The Genesis Story of Atoto Atori
In the beginning…
The Christians had built a supernatural being. An evil beast. Someone who was the cause of their bad behaviour.
They had hired a religious therapist to listen to all their prayers as they spoke to God. Some through Mary. Others through his son, the Holy Spirit. And some were, in fact, using science and witchcraft to guide their new world order.
Unlike the golden ages — where people struggled for power and food — the whole world was, in fact, in agreement that the world was round.
I’m yet — but I do agree to some degree. A spherical mass of body, ruled by people and inhabitants of the earth.
Others were sure of the eternal death of the world. They could not go back to Venus but move forward to Mars. Crawlers and bots were scavenging the dead planet — assumed to be dormant. She was sleeping. She was beautiful. She was full of carbon.
And so are we.
Humankind believed in so many things. It was a world full of dreams.
If you could agree on something with someone else, you could lead a very easy life. A common language. Common culture. Common country. Common design. Common belief. Common vision.
I would like to share a vision with you. I would like to visualize a similar world — not the real one, but one out of our sheer imaginations — where everyone was living their lives when some Christians came by.
The Catholics.
“White people,” they would often curse. “I wonder why you like them?”
What was wrong with them? I had always wondered. The ones I met were as cute as the ones adults watched on TV. Soap opera was my mother’s favourite — The Bold and the Beautiful. Parents named us according to what they believed in.
I was named after the Ivy League — a school of the elites. Or maybe Ivy Grey from the soap opera. Juliet was named after Romeo and Juliet, and now she was dead.
Such a beautiful short love story.
The Catholics were here too. Only one Christadelphian.
They gave us permission to lay the dead, yet they were very late. We had travelled from Western to Nyanza for our sister’s burial and they had dared come late.
Well, I was grateful they did. They found time.
They changed into their customary clothes on site while we watched. They sat right in front of us — between us and the hearse. Every time I wanted to tell them something, I would stop at the coffin. Look at how Julie was still smiling. She was sleeping.
It felt like it was her — only that she was not in there. She had left the host. The glass between us stopped any smell of the dead.
Soon she was going to rot to bones and maggots. But somehow, I felt she was somewhere. Somewhere we rested when our bodies failed on us, for the flesh is so weak.
Everyone had a way to accept death. Humans had more ways of accepting life.
I have both.
I take life with the same big spoon as I take death.
I had looked, listened and learnt what I felt I should from my peers and mostly adults.
Adult — such a strange lot.
We often watched their creative cartoons, animation and fiction — but they watched adult movies when away. Consistently rated 18 and over. I could watch any VCR rated G or PG if mom approved. She would send me for water when undesirable scenes came around, or find alternative colourful books for me to read.
The words always grew in count as I got older.
We were much like them. They all were as small as me at one point in their life. And if I could live long enough, I would be just like them.
“Ivy, I will just be a big girl like you one day,” the little one confirmed our similarities on our world.
This meant — I too would one day die.
Death was balanced by birth. I had tested my theory. Children understood what death was. The churches tried.
The Christians had a more logical reason.
The same logic that I had applied to the Genesis story of creation to mankind.
Genetics was our first compulsory Science in Biology in Highschool, at the National School — Lugulu Girls. Which was not in Nairobi. I had wanted to attend a national school, but not far from home. I wanted to meet all the people from Kenya, but at the comfort of my home.
Lugulu was perfect. My body was adapted to the environment and the people too. Some of my classmates were from my previous school. The rest were girls from all over.
Some from Nairobi. A few from Mombasa.
I preferred working in Nairobi, but now — I like watching Nairobi. The city and the Hub. The Gotham.
All my friends are Christians. A few Muslim. Still, I had to be either for my survival in the religious circle in Nairobi. I had to swear my faith. It draws the lines to most social activities. Humans are social beings. My spiritual friends are social beings.
I liked Muslims. They don’t drink. It is a law for them, as it is “do not kill” — a law for Christians. Their clothes were favourable to the climate. They were more carefree people.
Even when everyone had assumed that I would be abducted by the bad guys from Northern Nigeria, Shakur knew my whereabouts and my father was very grateful.
My white friend — Auntie Kaye — brought us more original stories of the Gospel.
Papa got a Cambridge Bible containing the old and new testaments — translated out of the original tongues, diligently compared and revised, by his Majesty’s special command, King James. Appointed to be read in churches. Printed in Great Britain under a royal letter patent at the Cambridge University Press.
The Bible itself is still as new inside her two cabinets. I’m yet to see a more exciting way to package a book.
“And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die.”
My father read the first lie in his book. We read with him sometimes. Mom too — but she had her own Copy.
Mama got a KJV 2000 Edition — The Holy Bible — by Dr Robert A Couric. I later inherited it since she had two, and mine were not really many Bibles but Journals. It made me feel close to the family.
My books were very different. They were many and better. They had pictures. And each was different.
Every time I grew up, though, the words became more than the beautiful pictures I had liked very much. Stories I knew from the soul.
Any Blue and Red, Christian Delphian book was mine. My little one could share — but I had all the rights to read them. I shared some with my friends and visitors.
