Unbowed: A Memoir (Vintage)

by Maathai, Wangari

  Ihithe Primary School was established by the Presbyterians. While some teachers were from the surrounding area, others had come from far away, and they all lived in a large house on the school compound. The teachers were very responsible, especially toward children, but they were also very strict. You could be beaten if you didn't do what the teacher said and if you were mischievous you could be thrown out for the whole period.

  Because I was only the second generation in Kenya to go to school, adults joined the education system and some were in my class. As I was so young, I didn't think there was any difference between men and women and girls and boys. But my older classmates did. They would often complain when they were told to do things they thought children should do, such as sweeping the compound or fetching water. Sometimes they would protest when they were asked to move from the back of the room to sit next to a child in a little chair. But the teacher was adamant. “No, you sit here with this child.” Some of the men were very disruptive and one day they were forced to dig a latrine as a punishment. I thought it odd to punish grown-ups.

  During my early schooling, we started in Standard A and then Standard B (both half a day) during which we learned the ABCs and how to count. The language of instruction was Kikuyu. After my cousin Jono's roadside performance, the ABCs and counting didn't impress me much. A lot of what we did was simply rote memorization. Things got more interesting once I started Standard i, the next year, and went to school all day. Over the next three years, through Standard 4, I learned mathematics, Kiswahili, English, and geography. Our Kiswahili teacher was named Muchai. He was a very dedicated and generous teacher who died only a few years ago. In later years when I would visit Ihithe he would follow me around, sharing with pride the fact that he had been my teacher.

  In Standard 4, when I was eleven years old, we began to learn English. My first English teacher was a short, muscular man who usually wore white shorts, a decision that did little to flatter him and only highlighted his very thick calves. His teaching style was very colorful. He would stand in front of us and dramatize the language. “I am going to the door,” he would shout, emphasizing each syllable with great seriousness and purpose as he made his way to the door. He would urge us to repeat after him: “I am going to the door,” even though we were all sitting in our chairs.

  “This is the door,” he would say, helpfully pointing in the direction of the door. We confirmed that, yes indeed, that was the door. “That is the wall,” and he indicated the wall on the other side of the room. “I am going to the wall,” he announced, and you don't need me to tell you where he went. That's how we learned English: We may not have been able to write a sentence, but we soon became experts at identifying basic architecture.

  Every time I think of my English teacher with his shorts and thick calves, I have a smile on my face. But it wasn't funny then; we took it very seriously. When I went home and repeated all this to my mother, she wasn't impressed. “What are you saying?” she asked, mystified. Even though we liked to laugh as children, I recognized that the teachers were serious, responsible, and kind. They also provided me with a good enough grounding that I could excel in the national exam we had to pass to proceed to Standard 5.

  I was always attentive to nature. Ihithe borders the Aberdare forest and our area had many wooded plots. As a result wildlife was abundant. I knew there were elephants, antelopes, monkeys, and leopards in the forest. Even though I never saw these animals, my mother encouraged me not to be afraid of them. Leopards were seen often and were among the most feared wild animals around. My mother told me that leopards would lurk in vegetation, their long tails draped across a narrow path in the forest. The Kikuyu word for leopard is ngarĩ and the possessive form, “of the leopard,” is wa-ngarĩ “If you are walking on the path and you see the leopard's tail,” my mother said, “be careful not to step on it. Instead, as you keep on walking, tell the leopard, ‘You and I are both leopards so why would we disagree?’ ” I believed that the leopard would recognize me as wa-ngarĩ and not hurt me and that I had no reason to fear it.

  Many people in Kenya these days get so scared when they see a large wild animal that they overreact and frighten it, which in turn may lead to an attack. Recently, I received a call at six o'clock in the morning: “Three elephants are roaming about in your constituency and people are going wild.” The elephants had strayed into a populated area out of the corridors they use to travel between Mount Kenya and the Aberdare mountains. “The elephants are by your mother's place,” said the caller.

  The villagers were trying to scare the elephants away by yelling and bashing their cooking pots together. However, the more noise the villagers made the more frightened the elephants became. In their confusion they got agitated and began to trample farmers’ crops and threaten human lives. So, to calm the public, the staff of the Kenya Wildlife Service came and shot and killed the elephants. When asked why they could not have tranquilized the animals and moved them to another area, they claimed they didn't have the necessary equipment to move them fast enough away from the panic-stricken community. This sad state of affairs is caused by a lack of understanding of animal behavior, something my mother's generation seemed to grasp.

  When I was a child I loved listening to the birds around our homestead and learning their names. One particular bird sang at dusk and had a very special call that sounded like “ikia ngĩ, ikia ngĩ, ikia ngĩ,” which translates as “toss the firewood.” When I asked my mother what the bird was saying, she told me it was warning us: It is getting dark, so it's time to bring the firewood into the house. When I visit the countryside today, I still hear that bird, although not as often as I did when I was a child and there were more forests. However, when I do, I remember with delight what my mother told me. When children communicate with adults they learn a lot as they grow.

