By Tego Wolasa
Chudo, my last-born son, came screaming from his bedroom, panicked by the fireworks explosion.
My neighbors at the Readers Republic of Rongai have this tradition of fireworks every New Year. 2025 was no different.
My first real encounter with the cacophony and exhilaration of New Year’s Eve occurred in 1995 in Kiamaiko.
I was then staying with my late uncle, Oche Hasse, who would spend the eve of New Year’s Day collecting bottles. I didn’t understand the purpose of the bottles at first.
Kiamaiko was a stark contrast to what we know today: ramshackle wooden houses adorned with makeshift wallpaper crafted from repurposed milk packaging.
Those who were well-off lived in those U-shaped plots with permanent houses away from the center of Kiamaiko.
Living in such houses came with responsibilities. Friends and family would come to watch resoling (wrestling on KBC TV) or make a visit to the washroom.
There was also an endless queue of those who had come to receive phone calls from relatives in Marsabit and Moyale. Very few homes had a landline phone: Hussein Choke, Qoroto Gele, and Mzee Wario Konso, if I am not mistaken.
Those without access to proper sanitation relied on the communal kanjo toilets, now located near Gorofa ya Nane, or braved the darkness to relieve themselves amidst the growing mounds of garbage within the settlement.
I remember being roused early to finish my business before the rising sun exposed my activities.
Gorofa ya Murithi, the imposing structure closer to the Anwar Mosque, dwarfed the other buildings. The mosque itself was a modest single-room wooden house with a flimsy curtain separating women from men.
You are asking about Huruma Mosque. Yes, it was there, but we didn’t go around there often as it was considered a hoor “outskirt.” We alighted from matatus and quickly disappeared into the labyrinth that was kijije. Huruma Corner was another country.
Back then, religion was rare, money was meagre, no gorofas and gossips. The community was close-knit with love freely flowing. No! We didnt have the qebele-habilis retards that roams freely today.
With our bottles ready, we would eat early and get prepared for the grand party.
As midnight approached, excitement mounted. Everyone prepared their rocks, lined up bottles, and readied themselves for the improvised fireworks.
At the stroke of midnight, ear-splitting screams of “Happy New Year!” erupted. While few slept, the majority celebrated by smashing bottles against rocks with joyous abandon.
Some even escalated the revelry by pelting roofs with stones. The entire settlement erupted in a frenzy of celebration, with some even swimming into the New Year through a pool of alcohol.
The following day was a celebration in itself, akin to Eid or Christmas, with festive feasts commemorating the birth of the new year.
Back then, most of those born in Kiamaiko spoke Swahili and Gikuyu, a stark contrast to the diverse community of today.
Slaughter Street, the thoroughfare between Valley Bridge and Ngei, served as an open-air abattoir. It was only in 1996/7 that the government intervened, ordering the closure of these makeshift slaughterhouses and restoring order to the streets.
More fireworks around my house in Rongai jolted me back from 1995 memories to 2025 realities, a journey of 30 years through time. Boy, how time moves fast.