In the quiet Gitithia village, where the air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and the earth beneath one’s feet felt ancient, the villagers lived with an understanding of life and death that was both mysterious and unyielding. Here, death was not an arbitrary event; it was a calculated occurrence, determined by forces that the villagers believed were both within and beyond their control.
In those days, only the old passed on. When their time drew near, they did not slip away silently or unexpectedly. Instead, they would gather their families, their voices raspy with age and wisdom, and announce their departure. They spoke of what they wished for those they left behind, imparting wisdom and guidance with the same serenity they had embraced life. The transition from life to death was gentle, a natural passing of the torch from one generation to the next. But, that torch would later dim the life’s of those who went against the gone elder words.
But the villagers also believed that death announced itself in other ways. When the mournful cry of an owl echoed through the village at night, everyone knew what it signified. The owl was no ordinary bird; it was a forerunner of death, its cry a grim forewarning that one among them was destined to leave the earthly realm. In fear and reverence, the village elders would pour milk at the base of the tree from which the owl had called, an offering to appease the unseen spirits, hoping to delay or soften the blow.
Kijabe Hospital stood on the horizon of Gitithia village, a symbol of hope for some, yet a source of dread for others. It was known as the best hospital in the region, yet the elderly shunned it. They whispered among themselves that those who entered its doors rarely returned whole. It was a place of healing, yes, but also of finality. For many years, it was one of only two places with a morgue that served Gitithia village, the other being in distant Githunguri. Despite the availability of these facilities, the villagers preferred to keep their dead at home, preserving them in ways passed down through generations, until the day of burial. They believed that the dead belonged in the warmth of the home, surrounded by loved ones until the very end.
The peace of Gitithia village was disrupted in the 1990s when death began to claim the young. It was a shocking, terrifying shift in the natural order, and the villager’s sought answers. They soon found it in the growing instances of theft. Before this dark time, stealing had been almost unheard of in the village. But as it began to rise, so did the deaths of the young. The villagers knew in their hearts that the two were connected.
They believed in the ‘secret gods’ of the village, unseen protectors and enforcers of moral order. When someone stole, the villagers knew what to do. They would collect the soil from the tracks left by the thief, bind it in a ritual known as gukundika makundo, and speak curses over it. This act marked the beginning of the thief’s complicated life. It was a justice more feared and respected than the law of the land. There was no need to report the crime at Lari Police Station; the villagers had their own way of dealing with wrongdoing, a way that was swift and final.
Evil deeds in Gitithia did not go unpunished. Those who harmed others, whether through direct violence or through corrupt dealings, could not escape the reach of the secret gods. The gods were merciless and unforgiving, following the wrongdoers wherever they went, even into the walls of prisons. The villagers knew this, and so they lived with a sense of accountability not to any earthly authority, but to the spirits of the villagers.
In Gitithia, death was never meaningless. It always had a reason, an explanation that could be pieced together like a puzzle. Even when preceded by illness, the villagers could connect the dots, finding meaning in what others might dismiss as coincidence. They knew, in their hearts and in their bones, that nothing happened without cause. Life and death were bound by the invisible threads of justice and fate, and in this understanding, the villagers found both solace and fear.
The village of Gitithia was a place where the unseen governed the seen, where every death was a story, every story a lesson, and every lesson a warning. And so, the villagers lived, with one foot in the world of the living, and the other always poised on the threshold of the next.
In those days, only the old passed on. When their time drew near, they did not slip away silently or unexpectedly. Instead, they would gather their families, their voices raspy with age and wisdom, and announce their departure. They spoke of what they wished for those they left behind, imparting wisdom and guidance with the same serenity they had embraced life. The transition from life to death was gentle, a natural passing of the torch from one generation to the next. But, that torch would later dim the life’s of those who went against the gone elder words.
But the villagers also believed that death announced itself in other ways. When the mournful cry of an owl echoed through the village at night, everyone knew what it signified. The owl was no ordinary bird; it was a forerunner of death, its cry a grim forewarning that one among them was destined to leave the earthly realm. In fear and reverence, the village elders would pour milk at the base of the tree from which the owl had called, an offering to appease the unseen spirits, hoping to delay or soften the blow.
Kijabe Hospital stood on the horizon of Gitithia village, a symbol of hope for some, yet a source of dread for others. It was known as the best hospital in the region, yet the elderly shunned it. They whispered among themselves that those who entered its doors rarely returned whole. It was a place of healing, yes, but also of finality. For many years, it was one of only two places with a morgue that served Gitithia village, the other being in distant Githunguri. Despite the availability of these facilities, the villagers preferred to keep their dead at home, preserving them in ways passed down through generations, until the day of burial. They believed that the dead belonged in the warmth of the home, surrounded by loved ones until the very end.
The peace of Gitithia village was disrupted in the 1990s when death began to claim the young. It was a shocking, terrifying shift in the natural order, and the villager’s sought answers. They soon found it in the growing instances of theft. Before this dark time, stealing had been almost unheard of in the village. But as it began to rise, so did the deaths of the young. The villagers knew in their hearts that the two were connected.
They believed in the ‘secret gods’ of the village, unseen protectors and enforcers of moral order. When someone stole, the villagers knew what to do. They would collect the soil from the tracks left by the thief, bind it in a ritual known as gukundika makundo, and speak curses over it. This act marked the beginning of the thief’s complicated life. It was a justice more feared and respected than the law of the land. There was no need to report the crime at Lari Police Station; the villagers had their own way of dealing with wrongdoing, a way that was swift and final.
Evil deeds in Gitithia did not go unpunished. Those who harmed others, whether through direct violence or through corrupt dealings, could not escape the reach of the secret gods. The gods were merciless and unforgiving, following the wrongdoers wherever they went, even into the walls of prisons. The villagers knew this, and so they lived with a sense of accountability not to any earthly authority, but to the spirits of the villagers.
In Gitithia, death was never meaningless. It always had a reason, an explanation that could be pieced together like a puzzle. Even when preceded by illness, the villagers could connect the dots, finding meaning in what others might dismiss as coincidence. They knew, in their hearts and in their bones, that nothing happened without cause. Life and death were bound by the invisible threads of justice and fate, and in this understanding, the villagers found both solace and fear.
The village of Gitithia was a place where the unseen governed the seen, where every death was a story, every story a lesson, and every lesson a warning. And so, the villagers lived, with one foot in the world of the living, and the other always poised on the threshold of the next.