  Collecting firewood for the household was a frequent activity and I would often help my mother do it. The country was dotted with hundreds of huge mĩgumo, or wild fig trees, their bark the color of elephant skin and thick, gnarled branches with roots springing out and anchoring the tree to the ground. Fig trees had great green canopies beneath which grew dense undergrowth. This tree's canopy was probably sixty feet in diameter and it produced numerous fruits that birds loved. When the fruit was ready you would find hundreds of birds feeding on them. The undergrowth of the fig tree was also very fertile because people did not cut anything near those trees but allowed the undergrowth to flourish. All this added to the tree's mystery.

  When my mother told me to go and fetch firewood, she would warn me, “Don't pick any dry wood out of the fig tree, or even around it.” “Why?” I would ask. “Because that's a tree of God,” she'd reply. “We don't use it. We don't cut it. We don't burn it.” As a child, of course, I had no idea what my mother was talking about, but I obeyed her.

  About two hundred yards from the fig tree there was a stream named Kanungu, with water so clean and fresh that we drank it straight from the stream. As a child, I used to visit the point where the water bubbled up from the belly of the earth to form a stream. I imagine that very few people have been lucky enough to see the source of a river. At the point where the stream came out of the ground, were planted arrowroots, and along the stream were banana plants, and sugarcane, which were typical food crops. Arrowroots, when cooked, provide a starchy tuber like potatoes, and grow only where there is a lot of water. At that time they were planted all along the banks of small, slow-flowing streams. Their large, deep green, arching leaves provided a hideaway big enough for a small child such as me to sit underneath. When it rained the silver drops of water would dance on the broad fronds above me and cascade to the ground. We also used these leaves to fetch water from the river and drink it. The water looked clean and fresh against the sparkling green leaves.

  Underneath the arrowroots, there would be thousands of frogs’ eggs. They were black, brown, and white beads that I thought would make a beautiful necklace. I would spend hours trying to pick th
em up as gently as I could, hoping that I could put them around my neck. However, each time I placed my fingers below to lift them, the jelly that held them together would break and they would slip through my fingers back into the stream. I was so disappointed!

  Time and time again I would return to that stream to play with the frogs’ eggs. Suddenly the eggs would disappear and subsequently I would see what seemed to be an army of black tadpoles wriggling in the water. I would try to catch them by their tails but they, too, were elusive. In time, these also would disappear and later on I would see many frogs hopping around the area near the stream. However, I never made the connection between the eggs, the tadpoles, and the frogs until I went to school and learned about the life cycle of amphibians.

  In my mind's eye I can envision that stream now: the crystal-clear water washing over the pebbles and grains of soil underneath, silky and slow moving. I can see the life in that water and the shrubs, reeds, and ferns along the banks, swaying as the current of the water sidles around them. When my mother would send me to fetch water, I would get lost in this fascinating world of nature until she would call out, “What are you doing under the arrowroots? Bring the water!” I later learned that there was a connection between the fig tree's root system and the underground water reservoirs. The roots burrowed deep into the ground, breaking through the rocks beneath the surface soil and diving into the underground water table. The water traveled up along the roots until it hit a depression or weak place in the ground and gushed out as a spring. Indeed, wherever these trees stood, there were likely to be streams. The reverence the community had for the fig tree helped preserve the stream and the tadpoles that so captivated me. The trees also held the soil together, reducing erosion and landslides. In such ways, without conscious or deliberate effort, these cultural and spiritual practices contributed to the conservation of biodiversity.

  When I wasn't in school my mother would send me on errands away from the homestead. I would go to buy maize, beans, and bananas from the market in Mũkarara or walk to the mill by the Gura River, eight miles away. At that time, all the grinding mills in our area were driven by water, so when I went to have our maize ground into flour I would often spend all day playing with other children while we waited our turn. The waters of the Gura River were fast and clean. The stones beneath the water were black and round. Therefore, the waters appeared black but had a lot of foam.

  As I grew older, I took on more responsibilities on my own initiative. I particularly loved to cultivate in the fields late in the afternoon. Even when I was older and away at boarding school much of the time, I had my own plot and my mother would look after it. I would eagerly anticipate the holidays when my classmates and I would return home to work in the fields and touch the soil.

  Nothing is more beautiful than cultivating the land at dusk. At that time of day in the central highlands the air and the soil are cool, the sun is going down, the sunlight is golden against the ridges and the green of trees, and there is usually a breeze. As you remove the weeds and press the earth around the crops you feel content, and wish the light would last longer so you could cultivate more. Earth and water, air and the waning fire of the sun combine to form the essential elements of life and reveal to me my kinship with the soil. When I was a child I sometimes became so absorbed working in the fields with my machete that I didn't notice the end of the day until it got so dark that I could no longer differentiate between the weeds and the crops. At that point I knew it was time to go home, on the narrow paths that crisscrossed the fields and rivers and woodlots.

  The freshness of the evening air lifted the burden of labor off my shoulders. Strips of moonlight threw shadows into the trees’ canopies and down the ravines. Deep in the valleys were many streams that I had to cross as I wound my way home. It was so dark I had to listen carefully to the water flowing down the hillsides and through the gullies bordered by arrowroots and dense vegetation so I could work out where I was and where I was going. The streams would hiss and whoosh as they joined the Gura River, which swept along the valley floor until it slid over a waterfall and crashed onto the rocks below.

