Growing up in the city, you learn quickly that some things slip quietly out of reach. Urban life gives you convenience, sure, but it takes away the kind of holidays that feel like ours. The ones tied to ancestral land, to families who’ve known each other since before memory began. The ones where kinship isn’t just blood-it’s soil, rain, and shared history.
I never really go to live those holidays. But I have heard the stories. Celebrations for the first rain. Feasts for the end of drought. Songs for the birth of a child in a homestead. Harvest festivals where everyone ate together- though let’s be honest, the men somehow always ended up with the best cuts of meat, pampered while women toiled. Tell me if that tradition has ever truly stopped.
Now, we celebrate other peoples holidays- their way. Thanksgiving means turkey. Christmas might mean chapati, but still tied to a borrowed calendar. We personalize, but the framework isn’t ours.
Kenya has its own national holidays, of course. Most for the history of the country- Madaraka day, Mashujaa etc etc. And cultural ones like the Lamu Cultural Festival and Maasai Eunoto Ceremony.
The Holidays I want to Write
I don’ want to wait for the state calendar to tell me when to celebrate. I want to create my own. Feasts for finishing a school term. A sweet dessert for achieving a goal. Special stews for surviving hard seasons.
Every achievement deserves a table. Every milestone a menu. And maybe, over time, these celebrations will become our folklore- stories she’ll carry forward, the traditions she’ll pass on.
Because holidays aren’t just about dates. They’re about meaning. And meaning is something we can cook up ourselves.
NdukuOutLoud 
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