Unearthing Family Secrets: A Journey into Colonial Kenya
In the tranquil English countryside, a somber assembly of relatives gathered around a gravesite. My paternal grandmother was laid to rest on a summer’s day in Oaksey, a village near the Cotswolds, amidst the global COVID-19 pandemic. The heavens opened with dramatic effect as rain poured down, punctuated by lightning. Before the priest’s words, I recited a poignant letter penned by my grandfather to his wife shortly before his passing.
The heartfelt message depicted a tender and devoted spouse, describing his young wife as “heaven” and “utter perfection,” before wishing her a peaceful night. As my grandmother’s coffin descended, it felt as if a chapter of my family’s narrative was being interred.
An Unexpected Revelation
During the post-funeral reception, a casual conversation with a relative took an unforeseen turn. I was taken aback when asked if I was aware of my grandfather’s heroic past. She recounted his involvement in the Mau Mau conflict in 1950s Kenya. He had reportedly served in a unit that infiltrated insurgent groups, sometimes employing blackface as camouflage during clandestine operations. The revelation was startling, as my grandfather remained an enigmatic figure from my childhood. I knew little beyond whispers of a mysterious life largely spent in Kenya.
A wedding photograph from July 1960 shows him alongside my grandmother, Carolyn. He appears tall and robust, with dark eyes and a radiant smile. Tragically, just six months after this picture, he succumbed to cancer, months before my father’s birth.
Delving into the Past
Years after my grandmother’s 2020 funeral, curiosity compelled me to explore my grandfather’s history. I immersed myself in archives and libraries, diligently searching online records, and engaging in conversations with family members. My research focused on the British colonial administration’s reaction to the Mau Mau uprising, a revolt by thousands of Kenyans, predominantly from the Kikuyu community, in the 1950s. I learned about the documented torture, sexual violence, and mass incarcerations. Although I had studied the British Empire in academia, the direct connection to my ancestry had never been apparent. Could there be truth to my relative’s assertion? If so, why had this aspect of his life been obscured?
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The authentic narrative of British colonization often lies submerged beneath layers of distorted recollections and romanticized nostalgia. For my family, this historical amnesia is partly attributable to a personal tragedy: my grandfather’s untimely death.
Initially, investigating my grandfather felt intrusive, almost like a betrayal of someone I barely knew. However, as I pieced together his story and recognized its parallels with the brutal colonial past I had studied, a reckoning felt unavoidable. As I began writing, a sense of shame emerged regarding the truths unearthed about my grandfather. Yet, this investigation also presented an opportunity to establish distance and reclaim the narrative.
Uncovering John “Tony” Vetch
My initial discovery was his full name: John Evelyn Grahame Vetch, affectionately known as Tony. Born in London in 1923, his family relocated to Kenya in the late 1920s and early 1930s during his youth. The colonial government incentivized British migration by offering expansive farmlands, displacing indigenous populations, particularly the Kikuyu, to less fertile regions. This presented prospects for upward mobility for young British men. My great-grandparents established a coffee plantation in the Nyeri district, approximately 60 miles north of Nairobi.
Tony served in World War II in the 1940s and subsequently returned to assist on the family farm. Post-war Kenya saw growing disenchantment among Black Kenyans who had fought for Britain, as their contributions were met not with liberation but with increasingly repressive colonial policies. Rising discontent among the Kikuyu people in the early 1950s culminated in the formation of the Mau Mau, a political movement advocating for the expulsion of British colonial rule and white settlers from Kenya. The movement escalated into violence, characterized by acts of sabotage and killings targeting those perceived as obstacles to their fight for land and freedom.
Childhood Tales and Colonial Echoes
Echoes of my family’s colonial past occasionally surfaced in relatives’ anecdotes. I grew up idealizing ancestors as intrepid explorers venturing into uncharted territories. School history lessons briefly touched on the British Empire, often glazed with a subtle nostalgia, particularly when compared to the perceived harsher colonial practices of Belgium or France. My research into David Livingstone, the British missionary explorer, even revealed a distant family connection through my mother’s side.
