Unearthing my family's hidden past in Embu

I have written about faraway places and different topics, including California’s innovations and vineyards in Stellenbosch, South Africa.

Yet many of us know so little about our country, including our families.

Read on as I get personal for once. Last week, in a conversation with my mum, she told me my dad had married his first wife in church.

That was surprising because I have never seen a wedding certificate among his many documents. 

“Where did he wed?” I asked. “In a Catholic Church in Kevote, Embu,” she replied. That was music to my ears.

I knew the Catholic Church kept very elaborate records. A visit to a Catholic Church in Thika recently yielded records dating back to 1911.  

On Monday, I drove 140km to Kevote, Embu. The drive to the junction of Embu from Nairobi was all dual carriage.

If only all Kenyan roads were like that. At Makutano, you turn right to Embu through Wamumu, Mutithi, Wang’uru, Kimbimbi, Difatha’s and other oddly named towns through rice country.  

Embu used to be the Eastern region’s provincial headquarters and benefited from good infrastructure. It’s now a regional headquarters. Why is it also called Kirimari?  

A level 5 hospital, a branch of the Kenya School of Government, a university, Kangaru schools, and other government institutions line the Embu-Meru Highway. 

Past Kivwe, you turn left towards Makenga. The tarmac ends after about two kilometres. On a dusty and winding road, about 15km, you reach Kevote, a small town that seems frozen in time.

It’s designed like any other local market in the rural areas, with a big square in the middle. A newly constructed BodaBoda shed with only two motorbikes caught my attention. Past the Kevote Market, less than a kilometre, I turned left into a small driveway leading to St Paul’s High School-Kevote.

Just on the right near the school gate is St Paul’s Catholic Church, my destination. I met Fr Henry Kathuri (soon to be Dr Kathuri), enjoying the morning sunshine.

I quickly explained to him my mission. A fine gentleman, he walked me around the office block cum priest’s house under construction, to the secretary’s office. 

He doubles up as a chaplain of a boy’s school where my uncle was schooled in the 1960s. 

Fr Kathuri introduced me to Anne Wandiri Njeru, the church secretary. After greetings, I explained my case.

“My father was here around 1942, and I am looking for his baptism and marriage records,” I explained.

“What was his name?” she asked in amazement. She wrote on a piece of paper and left for the adjacent room. She brought a big book that showed age and a small green card. 

“That’s him!” I exclaimed as I stood. My father’s name was written in bold letters with a felt pen on the green card.

The big book, allow me to call it “the book of life,” had the list of Christians baptised since 1923 when the mission was established by Italian Consolata Missionaries. The book and card were all in Latin. 

In amazement, I looked at the card. There is something magical about looking at 86-year-old original documents. It had my father’s Christian name, his given name and his parents’ names. It also indicated his place of birth, his tribe and clan.

The same information is in the ID application form. He was baptised on April 16, 1939 and confirmed on 20th November 1941.

He married on January 2, 1944. That did not stop him customary marrying my mum about 10 years later. Should I support or oppose polygamy? 

Twenty-five years after his death, I can now explain why my dad was so peaceful. He married both of his wives in the middle of World War II and the Mau Mau uprising.

One of his brothers fought in Burma for the British Empire. But that did not stop him from going to detention in Manyani after his return. 

Excited by this document, I decided to push the frontiers of possibility. My mum was born in Embu, and maybe I could get her birth notification.

On visiting the registrar of persons, I was told the registry was only set up in 1969, and there were no records before that. My excitement was now muted. All grandparents from my dad’s side are buried in Embu. With no record, I may never know when they died or where they are buried.

In my last visit to Itabua, Embu, I was told of a cemetery nearby that no longer exists. My mum could remember it.

Are they somewhere there?  What happened to them?  It seems they were not yet Christians, and their records will only remain in the family memories. I decided to try my luck elsewhere. My dad and his first wife were in prison in 1957. Why not try Embu Prison for their records? It was my first visit to the prison.  The wardens told me the prison was shifted there in 1982, and no records were available. What happened to these records? Does the prison headquarters have these records?

I found visitors waiting to see their loved ones. Who came to visit my dad and his wife in 1957? 

The day was almost over, so I stopped by the Isaak Walton Inn and took a drink of my choice to celebrate the acquisition of a family gem. 

I shared a copy of the “green card” in the family WhatsApp group. There was little excitement.

Not so surprised, lack of curiosity should be declared a national disaster. My dad had immigrated to Embu from around Thika in 1937.

After independence, he immigrated again to the west, settling in the white highlands. Like Boers, my family has had its share of great treks. 

I hope the church will digitise all these records, making them accessible to researchers and genealogists.  

A good example, the baptism names in the “book of life” are very different from today’s. Joseph, Petrus, Matheus, Aloysius, Phillipus, Antonius, Margerita, and, surprisingly, Jacobus, a very Afrikaans (Boer name). The value of these records will go up with age. What family records do you own? How old are they?

Let me close by annoying you: Why should you know when Vasco da Gama came to Mombasa or what Zinjanthropus ate, but know so little about your families?