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One of the most colourful characters that I have encountered in this life is my late mom’s eldest sister, Wamaweru, who departed from our midst this week. She was in her 90s. A diminutive woman of slight built, Wamaweru lived and died on her terms, unencumbered by social mores that defined her generation.
She more than enjoyed her tipple; in fact, she was a sucker for one. Her meals, which never lacked a pound of meat, had extra spices—long pili pili kwa umbali before became a social fad. None of us children could swallow a scoop of her food without gulps of water to douse the stinging effect.
The roots of her unusual palate, it appears, stemmed from her preference for bitter stuff; she stole my granny’s snuff when girls her age were stealing sweets. And she’d disappear into the forest where mugithi concerts, or Kia Muthaiti, as such outings were known in those days, sneaking out the window while her younger siblings slept.
The tell-tale signs of her misadventures would come to light in the morning, traceable through the muddy imprints her footsteps left in their wake, if it had been raining outside. She’s been on the run ever since.
