As far back as i can remember, stories have attracted and captured me. I remember cold dark nights sitting a smoke filled kitchen listening to the sound of my grandfather's raspy voice as he told stories about his past. No matter how much my eyes smarted and ran, i would never leave the room. Although my kikuyu was poor(and has never recovered), i didnt need to understand every word. The passion,tone, intonation and the gestures in his voice always filled in the gaps. I still remember looking at his shiny bald head and wondering just how many stories he holds in there. My father, his son, is also a storyteller. Like my grandfather, he has vivid memories of past events. Although he tells them in fluent English, they are coloured by a traditional past. Unlike my grandfather, my dad has to be prompted through a series of questions. Am sure that has to do with the prominent television set in our living room that keeps us in a midless state of "entertainment".
As i think about the stories i have heard from my father and grandfather, it surprises me that someone would think that Africans have no history. Although these "savages" roamed around naked with no seeming sense of rational organisation as some have said, it is the observer that looked but did not see. In these stories i have found a goldmine of history. My family history. Now anyone who hears me speak(read butchering) my venacular, would be surprised that i have a sense of history at all. After all, i am a "mkosa mila" (one without culture) having had a lot of western influence. I have found that this history tells me where my family has been and how i got here.It gives me an identity. However, it does not make me want to go back to the past. Rather, i learn from it and move forward to embrase the future. I cannot speak kikuyu with fluency and have never lived in a village, so? I still remain a child of my father and therefore a part of my clan and hence kikuyu.
My appreciation for family history has opened my eyes to the loss of history. While the west had the quill and ink bottle, we had story, proverbs, songs and other mnemonic aids. The introduction of literacy has slowly but surely choked these though culture change. I do not think that the past was ideal but i mourn the loss of history. I listen to my father's tales of growing up in colonial kenya and i think how many are dying with their memories; history. The US project Storycorps captures my desire for this country. Oral history from the older generation (indian,african and european) is being lost and i would like to salvage it. How? I dont know. All i know is that the old men in the village can only tell stories and i want to give them a quill.
