When Embu Dreamt of America: A Stroll Through Names, Nostalgia, and Notorious Nights

The founders of Embu, it would seem, dreamt big — perhaps even across oceans.
They modelled, at least in name, various corners of Ndega and Nthaara partly on the United States, with a sprinkle of Great Britain for good measure. It’s as if someone once stood on a hill overlooking the lush slopes of Mount Kenya and declared, “Why shouldn’t we have our own Chicago, our Manhattan, or even a Dallas?”

And so, Siakago was born — a name that rolls off the tongue much like Chicago.
Manyatta followed, whispering echoes of Manhattan, though here the skyline was made of banana groves and red-tiled roofs, not skyscrapers.
Then came Dallas, a vibrant residential area on the edge of Embu town, buzzing with the kind of energy that makes every boda rider believe he’s on his way to greatness.

To the north, there’s Kanja, fondly nicknamed Kansas by locals who couldn’t resist a touch of Americana. Not far from there stands Blue Valley, Embu’s own humble answer to Beverly Hills, where neat bungalows perch on green ridges overlooking the plains. Karūrina to the northwest? Perhaps inspired by Carolina.
Gitare remains, to this day, proudly Texas — the land of confidence, loud laughter, and even louder engines.
And Kianjokoma, ever vibrant, could only have been Oklahoma.

But perhaps most amusing of all is Gichiche, once affectionately dubbed London when we were growing up. These days, Gen Zs have trimmed it down to a sleek, Instagram-ready moniker: Gich. Times change, slang evolves — but the soul of Embu, playful and proud, endures.

Of Brews, “Small Sufurias”, and the Lights Going Out

Not far from these borrowed dreamscapes once stood a settlement known less for its names and more for its infamous brews. Among them was a lethal concoction called Kathavuria — literally “small sufuria” — a drink as deceptive as it was deadly.

Locals joked that it could make a grown man “see God before sundown.”
People drank until their eyesight dimmed, yet still swore allegiance to the brew, declaring they’d continue sipping “even if the lights had been switched off.”

Kathavuria wasn’t just moonshine; it was a rite of passage, a social equalizer, and a public menace rolled into one bubbling pot. The tragedy, of course, was that too many took the saying literally — and never saw daylight again.

Kīgaritho: Where Eyes Turned and Fortunes Fell

Still, amid all the imported names and borrowed dreams, some places remained proudly, stubbornly Embu. None more iconic than Kīgaritho — literally, “turn your eye.”

During the coffee and tea boom of the 1980s, Kīgaritho lived up to its name in every sense. Men from the hills of Runyenjes, Kianjokoma, and Gaturi would march into the township hitching up worn coats, chests out, pockets heavy with the sweet smell of shillings.

Three days later, they’d stumble home barefoot and bewildered, muttering tales of kidnappings and mysterious abandonments “in the middle of nowhere.”

Only later would someone notice the real crime — that the shiny safari boots they’d left home in had been replaced by flimsy lodging slippers, often stamped with the logo of a bar named Sunset. Some slippers even bore crude notches at the toes — a primitive anti-theft measure against opportunistic sandal pinchers.

If Nairobi had its Carnivore and Mombasa its Casablanca, then Kīgaritho was Embu’s very own Las Vegas — a place where dreams were cashed in, fortunes lost, and memories rewritten under flickering bulbs.

Back then, the area was known as Kagamba aka, loosely translating to “the place of women’s voices” — a poetic hint, perhaps, at the laughter and song that once echoed through its night air.

The Spirit of Embu: Big Dreams, Bigger Hearts

It would be easy to laugh at these tales as relics of a mischievous past — but they hold within them the very spirit of Embu: daring, enterprising, and unashamedly full of life. The people of Embu, known for their warmth and generosity, turned even mischief into folklore and misadventure into legend.

Where else could a man build his own “Chicago” or “Texas” out of red earth and hope?
Where else could a local drink become both cautionary tale and cultural symbol?
Where else could a night out end in borrowed slippers — and still be remembered with laughter decades later?

Embu is that rare place where humor, history, and humanity walk hand in hand.
This story — of names, nostalgia, and notorious nights — is not merely entertainment. It’s a reminder that our towns are more than dots on a map; they are living testaments to the dreams, follies, and resilience of the people who built them.

What you do with that story is, as always, entirely up to you.

Author | Henry Munene