From herdsboy to Africa's top seat: How my childhood was shaped by colonial Kenya

A few years after my father left our home area to work for a white farmer, I followed in his footsteps to where he lived. That place was to become part of my childhood story.

During the colonial era, it was common for locals to work as labourers for white farmers. My early experiences centred on rural life, which involved taking care of our livestock—cattle and sheep—and tilling the land to grow maize, sorghum, potatoes, and vegetables for our own consumption.

So, being brought to live with my father at a tender age was quite an adjustment. The reason was that my uncle and aunt, who also worked for the same white tea farmer as my father, needed help caring for the baby, and I was given that responsibility.

It was a deeply unsettling experience, as I was abruptly pulled from my familiar surroundings into an unfamiliar environment.

It was, in essence, an extension of forced child labour. Still, I eventually found some pleasure in my new life. The few years I spent there offered me a unique perspective—different from living in a more rural setting with my mother.

Being in this different atmosphere at such a young age, I even picked up a new dialect, Kipsigis, spoken by the Kalenjin community in the Rift Valley of Kenya.

I also began to understand the people’s way of life during that period, which included living in camps separated along ethnic lines. The division among tribes was deliberate, as ethnic animosity and tension were constant factors—a strategy by the colonial administration to divide and rule.

This division was not just among natives; it extended to racial categories, ranked as follows: Europeans, Asians, Coloured (or mixed race), and finally Africans.

I recall a particular incident when I was unwell and admitted to Kericho District Hospital. It was a traumatic experience, as the hospital was segregated by race. 

I remember seeing a boy on the other side of the fence. My memory is vague as to whether he was white or Indian, as back then, I couldn’t tell one race from another, except that they were ‘different’ from I in colour.

I felt a strong urge to communicate and play with the boy. After all, regardless of race, we were both just children. But no sooner had we begun interacting than we were pulled apart by an adult, perhaps a nurse, who instructed us that we were not allowed to play together.

It was the first time I truly felt the harsh reality of racial boundaries. It had been a concept—something people spoke about—but it was alien to me. Even exchanging words was forbidden. That was when I first understood what division meant.

Racial intermarriage was forbidden by law. Segregation extended beyond race to include tribal Balkanisation. Personal identification cards were mandatory and indicated both one’s tribe and birthplace.

It was a criminal offence not to carry an identity card and poll tax receipt at all times. Police carried out random checks, and if found in violation,  one was arrested or given corporal punishment on the spot. It was truly a reign of terror.

Education was a priviledge

Education was a privilege, and as a result, very few people had access to it. In the later years of my eldest brother’s schooling, he expressed a desire to leave and work alongside our father, which the colonial farmers encouraged.

However, our father had different plans, insisting that my brother pursue his education to open doors for better opportunities. At the time, to us who lacked education, it seemed almost comical. 

I echoed our father’s sentiments, telling my brother Harun to return home and continue with his studies. After some persuasion, he quit working as a farm labourer and went back to school.

Unbeknown to me, this decision also affected my own future. Eventually, an opportunity arose for me to return home to my mother and birthplace.

I was ecstatic, having longed for the familiarity of home. By then, my brother had reluctantly returned to school.

I too wanted to go and eagerly awaited my turn. However, I was informed that it wasn’t my time for education yet. I needed to stay home to care for the animals, as there was no one else to do it since my elder brothers were all in school.

It was a disappointing time, as I stayed home tending the animals while others studied. But then something struck me.

What if I could learn what my brother was studying? The thought filled me with immense joy. Every day when he returned from school, I would examine his clay tablet, as we had no books at the time, and review his work to teach myself.

When I was finally told at eleven years old that it was my turn to go to school, my self-learning paid off—I skipped pre-primary and went straight into second grade. I was over the moon.

Yet it wasn’t as easy as I had imagined. My understanding was still flawed with large gaps and so, my brother began helping me giving me additional lessons at home. It helped greatly, though my first years of schooling remained challenging.

Back then, pupils had to sit an exam in the fourth grade known as the Competitive Entrance Examination. There were also very few schools in native settlement areas.

Grades five to eight were considered intermediate schools. Few schools offered education beyond grade eight.

Kisii Government African School served the Kisii region, South Nyanza and beyond, while only one university, Makerere in Uganda, served Kenya and Tanganyika. The University of Nairobi obtained its Charter in 1968, the year I sat my ‘O’ level examination.

Tasting failure

Returning to my school life, I failed the grade four exams in 1960, a pivotal moment as I tasted the sting of failure and defeat.

Only five out of forty pupils advanced to grade five. Thankfully, I was allowed to retake the exam, determined not to fail again.

From then on, my academic performance improved significantly. That failure taught me where I had gone wrong and how to do better.

As a student in a missionary school, the curriculum was not only focused on reading, writing, and sciences, but it also provided a holistic education that trained the mind, hands, and heart.

 We learned practical skills like gardening and caring for nature. We also helped teachers with tasks like fetching water and maintaining the school garden.The spiritual aspect was something I didn’t fully embrace at the time, but it was part of the process. 

When Kenya gained independence, the education system transformed. Previously, under colonial rule, one studied until grade eight before proceeding to secondary school, if lucky.

After independence, the system expanded to include more students and schools.

Given that the country hadn’t yet built additional schools, exams for grades seven and eight were introduced to decide who could advance to the next level.

In grade seven, only the top five sat the exam, but all in grade eight took national exams, after which the best were selected for secondary education.

I was among those who excelled and gained admission to high school, but faced another challenge. Many students were older, and competition was fierce.

The first two years were daunting, but the memory of failure spurred me to work harder.

When the time came for my ‘O’ levels,then known as the Cambridge School Certificate Examination, I ranked among the top performers.

I enrolled at Kisii High School for A levels and later qualified for university. Outside academics, I was active in sports and a member of the Boy Scouts. I enjoyed football, athletics, and cross-country running.  I was also introduced to rugby by our headmaster. This ex-military officer had served in the Second World War as part of the British battalion and had a penchant for the sport.

I joined the rugby team and eventually captained the Kenyan schools against Uganda. My rugby journey continued at the University of Nairobi, and even after graduation, I remained active in sport. Reflecting on my school years, I have fond memories and few regrets. Yet one lasting impression is my early awareness of the police and their role in racial segregation.

As a child, I saw them as an oppressive arm of the colonial regime, often arresting people  for what seemed to me to be small misdemeanours.

I recall an incident involving my eldest brother, who ran a business in Kisii town just a kilometre from my school. On one occasion, my brother was arrested by the police following a dispute with Kenya Power staffers over an unpaid electricity bill.

The power company had cut off his electricity, and feeling it was unjust, he reconnected it himself, leading to his arrest. The police manhandled him harshly and later presented him in court. He hired a lawyer to defend him in court. I was astounded to witness the lawyer’s assertive cross-examination of the police officer, even going so far as to call him out by name.

This boldness was something I had never realised was possible, as the police had been dreaded forces since the colonial era. At that moment, I resolved to become a lawyer. However, when the time came for me to go to university, a law degree required three main courses, but I only had two, and so the law faculty denied my application.

I then approached the Department of Economics to explore the possibility of studying economics, a subject I also enjoyed, and my request was granted.

Thankfully, despite my mathematics being a little rusty, I was admitted to the course on the condition that I would work hard to catch up.

Rising to the challenge, I put in considerable effort, and by the time of graduation, I was among the top four students in my class. I owe part of my success to two brilliant classmates, Johnson Otenyo and Nelius Kariuki. That achievement opened doors for me to build a career as an economist in the professional world.