Why I love history

History is the realest and simplest way of making us more human, satient beings with a belonging. By reconnecting with the past, we understand who we are, and where we go.

It is Sir Winston Churchill, the bellicose triumphalist, who once said that "pondering upon the past enables a new generation to repair some of the errors of yester years, and forge ahead..thus, the further backward you look, the further forward you see."

By sitting and reminiscing on past successes and failures, joys and tribulations, hits and misses, mistakes and triumphs, we become more human, relate better and derive inexplicable joy and satisfaction.

Yesterday, I sat down for several hours with my aunt, Jennifer, as I reminded her of whence we come from, and her indelible contribution at a time of need. She was left in tears to realize that I've not forgotten the role she played in our lives during the heady and stormy 90s, when lack ruled our lives.

She was then a dashing yellow beauty, trapped in a violent and alcoholic marriage. Not once, a knife had been sharpened to cut her throat, and she would flee to our place, then to my late uncle's home, where arrangements would be made to arbitrate with her husband. Young as I was, I used to wonder how such a beauty would end up in such an ugly arrangement. But life can be strange.

I reminded her how I used to ascend the hill leading to her home the whole of 1997 to fetch a single litre of milk. I would be at her home, 4 kilometers away, before 6am, fetch milk and take it home to prepare tea before school. She believed her elder sister's children deserved tea with milk, despite having one zebu cow she milked.

I reminded her how many times I spent nights at her home. On coming from school, I would throw my eyes towards the three-stoned jiko. If the ashes were cold or no pot was set on it, I would immediately get the cue that there was no supper for that day. Denying a growing boy supper was worse than denying someone oxygen. Off I would ascend the hill to her home, and she never used to question me. I was sure to be well fed, including taking several cups of sweet porridge, that I came to learn later was Kiruthu, meant to make Maroa, the brew she sold for a living.

When in high school, I would 'visit' several aunts and my one uncle to ask for pocket money. She never used to lack 20 or 30 shillings to give me, something I cherished and looked forward to.

Heck, we even remembered how we trekked the whole night in the ElNino rain of 1997, carrying beans that germinated along the way. We lost our way around Ngundune, trekked to Tigania Mission Hospital, and made it home in the morning. 

Now, life has changed. Life has become complicated. There's no lack any longer. What we lack is the communal sense that filled our lives.

By sitting and remembering those heady days, we become more human. She wondered loudly if someone who has been to university can remember all that. 

And that, to me, is the essence of history- reconnecting with our past to pick lessons, to pick joy and to re-establish connections.

Never forget your history. And better still, read the history of others. For this is a treasure trove of wisdome.