| "After all, I realized, my art journey started under that roof. " My grandparents and I lived in a big house on top of a hill overlooking our lakeside city, Kisumu. School, farm chores, and house work were the order of the day: we planted maize, pineapples, papaya and guava trees, avocado, pumpkins, napier grass, and an array of traditional vegetables. We had hundreds of chickens, a few cows, dogs and cats, and one stubborn goat. Life was extremely busy. My days began at 5:30 a.m.—my grandfather never failed to wake me—with millet porridge and freshly-picked fruits, which my grandma made especially for me. By 6:50 a.m., the van would be waiting to take me to school. Walking down the hill, I’d pass our neighbor’s compound, diligently guarded by its flock of ducks. They’d chase me as I passed the house and slipped into the van. My school day included arduous studying and intense playing, as well as a few punishments here and there. I was a bright student, and I enjoyed mathematics, English, and Swahili, Kenya’s two national languages. By the end of the day I would be exhausted and end up sleeping in the school van the whole way home (which was quite far). When I arrived at the house, I’d join my grandfather for evening tea. We’d chat about our days and bond over stories. His stories were always the best. My grandma was always moving, cooking or baking, ironing clothes or washing them, feeding the animals or locking them up for the evening. She was a busy woman, and still is. I’d help her with the house chores after tea, which varied from vaccinating chickens to doing dishes to preparing for church fellowships. There was always something to do. Each evening after homework and nine o’clock news, exhausted by the tasks of the day and the unrelenting heat, my grandparents and I would pray together. I miss those days thoroughly. How I wish I would go back and live that simple life, just for one day. |
Today I woke up, checked the time on my phone (it was much later than 5:30), and immediately went back to bed—but I couldn’t sleep. I was trying to figure out what to post on my Instagram story for Art Thursday. This morning, my thoughts drifted back to those good old days in my grandparents’ house. After all, I realized, my art journey started under that roof. | "I know nothing is impossible, because I grew up in the house on top of the hill. " |
When my aunt finished high school and moved to the city, I realized I’d need to carve out my own space in the art world. Up until that point, I never bothered to show my work to anyone. Art was a sacred space for me, providing respite from the busyness of our life. The house on top of the hill taught me how to be disciplined—I kept creating even when it felt like there was no time for it—and resourceful: I didn’t have fancy sketch pads or paints, but I drew and I painted anyway, and I got better every day. So by the time I got out of bed this morning, I thought back to where I started, inspired by my aunt and the sacred space of creating things. I knew that I had no excuse not to create something, now—something even better. I pulled out a fancy sketch pad, and shared my drawing on Instagram.
My upbringing has led me to become the artist I am today. It took me years to even call myself an “artist” (nine to be exact), and I still have so far to go. I’m working on my brand, ‘Vavart 25,’ sharing my work more often and more broadly than ever before, and getting better every day. I will forever be grateful for the family I have, the home I grew up in, and the hard places that challenged my creativity. I know nothing is impossible, because I grew up in the house on top of the hill.