A Weekend Journey Back to Ushago: Nostalgia,Family and the Heart of Mukurweini

There is something timeless about going back to ushago (homestead). Each trip feels like stepping into my childhood self — memories of laughter, chores, cousins, and long holidays resurfacing with every turn of the road. This past weekend was different, though. Cucu (grandmother) called all her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to her home in Ichamara, Mukurweini. It wasn’t just an invite, it was a heartfelt summons. The family group chat buzzed like never before, as siblings and cousins synced arrival times and planned to bring their children together the way we once were.

The Journey North

Saturday morning began with my sister doing roll calls at 6 a.m. from Nakuru, her journey twice as long as mine. I moved slowly, intentionally, carried by the ease of knowing something special awaited us. My son was practically vibrating with excitement. To him, ushago (homestead) means feeding goats, running downhill to the kiandaa (farmyard), and playing with cousins until dusk.

Soon we were on Thika Superhighway, a road etched into Kenya’s story of progress. Built between 2009 and 2012, the 50 km stretch expanded into 8–12 lanes, cutting travel time from Nairobi to Thika from nearly two hours to under one. It didn’t just change traffic; it changed lives, linking Nairobi’s rush to the serenity of Central’s highlands.

The journey was punctuated with our rituals:

• A Quickmart Roasters stop for snacks
• TRM Mall for a Burger King fix
• And the iconic Del Monte shop along the highwayDel Monte Kenya — headquartered in Thika — is one of the world’s major pineapple processors, employing over 6,000 locals. For many families like mine, a stop at their roadside shop is tradition, a sweet pause before the hills begin.

Through the Highlands of Murang’a

We chose the Murang’a route instead of Sagana Road. It’s twisty, dramatic, and full of mountain views but it’s also rich in history. Murang’a is home to Mukurwe wa Nyagathanga, the legendary cradle of the Agikuyu people.

We passed through small towns that each hold stories:

• Kaharati — famous for vibrant farmer markets
• Kangari — blanketed in tea plantations
• Kiria-ini — one of the earliest Kikuyu settlements and a major coffee hub
• Gakira — known for hawkers rushing to windows with bananas, avocados, and vegetables

At the railway crossing, vendors flooded toward cars with baskets of produce. I remembered my mother telling me how many risk their feet daily, and how authorities added extra bumps around these spots, an imperfect attempt at safety without erasing a tradition woven into these towns.

Arrival at Cucu’s Homestead

Crossing into Mukurweini always feels like crossing into memory. The scent of coffee blossoms, the red soil, the rolling terrain, everything whispers home. School holidays came rushing back to me: picking coffee, carrying it to the factory, and pretending to be grown-ups. Cucu always wanted us sitting under a tree to rest, but I rarely listened.We arrived to an open gate, a silent greeting of “Ne twa kînya mũcîî.” (you are home) Family members appeared immediately. We walked down toward the homestead and before I could find cucu, I heard my son say, “Maitu!” (great grandmother)I turned to see him hugging her; her eyes lit with that unmistakable glimmer of joy. When she saw me, her soft smile said everything:

“You made it.”

As usual, she went into mother-mode instantly, fussing over food because our many stops had made us late.

The day unfolded in warmth, endless chatter, laughter and children weaving through groups like we once did. Everywhere I looked carried a memory. Seeing my cousins with their own kids felt surreal, like time folding in on itself.

Nightfall: Laughter, Fire and Togetherness

As evening settled, we gathered under the tent for introductions led by family elders. Once guests trickled away and only family remained, the atmosphere shifted completely.

Music filled the air.

The bonfire came alive.

Games appeared.

Children giggled in the dark, no bedtime in sight, just bonding. One uncle manned the nyama choma (barbecued meat) and soup station with pride. Muratina (traditional kikuyu brew)  flowed in metal cups. Chai (tea) — as eternal as our culture — never ran out.

We talked, reminisced, joked and simply existed together, something that adulthood rarely allows. No one was rushing. No one was on their phone. Just presence and belonging.

Cucu’s BlessingsNear midnight, cucu gathered us again. Her voice was soft but steady as she told us she simply missed us — missed the fullness of her family under her roof, sharing a meal the way her parents once taught her.

She blessed us — each one of us — speaking life into our ambitions, our children, our paths. It was grounding, emotional and deeply spiritual.

The Quiet Journey Back

By 2 a.m., we began the trip back. The roads were empty. The night was still. My son slept soundly in the back seat and I felt the kind of fullness that doesn’t come from food but from roots, heritage and love.

This weekend was more than a family visit.

It was a rediscovery of who I am.

A celebration of where I come from.

A reminder that in Kenya’s highlands, nostalgia and progress coexist beautifully, intertwined like generations around a fire.