roasted goat, aliya (dried meat), chicken, pilau, and a medley of vegetables. The catering team had outdone themselves. I ate to my fill, then debated taking off my shirt to free up space for better digestion. But there was a reputation to uphold. The guests were just as impressed—everyone quietly sneaked second plates, masking it with laughter. That’s the beauty of a buffet. All you can eat. And I did.

I’ve learned a trick with buffets: never get too excited. I stick to what I know, add a couple of new things to experiment, but I don’t let an unfamiliar dish ruin my entire meal.

By the end, even the stray dogs were content. Guests sluggishly drifted out, bellies full, while leftovers were packed away for tomorrow and chairs stacked neatly in place. The event had been a success. All that was left was to sink into the moment—let the fullness settle, savor the lingering warmth of a well-fed gathering, and remember the golden rule: guests must always be fed well.

✍🏽Reagan.