Navigating traffic, tradition and tight bonds in festive pilgrimage

As Christmas approached, Kenyans across the country prepared to journey back to their rural homes. This annual pilgrimage is more than just a celebration; it is a re-connection with family, roots and the essence of home. This year was no different for us as we set off for Gakindu, Nyeri—the village of my birth and a place we fondly describe as the most beautiful corner of the world.

Our journey began, as always, with the inevitable traffic jams. Impatient drivers darted from lane to lane, creating unnecessary chaos. The design of our highways, dotted with rumble strips and bumps instead of footbridges, did little to ease the flow. But once past the congestion at Thika, the journey transformed into a smoother experience, thanks to the newly completed dual carriageway from Makutano to Marua.

The rainy season had painted the landscape with lush greenery, offering stunning views as we drove. After Karatina, we veered off towards Mukurwe-ini, passing iconic landmarks such as Tumutumu, home to the renowned Tumutumu Girls School. This area is steeped in history and folklore, including the story of Waing’a, a traditional healer who became an unexpected part of Kikuyu cultural and religious history.

Waing’a’s tale is one of transformation. When he failed to treat a persistent itchy skin disease, patients turned to a missionary doctor in Tumutumu who not only cured them but introduced them to Christianity. Over time, Waing’a’s name became synonymous with failure, even earning him the unenviable nickname ‘the devil’ in local lore. This history is immortalised in the song Nda Hunyukite Ngiuma kwa Waing’a, a lament of rejection of traditional ways in favour of newfound faith.

As we crossed the Thagana River—later known as the Sagana and eventually the Tana River—we entered the heart of our ancestral lands. Along the way, we passed humorously named schools like Githung’ungu and Gathukimundu. One can’t help but chuckle at the thought of job applicants explaining these Alma mater names to future employers.

Finally, we arrived home, greeted warmly by my 90-year-old mother. Despite her age, she remains spry and active—a living testament to resilience and grace. In our family, as in many Kikuyu households, fi rst-born daughters are named after their grandmothers. This tradition has resulted in a delightful confusion, with multiple Wairimus responding whenever the name is called. Clarifying “which Wairimu” has become a family ritual.

As the evening wore on, the festive atmosphere gave me pause to reflect on a conversation I’d had recently with a former classmate. We had discussed a question that feels increasingly urgent: Who will care for us in our old age? In traditional Kenyan society, elders were cared for by their children and extended family, who lived nearby. Large families ensured at least one child would be available to provide care. But modernisation and urbanisation have disrupted this system. Families are smaller, and young people often live far from home. The bonds of proximity and obligation that once ensured elder care are fraying.

Standing amidst the rolling hills of Nyeri, with the golden sunset illuminating the Aberdare ranges, I couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. Memories of my carefree youth, running through these fi elds, fl ooded back. Yet, the passage of time has shifted my perspective. The agility and vitality of youth give way to the inevitability of aging, and with it, the need for support. This reality demands a societal response. How do we plan for a future where traditional support systems may no longer suffice? Should we invest in infrastructure and services for the elderly? Should we create systems that combine cultural values with modern realities? These questions require urgent attention, not only from individuals but from policymakers and communities alike.

As the festive season unfolds, it provides an opportunity for introspection. The closing of one year and the dawn of another is a perfect time to plan for the future. A future where every individual, regardless of age, can live with dignity and love. As I sat under the star-strewn skies of Nyeri, surrounded by family, laughter and the familiar scents of home, I choose to embrace the present moment. There is a profound sense of belonging that only home can provide—a reminder of who we are, where we come from, and the enduring strength of our roots.