THE MAN THAT WAS MY GRANDFATHER

GUKA

By Charity Kuria

He was the calmest person I ever meet. Never once did I see him angry or moody. Instead he had this beautiful smile on his dark face whenever he saw someone approaching. Serene defined him perfectly.  His handshake ever firm he would enquire about my welfare with genuine concern. He really cared about my education. 

When I came to understand things, my grandfather was a clinical officer and owned a clinic right outside the homestead. People referred him to as ‘Doctor’ but to us his grandchildren he was simply guka and he seemed to love it.  I believe he loved me as much as I loved him. Guka was my favourite person because never once did he raise his voice at me or heard him do it to anyone else nor did he beat me up unlike my grandmother and parents who are guilty of all the above.

Guka used to buy me presents. I remember once, he bought me a facemask. It had many colours and I really felt nice. I am told of stories of how when little I would accompany him to a hotel where he would buy me maandazi. Back home my cousins would be waiting for my arrival with the anticipation of eating my maandazi but I was too little to comprehend what was going on.

In the evenings every day, we his grandchildren would sing him baby songs and he in turn would treat us to sodas to our grandmother’s dismay who would rather not have had us there. She took pleasure in chasing us away during the day and we would take advantage of dusk when guka would be home. He loved nyamachoma and beer. I remember collecting bottle caps of White Cap, Tusker, Guinness and Summit. In his coat pockets there would be several sachets of Bond 7s. 

In the living room at the corner sat a lonely seat that carried his many hats after being washed. We would try them all out and he never seemed to mind. In fact when drunk he would pull a hat off his head and place it on my head. The hat being overly big he would look at me and break into a happy laughter.  

I remember one evening at his house having come home from a wedding where I had been a flower girl. I had worn a little pretty pink Cinderella dress with matching white shoes. As usual guka was drunk. There were guests with him at his lobby.  In my excitement, I took to wheeling on my heels and my dress would follow suit forming this big umbrella-like movement that seemed to amuse him and his equally drunk guests. The laughter called grandma from the kitchen who tried grabbing at me but smartly waltzed out of her reach by going further into the room. Guka would say “Again!” and I would ballet again and again enjoying every single moment.

He owned an agro-vet shop and behind that, there was the clinic. Some few blocks away from the shop was his pub which he had christened ‘Solidarity’ and to which he consumed half the alcohol that was sold. While playing outside, patients would come to the clinic and call for “watoto wadaktari, wapi daktari?” If he wasn’t at the shop then definitely he would be at the Solidarity.

One kid would hop away to call guka from wherever he was to come and attend to his patient(s). We took delight in making the trips to the pub. You see, it had a butchery within and that meant two things. We would get muturas and soda for free all in one breath! You can imagine making numerous trips to call him. While he was gone, we would guard his beer jealously and the results were awesome. Always!

One day while in college, dad bought me a small digital camera. In my excitement I took only two photos of him. He was seated on an arm chair specifically his, in the living room enjoying a cold coca-cola drink listening to his small radio. I requested for a photo and in honour, took off his cap to have his picture taken. He looked radiant. That was the best day I’ve ever had with him.  The moment was bliss.

Now, seated here with a sad-happy smile looking at this small picture of his in my wallet I can’t help but miss the old man and the good old days. Happy anniversary guka, till we meet again!