Salome Amodoi

Migration Story

Well, if you see me side-eyeing your mangoes, don’t panic. My great-grandma’s cousins were the ones who could make gourds wither just by looking at them. We don’t practice that anymore. Mostly. How I got here: The Ikomolo origin story, Amodoi-style. So, picture this: centuries ago, some very brave Iteso man looked at a Luo man named Omolo and said, “You know what? Let’s mix the bloodlines.” And just like that, the *Ikomolo clan* was born. “Child of Omolo,” they called us. Translation: “The ones who married outside the group chat and got talked about forever.” We Iteso have 9 clans. Ikaribwok were the warriors shouting “we won!” after battle. Irarak were out gathering wild fruits like nature’s delivery service. Ikatekok settled everyone’s fights. And us? We got the reputation. Gourds, curses, bitter first fruits. We’re the clan you invite to harvest… carefully. My lineage: 5 generations of moving, muttering, and millet Great-Great-Grandpa Ojuruta’s neighbor’s cousin – okay fine, let’s start with my real great-grandpa: Ekol Omolo of Soroti. He was Ikomolo through and through. Couldn’t stand a live gourd in a garden. If he ate the first mango of the season, that tree would never taste sweet again. The family rule: “Let Ekol eat last.” He migrated from Soroti to Busia border because, quote, “the soil was less gourd-y.” *Grandma Akello Ikomolo* – born during a quarrel, hence “Akello.” She married an Iteso from Ikatekok, the mediators. Bold move. It was like mixing fire and a fire extinguisher. She moved with him to Kumi, opened a sorghum stall, and became the unofficial judge of all market disputes. If she said “that pumpkin is bitter,” you listened. *Mama Ajok* – “Fortune.” She said the curse skipped her generation and gave her luck instead. She took us to Kampala in the 1990s. “If the gourds are going to wither,” she said, “let them wither in the city where no one grows them anyway.” She sold second-hand clothes in Owino and told every customer: “I’m Ikomolo. I won’t curse your business. But pay me on time.” *Me, Amodoi* – “I have seen it.” And I have. I’ve seen Soroti’s red soil, Busia’s border boda traffic, Kampala’s traffic, and now a tiny flat in Stuttgart where I explain to Germans that no, I cannot wither their houseplants. I’m in IT now. The only thing I crash is software, not harvests. *The migration route in 3 sentences* Soroti → Kumi → Kampala → Nairobi → Germany. We Ikomolo don’t wander aimlessly. We follow work, education, and places with fewer gourds. Each move, we packed the clan: one Bible, one pot for akima, and one elder who reminds us, “Don’t marry your cousin. Or eat the first fruit.” *The punchline of being Ikomolo* People meet me and whisper, “Aren’t you… the cursing clan?” I smile and say, “Only on Mondays before coffee. And only if you steal my lunch.” We’re not villains. We’re the reminder clan. We remind everyone that intermarriage happened, that Luo and Iteso built families together, and that if you grow gourds near me, you should probably label them. So that’s me. Amodoi Ikomolo. Descendant of Omolo. Survivor of gourd politics. Professional migrant. Amateur comedian. If you ever see me in a garden, I’m just here for the tomatoes. I promise. Want me to write the version where I meet a Jokager from Ugenya at a diaspora wedding and we argue about whose clan moves more?

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