The Forgotten River Koimet

The silver currents danced over smooth stones, birds chirped in the trees, and frogs croaked in the reeds. Upstream, the water roared as it rushed over rocks, carving its way through the valley. We called it the Koimet River. 

Growing up in Koimet village, nestled in the hilly escarpments of the Rift Valley, the river was our lifeline. Its waters were always abundant, lively, and full of purpose. Back then, the entire village depended on it there was no piped water like in many homes today. 

On weekends, we would bundle our Maasai shukas full of clothes onto our backs, balance buckets on our heads, and make our way down to the river. The banks would come alive with laughter as families gathered, scrubbing clothes against smooth river stones, swapping stories, and sharing the simple joys of life. Nearby, cows grazed on the adjacent fields before ambling down at exactly one in the afternoon to quench their thirst before heading home to be milked. Women filled their 20-liter jerrycans, their voices rising above the rippling stream as they gossiped about village happenings. 

Koimet was more than just a river. It was a meeting place, a source of unity, the thread weaving our community together. 

But time moved on. 

After high school, we relocated closer to town when my parents were transferred for work. Years passed before I returned to the village to visit my grandmother. She was aging, and it was her wish that all her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren gather at her homestead to celebrate the New Year. 

We arrived just before dusk. As my parents settled in, catching up with her, nostalgia pulled at me. I wandered through her farm, letting my feet lead me to a place I had deeply missed the river. 

What I found shattered me. 

The once-vibrant Koimet River was now a shadow of itself, overgrown with bushes, its path choked with neglect. The water, once clear and rushing, now crawled sluggishly, shallow and burdened with silt. Dry branches dipped into its surface as if mourning its dwindling strength. The banks, once alive with voices, now crumbled in quiet abandonment, whispering the tale of a river on the brink of being forgotten. The smooth river stones where we once washed our clothes were now covered in moss. 

My heart sank. 

That evening, as we sat by the fireplace, I asked my grandmother what had happened to our beloved river. She sighed, poking at the fire before answering. 

"Farming upstream has taken much of its water," she said. "People abstract more than the river can give, so it no longer flows as before." 

She paused for a moment, then continued. "And then there’s the chang’aa brewers(illicit brew). They hide in the bushes along the riverbank to avoid the chief’s patrols. The river helps mask the smell, and they use its water for brewing. They don’t think about the damage they only see the little money they make to survive." 

That night, I lay in bed with a heavy heart. 

Koimet was not just a body of water. It was a way of life, a gathering place, a resource that held memories and meaning. And yet, the villagers had barely acknowledged its loss. They had adapted to the change without questioning it. 

As I stared at the ceiling, a sobering thought crossed my mind. 

If a river, once the heart of a community can be forgotten, what else are we silently letting slip away?