In Gitithia village, the old had a song—a haunting melody that echoed within the village, a plea to their children. It was not a song of joy but one of sorrow, birthed from the pain of what they had witnessed over the years. The lyrics were simple yet profound: "Nindeherwo mahua makwa riria ndi muoyo." In the local tongue, it meant, "Let me be given my flowers while I am still alive."
This song was more than just words; it was a cry from the depths of their souls, a desperate wish to be remembered, not when they lay in their graves, but while they still drew breath. The old had seen too much—too many of their agemates had gone to the grave, neglected by the very children they had raised. They had watched their friends grow frail and weak, their clothes tattered and their stomachs empty. Yet, when death finally claimed them, their children, who had been absent during their lives, suddenly reappeared, draping the lifeless bodies in fine suits and expensive shoes, laying them in costly coffins as if to atone for their absence.
But the old villagers hated this hollow display. They hated it so much that they composed that song, hoping it would pierce the hearts of their children and awaken them to the truth. Yet, if you thought their children listened carefully to that song, you would be mistaken. The song fell on deaf ears, its melody lost in the hustle and bustle of life.
The children of Gitithia did not visit their old parents' houses regularly. They were not aware whether their parents had food or not. Yet some lived in the same homestead with their parents. They were too busy, too caught up in their own lives to spare a thought for the aging souls who had once been their pillars of strength. It was only when death came calling that they would visit the old parent house, not out of love or duty, but for the funeral arrangements. It was during these funerals that the children of the old parents would gather, their wallets open wide like those of politicians as they poured money into the burial preparations, as if trying to buy back the time they had lost.
But once the burial was over, the family would disperse, each returning to their own lives, leaving the village and their parents' memories behind. They would meet again, not in celebration or reunion, but at the next parent funeral, repeating the cycle of neglect and guilt.
The old villagers had been the string that tied their families together, the thread that wove the fabric of unity. But with their departure, Hooke’s law could not hold anymore, that string snapped. The once close-knit families began to disintegrate, their ties fraying with each passing year. What had once been a village of family unity and togetherness became a place where families drifted apart, where brothers and sisters became strangers, only meeting in death.
And so, the song of the old continued to echo in Gitithia, a haunting reminder of what had been lost. "Nindeherwo mahua makwa riria ndi muoyo"—let me be given my flowers while I am still alive. But as the old ones passed away, so did their song, fading into the silence of a village that had forgotten the lessons of the past.
This song was more than just words; it was a cry from the depths of their souls, a desperate wish to be remembered, not when they lay in their graves, but while they still drew breath. The old had seen too much—too many of their agemates had gone to the grave, neglected by the very children they had raised. They had watched their friends grow frail and weak, their clothes tattered and their stomachs empty. Yet, when death finally claimed them, their children, who had been absent during their lives, suddenly reappeared, draping the lifeless bodies in fine suits and expensive shoes, laying them in costly coffins as if to atone for their absence.
But the old villagers hated this hollow display. They hated it so much that they composed that song, hoping it would pierce the hearts of their children and awaken them to the truth. Yet, if you thought their children listened carefully to that song, you would be mistaken. The song fell on deaf ears, its melody lost in the hustle and bustle of life.
The children of Gitithia did not visit their old parents' houses regularly. They were not aware whether their parents had food or not. Yet some lived in the same homestead with their parents. They were too busy, too caught up in their own lives to spare a thought for the aging souls who had once been their pillars of strength. It was only when death came calling that they would visit the old parent house, not out of love or duty, but for the funeral arrangements. It was during these funerals that the children of the old parents would gather, their wallets open wide like those of politicians as they poured money into the burial preparations, as if trying to buy back the time they had lost.
But once the burial was over, the family would disperse, each returning to their own lives, leaving the village and their parents' memories behind. They would meet again, not in celebration or reunion, but at the next parent funeral, repeating the cycle of neglect and guilt.
The old villagers had been the string that tied their families together, the thread that wove the fabric of unity. But with their departure, Hooke’s law could not hold anymore, that string snapped. The once close-knit families began to disintegrate, their ties fraying with each passing year. What had once been a village of family unity and togetherness became a place where families drifted apart, where brothers and sisters became strangers, only meeting in death.
And so, the song of the old continued to echo in Gitithia, a haunting reminder of what had been lost. "Nindeherwo mahua makwa riria ndi muoyo"—let me be given my flowers while I am still alive. But as the old ones passed away, so did their song, fading into the silence of a village that had forgotten the lessons of the past.