Stories circulated about my great-great-great-uncle, Ewart Grogan, who famously trekked from Cape Town to Cairo in the late 19th century to impress his desired spouse’s stepfather. My maternal grandfather aided in mapping Iraqi oil fields, and my paternal great-grandfather journeyed through rural Kenya by oxcart soon after World War I. These fragmented narratives contributed to a childhood perception of a benevolent and adventurous colonial past.
Kenya’s Allure and Colonial Disquiet
At five, a St. Christopher necklace sparked my own wanderlust. By eight, a visit to Kenya captivated me – the fragrant air, the vibrant red earth, and the exotic wildlife. Encounters with relatives at exclusive country clubs and remote reserves painted a picture of privileged colonial life.
The film “White Mischief” (1987), depicting the hedonistic lifestyles of 1940s Kenyan settlers, hints at the era’s unsettling realities. A scene encapsulates this unease: Countess Alice de Janze, gazing upon the Kenyan savanna, remarks with jaded colonial languor, “Oh God. Not another beautiful fucking day.” This captures the sentiment of British colonization, often treating Kenya as a mere playground. Josslyn Hay, the Earl of Erroll, my grandmother’s godfather and a central figure in “White Mischief,” exemplified this milieu. This was the Kenya my grandparents knew.
University education initiated my critical understanding of the British Empire, sowing seeds of discomfort. My familial connection to Kenya began to feel problematic, as if my inherited nostalgia masked underlying trauma.
The Shifting Imperial Tide and Mau Mau Uprising
By the mid-20th century, growing segments of British society questioned the ethics of imperial expansion. India’s independence in 1947, coupled with resistance movements in Malaya and Palestine, exposed the empire’s vulnerabilities.
In October 1952, early in Queen Elizabeth II’s reign, the Kenyan colonial government declared a state of emergency to combat the Mau Mau uprising, a conflict that would become one of the bloodiest in the empire’s history.
I Force: My Grandfather’s Unit
Two months later, in Nyeri county, Neville Cooper and his second-in-command, Tony Vetch, established I Force, a unit composed of white settlers and loyalist Black Kenyans, to counter Mau Mau insurgents in the forests. Recognizing the Mau Mau’s advantage in local terrain, the British sought individuals like my grandfather, fluent in Kikuyu and adept at bush warfare.
Patrols could extend for up to two weeks through the Aberdare Forest and Mount Kenya’s harsh terrains. Enduring extreme temperatures, I Force relentlessly pursued the Mau Mau, often disparagingly called “Mickey Mice”. Operations were arduous even for young recruits, demanding strict silence and prohibiting hygiene routines. Initially, I Force comprised fewer than 20 white settlers, supported by African trackers and fighters.
Unearthing Records in Nairobi
During my research in Nairobi, the McMillan Memorial Library stood as a stark reminder of colonial legacy. This grand structure, opened in 1931 during colonial rule, now showed signs of neglect, with cracks and water damage. I spent days in its dimly lit basement, poring over bound editions of the East African Standard, a pro-colonial newspaper from the 1950s.
By early 1953, reports of my grandfather’s unit frequently appeared, portraying them as crucial to the British campaign. A February 3rd, 1953 account detailed a grueling operation in the Aberdares. Cooper’s team pursued a Mau Mau group, who sought cover in a wooded area upon spotting a supporting aircraft. I Force cordoned off the area.
Under fire, Cooper’s unit awaited reinforcements, who marched 16 miles through dense terrain to join them. With aerial support, I Force engaged the trapped Mau Mau, resulting in seven fatalities and fifteen captures, according to the newspaper report. The East African Standard lauded the operation as “one of the finest of sheer persistency and courage since the Emergency began.”
In March 1953, I Force became I Company of the Kenyan Regiment. By 1954, my grandfather succeeded Cooper as commander. Cooper acknowledged my grandfather’s crucial logistical role. Headlines like “13 Terrorists Die in Ambush by Patrols in Kabete” in October 1954 celebrated further successes, highlighting setbacks to the Mau Mau.
