Growing up in the upcountry was nothing short of an adventure. Life was raw, textured, filled with barefoot mornings, stubborn goats, thorny paths, and dreams whispered under mosquito nets.

The house was always full. Cousins, my aunty, my uncle and sometimes grandpa when he’d come home from Nairobi where he worked. Grandma held the whole house together like bark on an old tree, firm, rooted, generous. She made sure no one slept hungry and that everyone, no matter how many of us squeezed into those beds, had a place to lay their head. Boys on one bed, girls on the other. We didn’t mind. It was warm. Safe. Familiar.
Nights were sacred. We’d talk until sleep crept in. About the cars we’d buy, the cities we’d live in, the girls we liked, the food we’d never tasted but imagined tasted delicious.

We boys had this unwritten rota for grazing animals. Grandma didn’t need to remind us; we all knew our days. If someone fell ill on their grazing day, another had to step in, and no one liked that. Grazing was long, lonely, and painfully boring.
We’d rather be fetching firewood or water. At least there was company. Some of us got creative, faking sickness just to dodge grazing duty. I tried once. Claimed I had a headache. Grandma touched my forehead and calmly said, “There’s no fever here.” And just like that, I was off to graze cattle and goats with my fake headache. I could swear that woman had a built-in lie detector! After that, we sharpened our lies or gave up entirely.

Still, I loved many things about upcountry life. The freedom. The endless nature. Birdsong that felt like morning prayer. Trees older than anyone I knew, standing still in quiet wisdom.
We walked barefoot everywhere, school, rivers, fields. Not by choice, of course, most of us didn’t have shoes. This hardened our soles. One day I stepped on a thorn and it broke on my foot instead of piercing through. We laughed and made jokes about it for a long time. It was always hilarious. Of course, most other times, the thorns went in, painful and unforgiving.

There were parts I dreaded though. Chief among them: hairy caterpillars. Those creatures could give you the itchiest rash known to mankind. I got goosebumps just seeing them.
Once, one crawled up the collar of my shirt and as we went to fetch water in the nearby dam, I felt something tickling my neck and asked my aunt to check. The moment she saw it, she dropped her jerricans and ran like her life depended on it. I chased after her, frightened and confused, until she shouted from a distance that a huge caterpillar was on my back. I ripped off my shirt and kept running. Later, I went back, recovered the shirt, and removed the caterpillar but not before being laughed at by everyone who saw what was happening.

Then there was Keekee.
A rebel goat.
She was built different. She had this way of standing still, staring into the distance like she was plotting. Moments later, she’d dart into the neighbour’s farm to feast on freshly sprouting crops, pulling other goats along like a cult leader.
And the neighbours? Furious. Grandma? Even more furious. Compensation would be demanded, and we’d pay in beatings.

One day, Keekee’s antics pushed me too far. At dusk, when all animals were penned, I fashioned a nice, straight stick and waited. Once the goats were in their room, I closed the door behind me and gave Keekee the punishment I felt she deserved.
But she just stood there. Silent. Stoic. Like nothing I did mattered. No cry, no flinch. It drove me mad. At one point, I even bit her with my teeth until she screamed.
When grandma came home, she punished me for letting the animals feast on the neighbour’s crops.
Still, I wondered, did Keekee even understand why she was being beaten? The next day the answer was clear, it’s like the beating fueled her rebellion! 

School life at Muonyweni Primary was a different kind of drama.
We had to be in school by 6am. The walk wasn’t long, maybe fifteen minutes, but the cold, the dew, and the fear of the headteacher’s stick made every morning a struggle. If you were late, he’d whip you without a second thought. Sometimes I’d sneak through the fence to avoid punishment. Thank God I was never caught. Those who were caught sneaking would be suspended or expelled.

At school, us boys had our own hierarchy. Fighting was how respect was earned. I quickly became one of the most feared in my class, and that got into my head. I started picking fights with older boys just to prove a point.
One day, I told a boy two classes above me that I could beat him in a fight. I said it loudly, in front of others. He didn’t take it kindly. Word spread. Laughter followed. And we set the stage: after school, on the field.

Now, I was a fan of Jean-Claude Van Damme. I had watched his movies religiously. Practised his high kicks in the compound.
But movies lie.

The fight started. Within thirty seconds, the boy had kicked me. Punched me. Landed a head kick on my forehead. I went down. Got up. Went down again. My kicks? Useless. My blows? Missed. I don’t remember landing anything. But I was still determined, After all, most of the times Van Damme doesn’t start by winning the first rounds.
One kid in the crowd who were cheerfully enjoying the free entertainment, in Kamba, shouted: “Kelvin īnūka nūūkūwawa!” (Kelvin, go home, you’ll be killed).

That day, I went home with a sore face, bruised ego and a humbled heart.
I had to admit to myself I was nothing like Van Damme. And I never fought upper-class boys again.

Looking back, upcountry life was many things, hard, hilarious, humbling. It grounded me. Taught me resourcefulness, community, resilience, and a strange tenderness for all things simple.
Whether it was the quiet rage of a goat, the itchy curse of a caterpillar, or the crushing blow of a schoolyard fight, each moment left an imprint.

Somewhere between the barefoot walks and childhood wars, I found the roots of who I’ve become.
And if I’m honest, a small part of me still wants to believe I could be Van Damme.