The village chief had summoned me. Though last in the government pecking order, he held an important position in the village.

I made the mistake of visiting him on a Monday afternoon. I forgot that Monday afternoons were reserved for the weekly village baraza, where the chief communicated the government’s policies and led discussions on the various developmental agendas affecting the village. The baraza was in progress when I drove into the chief’s camp.

He saw me and immediately sent someone to come over and insist that I join them.

I strolled over to the baraza, which was being held under a N’gou tree where more than 500 villagers were seated. Some villagers were seated on stools, others on cheap plastic seats, some were perched on stones and others were on the bare ground. The chief together with six of his advisors sat facing the crowd. An invisible line separated the men from the women.

I was intending to sit at the back, but the chief called out to me and the entire crowd turned to see whom he was calling.

“Come to the front and greet your people!”

I walked to the front extending my hand to shake the chief’s hand, but he grabbed me and hugged me, which surprised me because we had never been particularly close. With one hand on my shoulder he introduced me to the crowd.

“This is one of our illustrious sons based in the city. Who, despite his many demanding duties, still makes time to pay me a visit whenever he is in the village.”

I read mischief in the chief’s words: One, it was a subtle way of informing me that here in the village he still called the shots and two, it was a reminder to the villagers that he had connections with influential people. That he was a man of influence.

“Greet the crowd! Greet your people!” The chief instructed me.

I turned around and waved to the crowd

“Amosou Jothurwa” (I salute you our people), I said.

“Warwako!” (We accept), the crowd answered in unison.

“Amosou Kendo” (Again I salute you).

“Kendo Warwako!” (Again we accept).

I sat down on a seat next to the chief, which had suddenly become vacant. He went on to list several cases that needed to be dealt with. He called on Ondiek Wendo and his neighbour Opien Olwete who were arguing over a tree.

A bow-legged Ondiek stood up.

“Amosou Jothurwa,” he said, greeting the crowd as tradition demanded.

“You all know Opien Olwete is my neighbour. However, early on Thursday Olwete went over to my farm in Dago and cut down a tree, which at present he is using to build a house for his new wife...”

Ondiek continued his narration.

I looked around at the crowd. I noticed Ochillo Nyan’g who since I was young had been the village mole catcher. He was now bald and his face weather-beaten. Then I noticed Owino Johnny, who had been the head-boy at our primary school. He was now a peasant farmer. He also looked tired, withdrawn and only had one eye. I guessed it had been gouged out.

“Awacho Kama… His genitals would be at this table right now…”

The accusations and counter accusations continued.

Next I noticed Opiyo Dete, the professional widow inheritor. I was surprised that he was still alive after his many trysts.

“It’s a lie! Ask Opino, he knows the truth...”

Then I saw Tung Nyuka. I had known him as a boisterous young man, but today he looked tired with sunken cheeks. He looked at me, winked and smiled, exposing several missing teeth. I smiled back. I remembered we had nicknamed him Oyundi, which is a bird that is never around during the planting and weeding seasons but shows up during harvest time.

Tung Nyuka was one such fellow, only around during the good times, but he was good company nevertheless.

Then I saw Omito. At first I could not recognise him. He had a head full of grey hair, his round cheeks had shrunk and he had a walking stick in his hand. I gasped.

Gideon Omito, my desk-mate for five years in primary school, was now using a walking stick!

I averted my gaze.

Otieno Ogae stood up to say something. He also had a tired look. To think that this old man had been nicknamed “Bim” for his antics as a goalkeeper in the local secondary school. Oh, the ravages of time!

“Awacho kama…” the accusations continued.

My eyes shifted to where the women were seated. Most of them looked relatively young and unknown to me, possibly women from other villages.

But, I recognised Angelina, a tough woman who had reportedly slapped her son-in-law, which at the time was an unimaginable offence. I saw Mama O’ngele, who brewed the best chang’aa in the village. I saw Kristina Aloo, whose daughter Atieno was once my lover. I idly wondered where Atieno was nowadays. Probably at a baraza in another village.

All these people from my village looked tired and emaciated. I had once been close to some of them but time and distance had turned us into acquaintances.

I thought about myself, now overweight, with a distended belly and I suspect a big behind. Maybe to them I was the epitome of wealth and health.

They were simple folk with simple demands. They had little interest with the principles of matter, or with Amicus Curiae or with the neo-realism theory or the two natures of Jesus Christ. What they knew was that the cost of fertiliser was too high and there were no jobs for their children.

That the rains were constantly failing and members of parliament were paid too much.

I was no better than any of them.

I was retiring in a few years’ time and was due to settle back here in the village. Would I ever fit back in with this lot? I now realised that these people were no longer my people. Our differences were too great.

Awacho kama! I have lost my identity.