  When I climbed a particularly steep hill I knew I was nearly home. As I got to the top, if it was not during the June to August foggy season, I could see the sky exploding with stars and the Milky Way spread across the heavens. Once I arrived, quite often I didn't even want to go inside. My mother would bring the food she had cooked and we and other members of our family would eat together under the bright, starry sky. Everyone would want to know how the day had gone, how much we had cultivated, and what remained to be done. These were the experiences that made me feel very close to the land and appreciate the beauty of the environment. I have never lost that closeness to the soil. I knew that the soil should remain on the land and painfully recognized the destruction of the land when I saw the silt in rivers, especially after the rains.

  Sometimes I overextended myself and my mother would remind me that I was still too young to take on some tasks. One school holiday, my mother fell ill and was taken to Mathari Hospital in Nyeri where her appendix was removed. Rather than visit her every day in her hospital bed, I decided that it was important for the planting to be done. Whatever became of my mother, food would be a priority for the family. Therefore, I visited her only rarely (I later learned that my mother would have preferred me to visit more often). Nevertheless, when she came home, she was amazed at how much work my sisters and I had done during her hospitalization.

  Three months later, when I returned home for the next holiday, it was time to harvest the red kidney beans I had planted earlier. I borrowed a donkey from a neighbor and went to our farm in the Gura valley. The harvesting and thrashing took most of the day and by late afternoon I had harvested about one and a half sacks of beans. “Well,” I thought to myself, “I'm strong and the donkey looks sturdy enough,” so one sack went onto the donkey's back and the remaining half sack I took for my own. Off we went, two beasts of burden crawling up and down the hills on narrow paths, bent over trying to carry these heavy loads. By the time we reached the Tucha River, it was getting dark and I was very tired. I may not have guided the donkey properly and before I knew it she slipped and rolled down the slope.

  I didn't have a clue what to do. Gathering my senses, I found a place to leave my load of beans and rushed to assist the donkey, who luckily had not been hurt in the fall. I helped her up, loaded the bag of beans onto her back again, and encouraged her back onto the path. I heaved my own sack onto my back and off we trudged again. As we neared our homestead at Ihithe village, we both had had enough and collapsed in a heap. My mother ran out of the house and could not believe what she saw: a donkey and her daughter lying exhausted next to each other. “How did you make it?” she cried. “These are enormous sacks of beans! I never expected you to carry so many beans. You shouldn't do that.” The donkey and I were too tired to reply.

  That incident has remained with me through the years and reminds me that, while it's perhaps sometimes foolhardy to take on something that's too big for you, it is incredible what you can achieve if you are single-minded enough. To walk all that way and thrash the beans and then carry them back: Even my mother never forgot that journey!

  My mother always told me that I looked and behaved like my paternal grandmother, Wangari, after whom I am named. She was known to be industrious and very organized. It was said that my mannerisms, the way I spoke, walked, and arranged my things, were like hers. When we worked in the field, I always carefully put the food or animal fodder I was harvesting in neat piles, so I was well prepared for the journey. “You remind me of your grandmother, the way you organize yourself,” my mother would say. I was happy to hear the comparison and always wished I had known her. The Kikuyu system of naming children is meant to make you feel as if you are a duplicate of the relative whose name you bear. I felt I was the living Wangari, and as my mother and I walked home carrying food crops, firewood, and animal fodder, I would reflect on my grandmoth
er and feel good that I reminded my mother of her. In my community, children gave the people a sense of immortality.

  The art of storytelling around a fire was an essential dimension of life in the countryside. Many evenings, at the end of a day in the fields, children would gather and listen to stories their mothers would tell as they waited for the meal to cook over an open fire and three stones. Children also told stories around the fire. Stories were a way to keep children entertained—and awake—as they waited for dinner, and could be as short or as long as the cooking required. Green maize or sweet potatoes could take about thirty minutes to cook, while arrowroots could take two hours. The Kikuyu stories served to entertain, educate, and encourage creativity in children. It was an effective informal education.

  Because Kikuyu culture was oral, refined methods had been developed of passing knowledge to, and shaping the values of, future generations through, among other activities, stories. Many of the stories had become very elaborate and subtle, like myths, because they had been told in various forms over many generations. Kikuyu stories were filled with animals with human characteristics—both bad and good. One very dominant character in stories was an irimü, or a dragon.

  The irimü usually appeared in the guise of a handsome young man, but could also take other forms. He was a trickster and was ready to scare children and seduce young maidens with promises of good things, including marriage. Although the irimü looked like a handsome young man, he could transform himself into anything— even a tree, a giant gourd, or a plant—and disappear into rivers and ponds, usually reappearing when young maidens went to fetch water. These stories so impressed my young mind that whenever I passed by a waterfall, I always imagined that an irimü would leap at me through the wall of water, so I preferred only to travel near waterfalls and rivers with my mother or other adults!