the confl ict over loyalties during the crisis of the Mau Mau had torn
the country apart and created deep splits within and between commu-
nities, splits that particularly aff ected the Kikuyu. Identifi cation with
tribe remained strong in the fi rst decades aft er independence among
Kenyans, but it was intersected with investment in the nation and the
continent of Africa—historically confi gured spaces that increasingly
became meaningful and worth fi ghting for in the course of the 20th
century. Muoria’s appropriation of the pen from the colonizers and
his activities—writing and publishing in the service of enlightenment,
as he saw it—exemplify a particular trajectory of great and continuing
importance in Kenya’s political culture: one which has celebrated a
modifi ed modernity, dialogue and democracy.
Like countless other families in Kenya, the Muorias were shaped
by these economic, social and political forces. Both men and women
embraced what colonial modernity had to off er—education, Christianity,
96
chapter two
individual autonomy, urban living, changed relations between the sexes
and between young and old. Th
eir extended family consolidated itself
in nuclear units, but kept and cultivated features from a diff erent and
more collective familial organization: the possibility of having several
persons in charge of the primary care of children, a special relation-
ship between grandparents and grandchildren, and cohesion within age
groups. In certain ways colonialism was a helper more than an enemy.
It furthered the subversion of older structures of social organization that
had muted women and the young. However, the Muoria family were
Kikuyu and nationalist, and during the struggle for independence, the
British unequivocally became the enemy of the Muorias as they did to
the Kikuyu and more broadly the African population of Kenya.
Th
e fate of the Muoria family from the outbreak of the First World
War to the end of the century is in certain ways typical, in other ways
exceptional. It was exceptional in that Henry Muoria was a public fi gure
and furthermore in that he had the support of his wives in his anti-
colonial political work—not only in his private life but also in his public
activities. For this the whole family was punished. Ruth and Henry’s
British exile was ironic—having to seek protection from British racism
and colonialism in the heart of the colonial capital. Against their wishes,
the couple, already used to rural-urban mobility, became pioneers of
transnational living, fi nding ways to keep up social and aff ective bonds
between family members separated by great distance.
As for millions of Kenyans, distance and mobility are also elements in
the mode of life of the broader family. To those of Muoria’s children and
grandchildren who reside in London, Nairobi and Oakland, urban living
is a matter of course. What many of them have lost is the easy access to
the rural resources and values that were available to earlier generations.
Some members of the family, those who live in an urban slum, which
is what Pumwani has become, have found it hard to get a Kenyan pass-
port. Th
ey may be proud of belonging to a talented transnational family
and of being Africans and Kenyans, but they have diffi
culties in getting
together enough wealth to become properly married, and in obtaining
day-to-day cash for school fees, medicine and doctors’ bills. Structural
inequalities mean that they are not in an economic and social position
to reap the benefi ts of political independence, which their grandparents
fought for. Th
eir cousins, aunts and uncles who are in charge of the
Muoria land in Kiambu, work around the clock, irrigating fi elds some-
times in the middle of the night because of erratic electricity supplies,
in order to make farming profi table. Th
ey travel to Nairobi in matatus
the muorias in kenya
97
to market their fresh vegetables at the break of dawn. Sometimes they
miss the social and economic opportunities of urban life. However, like
all Muorias they have a wider perspective: they are strong Christians
and deeply engaged in the religious life of the community. Rural-urban
traffi
c is still going on, although sometimes travelling between Nairobi
and Kiambu in ramshackle matatus on eroded roads is a greater hazard
than air travel between London and Nairobi. Transnational mobility
comes more easily, but is restricted to family members who are in an
economic position to benefi t from it. Th
ose who are not may be more
limited in their physical and social mobility than earlier generations,
but they have greater possibility of mental mobility and of knowing
about the world. Access to education is given, not something to be
fought for as it was to Muoria and his wives.