“Sharing is caring,” I recited.
Mama got many kitchen utensils, art materials, and letters from Auntie Kaye. She didn’t read much, but she attended all readings diligently. She would be a woman of God and a good woman too.
Papa was always reading his Bible, taking notes, and constantly trying to engage us in his Bible Discussion.
His Bible — unlike any other Bible — had maps.
He is a Christadelphian. Their origin, as they could read through, was from Colossians.
Dear Brethren…
They are not Christians — despite reading the Bible as Christians did. They did not even have a church. We all went to the ranch for our free Bible retreats.
I still go to Fana B for Bible retreats.
We are fewer nowadays, but Adams, from South America, assured me that they were many of them.
They were none in Israel. But I had a friend from Israel — Palestine in Israel — and he was in my mind when I thought of seeking my house.
They are the brethren that Christ had left behind. The first source of information about Jesus. Those that met Jesus. They lived like Jesus.
For starters — Jesus was just like I and you. Jesus was human. He was the son of God, the greatest of them all.
At least the Bereans read a similar book. The Bible. We received pictures as gifts too, from Auntie Kaye. Pictures of her family, the church — and they would exchange with the ones Mommy took.
I was sure her husband was Japanese, but not Chinese.
Every Sunday, sometimes a week, we would travel to Fana B ranch for our story times. After Bible study, she would tell me all about them — better than ChatGPT. I remembered all their faces, their stories, and what colour they wore too.
Auntie Kaye had a lot of stories, but she was always leaving soon. She couldn’t stay in Africa as much as she wanted to. She had grandkids in Vancouver. They were as old as I was.
I couldn’t imagine my own grandmother going away for that long.
I promised her that I would marry one of her grandsons. They were very different. I liked the one with blue eyes and dark hair. The other was cute too, but he looked very young. And their sister was much taller with a ponytail.
I must have loved Auntie Kaye. My mom named me after her.
She is from Canada. She is white — and not as Black as us — but my parents’ sister. She was not a jinni, but a human being of our genes. I had tried to convince my classmates — Kenyans from all over Kenya — that she actually existed.
My name was not from a fictitious story or a movie. As some of my classmates had claimed it sounded like Ivy from The Bold and the Beautiful.
But a real human.
Everyone I talked about Auntie Kaye had insisted she was my parents’ imaginary sister from Canada. Like Power Puff Girls were my friends.
They were related by faith in Jesus. My parents’ real siblings were not fond of that — a jinni had come from Canada, declared herself a family member, and lived like one.
My father and mother had, in fact, gone too far — to give me not a religious name, but a name after her friend. A white friend.
“An imaginary sister,” some said.
Ivy was the elite’s dream. Kaye was an imaginary sister. And Nakhumicha was a good trial, but not any better than my father’s name.
Ivy Kaye Musebe was perfect for me.
The last name identified me to my father. I liked being identified with my father. Genetically, I was just like him — but a girl. I had his personality and identity, and commanded the same respect he did in the society.
I was being cheeky.
Victorine managed to settle the naming beef with my father and it was settled that I be named after her.
I wanted a more indigenous name. Something solid.
Atoto Atori sounded like a better name.
It was agreed that I would be a human record of their clan. Child of the clan. Atori Clan.
Honestly — I simply sound like a child full of stories. I am a child full of stories.
I would find a Muslim friend and live with her for a while. Sly introduced me to Mvua. They are both pretty.
They are proof of what Jack, the therapist, suggested.
(This is the last I will mention about Jack. He has ceased socialising with me because I tell you about him — yet he is a very private man. I won’t be telling him about you too, because I like talking to Jack. He listens to me.)
He said:
“For me, it is a false dichotomy. People can’t be analyzed as collections of traits. Inner and outer beauty are linked. Not so complicated. A mannequin with an empty head is not erotic or beautiful. Desire is a combination of physical and psychological attraction. There can be more of one than the other — but there has to be unity. Outer beauty is often a reflection of inner qualities.”
I called Mvua, anxious. Something had happened.
I had gone to Bible school and met Adam there. Papa has a digital record of the moments. Nelson, the naughty boy, had asked for my hand in marriage. And Nabwile had been the witness.
I had prayed for a husband, and the proposal was somehow what I had expected mine to be. I was feeling like Lot. God was giving me two options. I did not understand why I shouldn’t choose abundance.
If it was a test, I was going to fail.
I have always wanted to think about marriage when I am thirty. I am nine and twenty.
Men married in their thirties. Still, at my age, marriage sounds like a man adopting me.
My girlfriends are more mature:
Sharon — a pretty banker, besides being a telecommunication engineer somewhere in Zanzibar. She said yes to being my bridesmaid. She cannot wait to meet my plus one. We didn’t like each other at first. When admissions from private academy were done, Sharon was the last member to be added to our red class. She talks a lot only when necessary. Sharon sleeps on me when I tell her stories — but it is more interesting when she tells stories.
Julie — a doctor. She just moved into her new home and still giggles on the phone. Growing up, Lugulu knew that Julie was our number one Daktari.
