I remember a time when we always fought in the morning with mother about shoes. This memory is embedded in my brain like Shrapnel. Nyandarua was this cold place that was always raining hail, too cold. When it rained, the heavens burst open defiantly washing away everything on its path. We were accustomed to the cold. Hell, we even loved the cold so that we could sit around the fireplace sipping hot green tea or millet porridge. It was worse when it rained continuously for a month or so, the earth would begin sweating beneath our feet and the farm would be all kinds of River Nile. Our stream borehole, where we got our drinking water, would fill to the brim to the level it started flowing out.
Such was life and was acceptable. The only bad thing was that when the borehole filled up, so did the pit latrines. Occasionally, one of the cows would succumb to pneumonia in the middle of the night and we would wake up to neighbours wishing that they had chopped its head off the moment it had started looking weak. We lived in an enclosed society, going to church every Sunday, then to the market later before we went back home to prepare for the week. This was the routine and the only life I knew.