The Shadow of Pseudo-Gangs and Blackface
However, articles omitted a disturbing detail: settler soldiers employed disguises, including blackface, to resemble Mau Mau fighters during operations. This tactic had begun a year prior when Francis Erskine, serving under my grandfather, sought permission to use Kikuyu loyalists disguised as Mau Mau. This strategy evolved and was adopted by the entire Kenya Regiment.
These “pseudo-gangs” lured Mau Mau into ambushes using disguised Europeans, loyal Kikuyu, and captured Mau Mau, sometimes coerced through torture. Europeans darkened their skin with cocoa powder, soot, and boot polish, some using black wool wigs and iodine to alter their eyes. Despite the disguises and challenging conditions, the tactic proved effective in capturing and eliminating Mau Mau groups.
In Kenya, I spoke with Dennis Leete, a veteran who served under Erskine. Leete recounted an incident during a pseudo-gang operation where he risked detection by urinating, potentially exposing his white identity. He described the contemporary white community as still segregated, a “little European ghetto”.
My key question for Leete centered on my grandfather’s awareness of the treatment of captured Mau Mau, held in a vast network of British detention facilities infamous for brutal interrogations and violence aimed at extracting confessions.
“I can’t answer your question really, because I carry my scars with me,” Leete admitted, acknowledging knowledge of the camps but claiming limited awareness of the extent of abuses, suggesting possible exaggeration by those seeking reparations. This sentiment echoed within the remaining white settler community.
Historian Caroline Elkins posits that the pervasiveness of screenings implied widespread community knowledge of the brutality. Given my grandfather’s senior military role in intense conflict zones, awareness seems probable.
Brutality and Denial: The Hughes Trial
Evidence of British and loyalist atrocities is readily available. The National Archives in London holds images like that of Njuguna Kabutha, bearing whip marks. Files detail accounts of extreme torture, including a man subjected to anal inflation, snake torment, and testicular crushing. Newspaper clippings from 1954 document the court-martial of Kenya Regiment private Leslie Arthur Hughes, accused of assaulting a female detainee, Wambui.
My grandfather testified in support of Hughes at the trial, portraying him as a skilled interrogator and dismissing Wambui’s accusations as Mau Mau disinformation. Hughes was accused of ear laceration, sexual assault with a bottle, and threats of burying Wambui alive.
“I was astounded when I heard these charges were leveled against [Hughes],” my grandfather stated, refuting all allegations.
The court martial, composed of British officers, acquitted Hughes. The judge cited Mau Mau “obscene oathing ceremonies” as corrupting minds. Despite prosecution arguments about Wambui’s unlikely self-inflicted injuries to further a Mau Mau conspiracy, Hughes was cleared.
In a 1954 letter, Tony Vetch, then I Company commander, cautioned colleagues about a Mau Mau campaign to accuse his company of prisoner maltreatment. Historian David Anderson confirmed evidence of such a campaign, but stressed that not all accusations were fabricated.
Voices of the Victims: Julius Migwi’s Story
In Kenya, I visited Julius Ndegwa Migwi, whose father, Migwi Ndegwa, was killed by British-aligned camp guards near Nyeri. “They were buried in a mass grave,” he recounted over tea, explaining his polygamous father’s wives were not informed of his death. A photo of his father in formal attire hung prominently.
Arrested as a Mau Mau suspect, Migwi Ndegwa endured forced labor, including leveling ground for Nairobi Airport. Refusal to dig rice terraces led to his transfer to Hola Camp in southeastern Kenya.
While he was detained, his family was confined to barbed-wire villages. In 1959, Migwi’s father and ten others were killed by guards at Hola Camp. This massacre prompted Enoch Powell to famously condemn the brutality, stating, “We cannot, we dare not, in Africa of all places, fall below our own highest standards.”
Mau Mau Hideouts and the Imbalance of Power
Migwi showed me a concealed cave, a former Mau Mau hideout. Its narrow confines evidenced the fighters’ harsh living conditions. While Mau Mau forces were equipped with rudimentary weapons, the Kenya Regiment wielded machine guns and aerial bombardment.