Does the founding father hold the transnational Muoria family
together? Is it true as Rosabell said, referring to the living memory of
her father, that ‘a person does not go away like smoke’?62 Stories about
the ideas and deeds of the great man have indeed spun a web that has
e stories link and
make sense of the many worlds that Henry Muoria brought together
in his life and works. Th
ey contribute to reconciling the paradoxes that
were characteristic of his life: he was born into a Kikuyu traditionalist
family and embraced Christianity. He grew up in the countryside, but
chose the city as his place of work. He invested in both urban and rural
property and cultivated a large plot of land in his home area with the
assistance of his wives and descendants. He was a wealthy man who
came to know poverty in London. He was unwavering in his trust in
the importance of his families, both in Kenya and Great Britain, but
the political and social upheavals which surrounded him and which he
was part of meant that he had diffi
culties in sustaining connections to
all their members, while living as he did in far-away London. He loved
his country, detested racism and was cosmopolitan in his outlook and
knowledge of the world. He fought for independence, but independence
did not need him aft er it had been consolidated—he was never off ered
a suitable job or a political role in independent Kenya. His writings
will, however, keep Henry Muoria’s memory alive and create a place
for him in the dramatic history of independent Kenya’s victory over
British colonialism.
62 Interview with Rosabell Wambui Mbure, Nairobi, November 1999.
98
chapter two
3. Wedding photo of Henry Muoria and his fi rst wife Elizabeth Th
ogori,
best man Mr Charles Karau and his wife Mrs Karau as maid of honour, 1932
the muorias in kenya
99
n, 1954.
ndoo
ria in Lou
y M
enr
s Hin
una jo
th NuR
4.
100
chapter two
5. Henry Muoria and Elizabeth Th
ogori with their two fi rst-born children
(John Mwaniki and Peter Kigia)
the muorias in kenya
101
ui b
am
d Wn
igia a
er Ket
, P
ikin
wa
n MhJo ay)we (ikrbssed ato pao
wh
d his mon
en a
ildrh
ria, his cou
y M
enrH
6.
102
chapter two
ter h
ugda
her d
ani kjoN
race G
er th
mo
i n
her
oth
na, u
Nthu istine GaRChr
men: owi
ob
air
f Nos n
tio
genera
ree
7. Th
the muorias in kenya
103
en in
hildrdcn
d gran
en a
ildrh
th, cdiu
d Jn
h aetb
liza
i, 1975
ob
ves, E
airN
rst wi
o fi
y his tw
ved b
ecei
ria rou
y M
enrH
8.
104
chapter two
9. Henry Muoria greets his mother-in-law, Grace Njoki, Nairobi, 1975
CHAPTER THREE
THE MUORIA FAMILY IN LONDONA MEMORY
Wangari Muoria-Sal
(with Bodil Folke Frederiksen)
Th
e only safe way to happiness is to love
Th
e whole race of mankind
Wherever they may be
But true love starts from one’s family
Th
e abode of untold sweetness
At seeing one’s little ones at home
With plenty to eat and drink
And a roof over their heads
To keep them warm and well satisfi ed
Arriving and settling in London
My father, Henry Muoria, arrived in England in September 1952,
initially to stay for three to six months. Before he went to England
he had consulted his friend Jomo Kenyatta, whose political work he
supported in his Gikuyu newspaper, Mumenyereri, now in its seventh
successful year of publication. Kenyatta recommended that he should
go to Great Britain to gain more experience. With a thriving printing
and publishing business my father’s aim was to learn about English
methods of newspaper production and distribution. He also planned
to buy an automatic printing press.
Kenya was a troubled country. A state of emergency was declared
one month aft er my father left , following the assassination of a chief
loyal to the colonial government. More than a hundred political arrests
followed. My father’s second wife, Judith Nyamurwa, who was run-
ning his newspaper in his absence, informed him that it had been shut
down and banned by the government. Concerned about his family
and the business, my father promptly bought himself an air ticket to
return to Kenya. However, when he went to say goodbye to his friends,
they advised him not to return to Kenya, because he would almost
certainly be picked up by the colonial authorities. Several of his friends
106
chapter three
and associates there had been arrested, including Jomo Kenyatta. He
decided to write to the Chief Native Commissioner (C.N.C.) enquiring
whether he was accused of any crime and was therefore a wanted man
in Kenya. Th
e C.N.C. reassured him that no one had accused him of any
crime, but added that owing to the Emergency regulations that were in
operation, he would recommend that he should not return to Kenya at
that time. My father had also applied to the Registrar of Printing Presses
for renewal of his licence to run his printing fi rm, as he still had people
working for him in Kenya, and this was where income was generated
for his family. However, the Registrar sent a ‘Notifi cation of Refusal’
of a licence to my father, giving as a reason that he was ‘likely to keep or use the printing presses for the printing of a document prejudicial
to, or incompatible with, peace or good order in the Colony.’ Th
is was
dated November 12th, 1952—exactly two months aft er my father’s
arrival in London.
