Rays of sunlight stream through a gap between the window curtains. They divide the room almost in half. I squint past the rays and my eyes rest on a desk angled against a corner.

It is lined with books. The bed squeaks its annoyance as I sit up and hold my head between my hands. After a little while I stretch into a noisy yawn and walk to the window. I pull the curtains.

The misty morning beckons my eyes past the avocado trees abundant with green fruit, to the fields where cow dung-induced lumps of grass jut out in staggered patches, to the corn rows’ guard of honour and into the kei-apple fence that acts as a barrier against unwanted pests and wild game.

I slowly open the window. A cold waft of morning air greets my nostrils as I take in that unmistakable pine of freshness. I close my eyes again as if in supplication.

At a distance, a donkey neighs, snorts, and then neighs again — several bellows that fade into quietness. I am home in Limuru, Kenya, after many years away in the United States.

Coming home after long periods of absence brings to me a sense of joy, apprehension, longing and hope. I belong here, but it also attends to an ever present sense of perpetual deprivation.

Time seems to have passed me by while I was away and now I have to play catch up to an environment and a society that is familiar yet disconcertingly strange. Returning home to family and friends, some of whom I have lost physically or for whom life has “happened” exacerbates these bitter-sweet emotions.

Home for me, fraught with the memory of the violence that had befallen my family several years ago, is ensconced with anger. My father, was assaulted and burned with cigarettes and my step-mother, raped a few days after my father’s return from 24 years in exile.

I was buoyed by my father’s resilience and step-mother’s courage during this very trying time. Our strength and faith in family had held us through but the scars that recede to the back of memory are tender to the touch and smell of a place.

Despite this I am hopeful that Kenya has awoken to a new dawn of prosperity, transparency and rule of law — a healthy nation. I know that nothing remains the same given time and opportunity but it is this very transformation that makes me jittery. I’m not too sure what to expect, an uncertain traveller who knows not but his destination.

I also want to see the physical changes but I secretly hope to find certain sentimental artifacts intact; the house I grew up in, the courtyard where I stole my first kiss or the school building where I spent my formative years.

Upon my return, the sight and smell of these familiar places evoke an intimate connection reminiscent of long lost lovers. This nostalgia somehow revitalises a sense of belonging, a connection that truly centres or affirms my bonds with home.

Driving along the Mutarakwa-Limuru road is an arduous task. A narrow strip of tarmac is all that is left for a road. I see several bars, where in my day I used to nurse a cold one or two. Not to forget the succulent cuts of roast goat that bedazzled the palate.

I would like to go in and re-visit but I think the better of it —it is still morning and so much more to do and see.

What really strikes me as I negotiate the potholes is the numbers of young men idling about. They lean expectantly on old dilapidated vans and trucks packed haphazardly along the roadside.

To keep warm, some have made bonfires with old tires that emit a black smoke signal to the heavens. Some, with solemn faces, stand alone. Yet most are here to find work in a town that seems to be surviving purely on instinct.

Near the bus station, a huge mound of uncollected garbage holds its own. The smell of decay is languid and attacks ones nostrils with incessant tenacity. Two school-aged boys sift through this pile in the hope of salvaging anything of value, risking life and limb and obviously missed a day of school.

As I drive towards Limuru my spirits are down but there is something burning in me. I am home.

Once in Limuru town I am overwhelmed by the level of human activity. Cars drive randomly on narrow streets, squeezing between men and women with heavy loads on their shoulders.

A man shepherds his herd of goats between the shops headed for the open market. Children dart in and out of alleyways. The dust rises into the air that is already steaming with the smell of raw sewage from a nearby shoe factory and uncollected garbage piles standing in every corner.

Merchants display their wares, American Football League and European soccer T-shirts, Nike shoes and a sundry of goods from China, outside their shops.

Some lure customers with music and incense. I meet a former classmate, Joseph Irungu. His father had owned a successful business for many years but it had taken a huge hit from cheap imports and they had to close shop.

He is struggling to find work despite his MBA from the University of Nairobi. He is among the thousands of college graduates looking and competing for scarce jobs. He is despondent yet hopeful. I invite him for a drink later on.

I watch the levels of activity — the din of vendors haggling over prices, friends talking haughtily about some recent exploit, a couple huddled in a corner making plans for the evening, the hooting by angry motorists, the loud music blasting Swahili and American rap songs, jua kali artisans panelling unco-operative metallic sheets into appliances for sale. I am truly home.

Despite these commercial activities the unmistakable signs of poverty are all around. Misiri, a slum built literally on a side of a cliff hangs precariously overlooking the Limuru Market.

Misiri and other nearby villages supply the cheap labour to the nearby tea plantations. For a dollar a day or less, they toil in harsh working conditions for long hours. In the evenings they drown their sorrows with illicit drinks that have blinded, maimed and killed many.

On the other side of town, sick men, women and their children line up at the local clinic, their pained bodies registers of untold suffering. The nurse is overwhelmed by sheer numbers and lack of medical supplies.

The robberies and violent nights have become a security nightmare for all residents and the pervasive alcoholism all testify to a society grinding to a halt.

I walk into the market to visit with my aunt, Tata Wangari. From a distance I can hear her unmistakable hearty laughter. Poor health and old age have taken their toll but she gives me a huge hug, looks me up and down and says I need to eat. So she invites me for lunch later in the week. I do not object.

My aunt sells whatever she can grow on her half-acre plot of land not far from here but with unpredictable weather patterns her yields have become scant.

I visit with Mburu, a neighbour, who is negotiating a deal with a Finnish couple. He sells sunglasses, second-hand clothing and sheepskins, which he cleans and cures himself. He is about five years older than I am but he looks like he has seen two lifetimes. His movements are slow and deliberate; his eyes have lost that glow and healthy energy that comes with the promise of hope.

I look around for more familiar faces and all I see are dilapidated buildings and new construction competing for air space. I remember back then running around town with my friends, stopping frequently to say hello to so and so. Now, I do not seem to know anyone. It feels strange, new and ancient all at once. I begin to wonder what really makes a home.

I am saddened by the physical retrogression that has befallen Limuru and the utter depravity that is manifest in the lives of people I have met and those milling around the street corners.

Early evening, at the Manga Hotel, I meet up with Irungu and Mburu. We reminisce over a cold beverage that my parched lips find most welcoming.

My excitement at seeing both of them and being home is quickly truncated when they tell me of a neighbour who recently lost two of his sons. I grew up with these two boys, racing imaginary cars up and down village paths. They tell me of others who have died of disease and in car accidents. I remember them.

Even as the fond memories are replaced by something new and tattered we raise our glasses and toast to the dead and the dying.
And to the brighter days yet to come, tomorrow.