The Roots That Made Me

A Family Heritage Narrative

There are stories that shape a family long before any of us are born — stories carried quietly through generations, held in memory, in land, in names, and in the scars of survival. This writeup is my attempt to honor those who came before me: my grandfather Chebet Kiptabure, my grandaunt Kwadit, and my grandmother Tekwan (Kokomen). Their lives were marked by hardship, courage, and resilience. Their stories live in me, and I write them so they will live in those who come after.

My Grandfather: Chebet Kiptabure

My grandfather, Chebet, was born around 1910-15 or thereabout, though no one knows the exact year. His childhood was short-lived; he lost both parents while still very young, left with only his sister, Kwadit, in a world defined by conflict and uncertainty.

In those early decades, the Kerio Valley was a place where small-scale conflict and cattle raiding were woven into daily life. Families slept in hidden places like tabut, escaping into the escarpment at night to avoid Pokot raiders. My grandfather Lokorio would sometimes guard the homestead, standing watch with nothing but courage and crude weapons. These were designated African reserves — places with little government presence, few opportunities, and almost no access to education. It is no wonder that cattle raiding, then a cultural practice, was rampant.

It was in this environment that my grandfather’s life changed forever.

The Kidnapping

In the 1920s, while tending livestock along the Kerio River, Pokot raiders ambushed my grandfather and his sister. They were kidnapped — children torn from their home and carried into captivity. Their paths diverged painfully:

• Chebet was sold to a Turkana family.

• His sister, still a child, was married off in Baringo East.

This moment shaped the rest of their lives.

Life in Turkana

My grandfather rebuilt himself in Turkana. He lived the life of a pastoralist, moving from place to place with his new family. Through hard work and resilience, he accumulated significant wealth — camels, goats, sheep, and cattle. He married a young Turkana woman, Tekwan (Kokomen), and together they raised their children in Kalokol. My father was born there. All his siblings bore Turkana names, a reflection of the life my grandfather forged far from home.

He had never undergone the Marakwet rite of passage, yet he became a father, a husband, and a respected man.

Return to Marakwet

Eventually, my grandfather returned to Marakwet with his family. But his homecoming was short-lived. He died around 1947 and was buried at Sirar farm, the land where my family still lives today.

I never met him, but his story is part of my identity. His endurance lives in me.

My Grandaunt: Kwadit

My grandaunt, Kwadit, was born around 1914. She shared my grandfather’s early suffering — kidnapped alongside him at Kiptabis around 1925. She lived in Sero, Amaler, and Tagaiywo, married off at a young age to a family in Lalwa Kolosiwa (Amoler). Her husband’s name was never recorded, and her lineage became scattered across regions.

She bore children — Kabunikwa, Lokwayi, Ma‑Ng’aleyo, and Chebilil. Her life was short; she and her son Lokwayi died in the 1940s from a throat infection in Amoler. Her story is one of silence, displacement, and endurance.

Today, I speak her name so she will not be forgotten again.

My Grandmother: Tekwan (Kokomen)

My grandmother, Tekwan , whom we called Kokomen, was born around 1910 in Kaputir, Turkana. She grew up in the rhythms of pastoral life, surrounded by livestock, migration, and the strength of Turkana womanhood.

She married my grandfather in the early 1930s and bore 11 children, though only six survived. She knew the pain of burying children, the weight of widowhood, and the struggle of raising a family in a world that offered little mercy.

After my grandfather’s death, she remarried in Cheptulel, West Pokot, and bore her last child, Cheboron. Eventually, she returned to Kowow, where she lived until her passing in 2000.

She lived nearly a century. She was the anchor of our family, the bridge between Turkana and Marakwet, the keeper of memory, the quiet strength behind generations.

I knew her. I saw her resilience. I carry her love.

What Their Lives Mean to Me

As I write this piece, I feel the weight of their journeys, the kidnapping, the conflict, the loss, the rebuilding, the courage. Their lives were not easy. Their stories were not written down. But they live in me.

I am here because they endured. I am here because they refused to disappear. I am here because they carried hope through hardship.

This piece is not just history. It is inheritance. It is identity. It is the story of how my family learned to survive, adapt, and rise again.