This archive report was first published on 5 January 2020.
It was Christmas Day, and I, Baby Drago, was two and a half years old. I woke up early, hearing the jogoo's familiar 'koko-ri-koko' call. My grandfather's shamba was home to a big and old jogoo, which I wondered if we would eat on Christmas Day.
Later, my parents arrived from Nairobi, carrying yummies, balloons, and Christmas lights. We decorated the tree and fought for balloons with my cousins, Fabian and Saul. My sister Milan was away, visiting our aunt in the Coast region.
As we prepared for lunch, I remembered my dream of becoming an illustrator like Harry Muriuki and inventing a 'ha ha' rabbit called 'Funny Bunny.' We headed to 'Pacha' by the River Tharaka, but I cried when my mother wanted to take pictures near the rapids. 'Mommy, maji itaenda na wewe hautarudi,' I said.
My mother abandoned her plans and came over to me, her eyes moist. 'Hakuna pahali nitawahi enda nikuwache, mtoto wangu!' she said. We had a feast with the family, but my father and grandfather enjoyed two bottles of beer.
That evening, I caught my grandfather eating 'ma poo poo' in the backyard and was shocked. I told my aunt Shosh, who laughed and said, 'Hii ni mukimo.'
The next day, I heard the jogoo's familiar call again. 'Muuum,' I said to my mother, 'nyama ya kuku imeamka, inapiga kelele! Nani ata ipika?' My father replied, 'Your ntagu gave that cock a Christmas pardon. Go to sleep, toto.'