My father was not able to get work as a journalist in England, as
he had hoped, because he did not belong to a Trade Union. However,
with the help of friends, Frank and Cicely Watson, he found employ-
ment with the railways on account of his previous experience with the
railway profession in Kenya. Th
is helped him to get out, meet people,
and forget his loneliness. Initially, my father was in agony over being so
far away from home during this fateful crisis, and hearing Africans in
Kenya maligned as barbaric and bloodthirsty in the British press. Also
he missed his family. Th
is is how he described this unhappy period in
his life in an unpublished autobiographical essay:
I found myself sitting in the small room I had rented . . . spending a lot of six pences to keep myself warm by the gas fi re. Th
e news published in the
English newspapers of the Kikuyu tribe being composed of murderous
thugs who were hacking white and black men with pangas made [me]
feel more distressed in a manner not easy to put into words.1
Later Peter, my brother, trying to understand our father’s experience,
described his situation like this:
He had to read all the stuff , which came over while he was here. It was
vilifying Kenyatta and all the people who were fi ghting for independence.
It was a terrible thing, as far as the British press was concerned, these
terrible Mau Mau, you know, natives getting restless and taking stuff
1 Th
e British and my Kikuyu Tribe, 1982.
the muoria family in london—a memory
107
which was not theirs. It was appalling. One can imagine what that must
have done to him to read that. He never hated the British.2
Aft er two years in London my father earned enough money from his
job with the London Underground to send for his wife. He fi rst asked
his second wife, Judith, to join him, as she was a trained teacher and
would probably be able to fi nd work in England. However, due to other
circumstances, she refused. He, therefore, asked my mother, Ruth Nuna,
his third wife, to join him. She had four daughters and a son with her
in Nairobi, but decided to go. Before she went, she lost her young son
to measles because no injections were available. She left her young
daughters with her mother—my grandmother Grace—who was the
owner of houses, land and businesses in the African areas of Nairobi.
My mother left Kenya in August 19
54 to join her husband. Th
is is how
she remembers the events that were to turn her life upside down:
Henry was feeling lonely, missed the children. I got the passport, it cost
twenty shillings. He sent money for the ticket. He told me to sell one of
his cars. Judith had sold the Citroen because of education for the children.
Now I had to sell the other one. We went with a plane carrying twenty-
six people. It took three days. We did not travel at night, but stopped at
the airport in Malta and Nice. When we got to London my husband and
Munyua Waiyaki, who is now an MP, were waiting at Hyde Park.
She recalled that she had a premonition that she might follow her hus-
band already when he left for Great Britain, two years earlier:
It is funny. When my husband left and was going to London for six
months, people at the airport asked me, “why don’t you go,” and I said,
“I’ll follow”. Why did I say that? My husband was not going to stay in
London. He was only going to stay for six months or less than that.
Why did the word come, “I’ll follow”? And that’s what I did, didn’t I?
I followed aft er that. It is funny to pick a work like that which I didn’t
expect to say.3
My mother’s fi rst impressions of London were positive; she observed
that the white people were friendly, very diff erent from the hostile colo-
nials in Kenya. However, aft er a while, my parents began to encounter
racism in England, especially when they were looking for places where
they could stay together. Th
ey were confronted with notices that stated,
‘No blacks, no children or pets’. My father was staying in Lancaster Gate
2 Interview with Peter Mwaniki, London, July 2000.
3 Interview with Ruth Muoria, London, July 2000.
108
chapter three
in a place for male students only. Th
e Greek owner allowed my mother
to stay while they looked for alternative accommodation. Eventually
they found rooms in Kentish Town, close to Camden Town Under-
ground station. Th
is was where I was conceived. However, when the
landlord discovered that my mother was pregnant they had to move,
as no children were allowed. Th
eir third home, a basement fl at at 2,
Huddleston Road, was owned by two Nigerians. Th
ey did not mind chil-
dren. Th
is place was extremely cold in winter as there was no heating.