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Heavy responsibilities for elder aunt among the Logooli

With Seenge Fonesi. She is the elder grand daughter of Isagi and elder daughter of Amugasya. She is often present in functions involving the family of Amugasya. Pic taken on 18/4/2024. The elder sister soon becomes the elder aunt. It is this “seenge munene” (elder aunt) tag that she is tied to many cultural responsibilities – back home. To her marital family she may appear as any other woman, but she is not so in the eyes of her people. Marriage does not steal her away as it would happen with other daughters of the old man. To her, as days go and the old man and woman of the estate are dependents, she becomes increasingly present.  Her brothers also need her for almost all traditional markings. They are marrying, she needs to welcome the new wife. They are giving birth, she needs to come to midwife or “bless” the new born. They are paying dowry she needs to lead the women delegate. There is a conflict she needs to come for a hearing.  And many others. Traditions does not expect her to
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The Story of Lunyerere (Erong'ele)

In the mid twentieth century, when the world was quiet and chehozerizu, women from Gavudia, Banja, Idaho, Kisa, Banja and places beyond knew where proper clothes were made - Erong’ele. We now know it as Lunyerere, quiet a place not because the world is any more at ease but out of neglect and ruin. It is commonly mentioned and one would wonder what landmark makes it so? Lunyerere was Kisumu!, exclaimed Erika. Then, food found food in granaries. We went from millet ugali to maize to millet.

I was armed to ask about Stend Kisa for I thought was better of a place before. Wamazobi was the initial name of the place. The son of Mazobi, Gwage, later became a village elder. The Wamazobi junction, whose road lead to Kisa, was full of matagaro plants. Goats fed much and open air defecation transpired. Stend is a corruption of Stage when modes of transport became auto. Lower from there, a small town heaved with sewers and Indian businesses.

Siribahi* the Greatest was the Indian leader at the place and people born in his era were baptized his name. He knew lulogoli. He amazed the locals by their culture of cremating the dead with lots of firewood. Erika’s husband was his driver and the lorry was among many others that carried sand, cement, iron sheets, timber, wool and shop items. The railway in South Kavirondo brought in goods from the coast. Varogoli started building shops in the Duka format and it spread far. A window pane whose glasses are held by timber pieces and not putty excels their marksmanship in both modern and ancient marksmanship. Mbale as a growing town will take time before the ‘Indian face’ is replaced.

As to why the place was seen best for Indian settlement could be because of its nearness to the river and the main road heading to Munoywa that would bring people from North Maragoli. Wrong roads were tarmacked, it could be. Feeder roads serve more people than main roads.  Luanda would be accessed easily while the rough road ran to Kakamega. Lunyerere as a name if not a person’s it could be the thin shop corridors or the splitting river.

Raheli was one of the maragoli midwifes who were called to help Indian women while in labour. These women were respected and treated fairly by the Indians. Marriage to locals did not happen. There was introduced an Indian school opened on 8/12/1946 when the sun was about to cross to Capricorn which is now opportunistically labeled Friends Training Centre Chavakali CYM. So many education initiatives have been tried at the place to no success. On the day of my visit a mould of charcoal burning fumed past the pillars to the insides.

The rivono seeds are what lorries often collected from the farms. It is said that oil was made from it. If you do not know rivono you may have played with its leaf stalk while a child. The hollow stalk is what we used to cut and on the ends tie nylons. Like a flute, we had sides burrowed and blew to different tunes. The seeds have a thorny surface. This was quickly replaced by tea and coffee.

In the seventies when the late Peter Kibisu and other criminals of his time (Yohana Amugune and religious affiliated people were not in terms too) lead a wrong political agenda of chasing ‘outsiders’, Siribahi and his Krishna descendants left Kihari. Kihari is compared to an orphan whose mother is halfly buried at her parent’s home and the paternal people in attendance, knowing that the relationship was badly over through death, took the Ikemefuna away never to turn his neck.


 In their cry, the Indians left heading to Kisumu, leaving the toil of their sweat behind and in crossing Izava, they spoke, ‘we did not take their land, yet they have chased us. We did not do them bad, yet they have done us bad. Some belongings were thrown in the river.’ And now cows are tethered in what used to be a clean busy place. The grabbers are long dead, the sons drunk to the core and grandchildren scattered to towns in Indian shops begging for labour. Those who live in the rooms are outcasts, women who have no husbands. The Dukas are closed, the place is silent, ruined, sleeping, disturbing.

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