Edel — in Australia, driving her first car. I was always upset that she would lie that she would come back. Barbie will soon join her.
Nabwile — in Ministry in the village, unbothered and unmarried, somewhere in Bungoma. She refuses to visit and shop from my wardrobe. When Auntie Kaye visited, they always camped at Nabwile’s home ranch.
Well — I’m just as scared to go to Bible school. I might meet that boy, Nelson.
He wants to marry me. I have yet to tell Papa. I haven’t found the words.
Marrying from the Christadelphian church means marrying someone close enough to my dad. Someone friendly with my dad. Someone who chats with my dad.
Nelson doesn’t even speak with me. He may be very shy. Or we might never have a chat at all.
Imagine a marriage without conversations. That was what marriage was about to be for me.
I feel very different now.
I have always been a child. Then I became Ivy. And not Yvi.
And soon — Atoto Atori.
I was changing.
I was going to forge change from each simulation and do something from the ordinary.
In the third year of the twentieth century, I wanted not to move. I wanted to retire. To stop everything. Hold still. Find peace. Come home.
Far from the genesis where I grew up — at the slopes of Mount Elgon — where once upon a time lived a clan.
The Atori Clan.
Where Juliet and I found ourselves living with a family from the Abakhayo clan — the last of her people. A very close family with a seer, a child that saw things. A child full of stories.
I had a very long story to tell at her burial, but it made no sense.
I had already told her what I had wanted. I wanted to meet her. Meet her son. Meet her new family.
My sister had run away with a man she loved. And for the first time, I was going to see her.
She was still a girl.
I had always known her without her hair — and bald head was not a surprise. But now she lay dead, and I hated the red lipstick the mortuary people smudged on her lips. It was flaky. It reminded me of how dead my sister was.
Indeed, we all die.
Uncle David had died. Rampard had died. Kukhu Julia had died. And now Juliet. She was resting. Living was a complete pain for her, but she was our happiness.
I watched her son watch her closely enough too.
Juliet was no more.
And we travelled — a few of us — to lay her in Homabay. I have thought about it. Getting married in Homabay. It was far from home.
To get to Homabay by 7am, we had to travel from 6pm the previous day.
I was bitter and I was upset. However — the lemon eucalyptus scent covered the rocky road where we would rest her.
Her graveyard had been dug. Her remains laid in a beautiful white coffin.
A few broke into sobs as the room grew crowded. I stepped out.
July had left behind a widow and a son with a sparkling resemblance of her.
We had to clear our relationship with the late. She was my sister, but not blood related.
Juliet had two sisters and two brothers.
Juliet had three fathers and three mothers.
Juliet had many uncles and aunties.
Juliet had lots of friends and family.
And as I had sat down — upset that I had to make my memorial short because others too needed to talk — a boy we used to like back then reminded me of the days when we used to trick boys of our identity.
I looked like Julie. I also looked like my grandma Julia.
Julie did not lack. Abundance was her gift.
I had wanted to visit her. Meet her again.
She was managing it through life — and so could I. But now she was no more.
After the long introduction, just when the Catholics had started their mass, Papa led his tribe to lunch. I served every meat on the buffet with rice and salad. I had a Coke afterwards. Everyone sat with their mates.
The still water was branded with Juliet’s name.
Some said it was from food poisoning. Others — Cancer was just a fancy name for immense, acute pain. Juliet did not smoke like uncle Rampard. Yet Julie too had caught one growing.
Papa insisted that the widow had received a “good thing.”
“What would I be doing here, really?” I asked my grandma, defending my denial to be married there.
The farms were dry and the soil was full of rocks. The houses were big and nice. The lake was very far away.
Nevertheless, Juliet had managed to find love in this rocky part of the world.
A girl received a ride back home. She was very beautiful. She sat next to me. And throughout the journey we engaged in petty talks.
She asked about my Luo boyfriend. I told her why we no longer spoke. We desired different things of each other, and we were no longer able to serve each other’s needs.
She listened on. She was a teacher that taught the blind. She could read Braille. She was beaten about the chastity of her partner, suddenly travelling to meet her boyfriend.
She loved him dearly. Luhya were loving. My father was loving.
Sam guy was haunting me. I was not sure what he wanted with me.
He was being discreet and secretive. Keeping his plans to his head. Acting like J — a very private person. I was private in his life.
Our matters were best left undiscussed. But there I was, watching the sun over the lake, talking about why I liked him — like we had an agreement and permission to be each other’s friends, soul-mates.
I was struggling to find a permanent cause to have him in my life. Yet he was always there, running my digital world, disturbing my dreams, forging a reality that would best serve his needs.
He was looking to steal me from my family.
I feel very different now.
I have always been a child.
Then I became Ivy.
And not Yvi.
And soon — Atoto Atori.
In the third year of the twentieth century, I wanted not to move.
I wanted to retire.
To stop everything, hold still, find peace, and come home.
Far from the genesis where I grew up — at the slopes of Mount Elgon — where once upon a time lived a clan.
The Atori Clan.
A child full of stories.
Atoto Atori.
Karibu Nyumbani Kwetu.
Nnalolile Yvi.