The House
I had always been puzzled by “the house”.
Every Sunday, my mother and I walked past it, on our way to church. I’m not sure exactly how old I was but I’m fairly certain I was younger than six. The house was small, or maybe not, the details are fuzzy now. Its exterior walls were maroon and it had a blue front door. It sat at the center of what seemed to me then to be a very large yard.
Every Sunday, I would come to a stop at the diamond grid gates set into the kay apple hedge that ran around the homestead. I’d stare at the house until my mother took my hand, urging me on.
Why? I’d wonder. Why make such long trips to get here when we could just walk?
See, every April we boarded the bus in Nairobi and travelled “upcountry” to a small town in western Kenya where my grandmother lived. The bus took between six and ten hours to get there, depending on the state of the roads. Gramsie had a… maybe small maybe not, maroon house with a blue front door. Her house also sat at the center of a yard that was hedged all around with a diamond grid gate for access.
Image: me (front in pink dress) circa early 90s with Gramsie and a younger cousin, outside her (then) maroon house
So once a year we spent practically an entire day getting to my grandmother’s house, and yet every Sunday we walked right past it? What gave?
I needed to solve this mystery, so one Saturday, I filled a plastic bag with several books, my spare pair of shoes, and a mango I’d found in the fruit drawer, and told my mother,
“Bye! I’m going to visit Gramsie!”
“Alright! Tell her hello from me!”
I rushed out of the house and set off on my journey, thinking about how happy my grandmother would be to see me. I didn’t get very far.
Once my mother realized I hadn’t just been playing pretend, she sent the babysitter after me. I saw her coming, and tried to run, but my little legs were no match for her long ones. She caught up with me before I’d even made it past the block, sweeping me up and carrying me back home, ignoring my wails of protest.
Mom later explained that “the house” wasn’t Gramsie’s house. It just looked similar to hers. And that was all well and good, but it didn’t explain why, when Gramsie had her house painted grey, the other house also became grey.