The Mau Mau did commit atrocities, killing approximately 2,000 Kenyans who opposed them or supported the British, according to historian Anderson. Early in the conflict, a settler family, including a six-year-old child, was brutally murdered by their servants. Ultimately, 32 European settlers died in Mau Mau attacks, while at least 11,000 Mau Mau were killed by British forces. The British response was disproportionately brutal.
Aberdare Forest and Dedan Kimathi’s Legacy
We drove to the Aberdare Forest, a key battleground. Today, tea fields thrive below the forest canopy. We visited a statue of Dedan Kimathi, the prominent Mau Mau leader captured and later hanged at this site in 1956. His capture marked a turning point, effectively ending the uprising. For many Kikuyu, Kimathi remains a symbol of resistance. Migwi, whose father knew Kimathi, mentioned government plans to develop the site for tourism.
Kenya’s Independence and Unresolved Legacies
Kenya gained independence in 1963. The Mau Mau played a vital role in this transition. However, the new president, Jomo Kenyatta, maintained the ban on the Mau Mau and implemented a “forgive and forget” policy, hindering reconciliation and justice for victims and their families.
Families like Migwi’s, dispossessed during the conflict, struggled to reclaim lost property. Migwi’s father’s large family inherited only a small plot and limited information about his death.
As an adult, Migwi discovered archival documents detailing his father’s brutal treatment and death, including a pathologist’s report confirming severe injuries.
Partial Justice: Compensation and Ongoing Struggles
In 2013, the British government settled a case brought by Mau Mau veterans, awarding $30 million in compensation to over 5,000 elderly Kenyans who suffered torture during the uprising. This followed the discovery of concealed colonial files documenting abuses. This settlement, while significant, only compensated those demonstrably detained and abused, leaving many, including Migwi’s family, excluded. The amount was considered insufficient by many, and the lawyers’ substantial fees sparked resentment.
“The British government cannot delete history,” Migwi asserted, emphasizing his family’s enduring pursuit of recognition and justice.
Memorialization and Shifting Perceptions
The Mau Mau now hold a prominent place in Kenyan narratives of independence. A British-funded memorial stands in Nairobi. However, within the national museum, the uprising is relegated to a small exhibit. Kenyan historian Chao Tayiana Maina believes Kenya could better acknowledge and memorialize this history. School curriculums largely omit the detention camps and torture, despite some schools being located on former camp sites. Similar to Britain, Kenya grapples with the burden of colonial memory.
Yet, perspectives are evolving. Maina observes a growing reckoning among younger Kenyans, facilitated by social media and open dialogues. She advocates for Britain to engage more fully with this shared history.
Visiting My Grandfather’s Grave
Years ago, visiting Tony’s neglected grave near London with my father felt like decades had passed since the last visitor. My father’s reluctance to go suggested it was more for my own sake. Tony died in 1960, aware of his terminal cancer, on Christmas Eve, leaving my pregnant grandmother widowed. Her subsequent life was marked by further loss and instability, creating a turbulent childhood for my father and his sisters.
My father distanced himself from his biological father’s memory, later experiencing a different kind of paternal loss when his stepfather disowned him at 18. This led to emotional detachment as a coping mechanism. His focus remained on the future and his children, choosing to move forward rather than dwell on the past. Julius, conversely, dedicated his life to uncovering his father’s history.
History’s fragility lies in its transmission through family narratives. Ironically, my grandfather’s absence from my upbringing ignited my quest to uncover his story.
Return to the Family Farm
Leaving Nyeri, I sought out my family’s former farm, located on a 1950s colonial map. The “Vetch” name marked its location. A school now occupies the likely site of the farmhouse. Children greeted me with “mzungu.”
Beyond the school, coffee fields stretched across the landscape, descending into a tranquil valley. The peacefulness was palpable. The allure for my ancestors, enticed by fertile land grants from the colonial government, was evident. This region of Kenya, like the wider country, possesses serene beauty.
Yet, the true colonial Kenya was often characterized by brutality, in which my grandfather played a role. Despite this, a part of me feels drawn to Kenya, finding solace in its landscapes.
Departing the former colonial farm, I saw a sign: “Private Property. Not For Sale. No Trespassing.” The present spoke to the lingering legacy of the past.