In the heart of Gitithia, a village rich with tradition and history, the elders often said, "Mbura matu, people who don't listen, have no life." It was a place where wisdom was woven into the fabric of everyday life, where grandparents spoke with the authority of years and tears, parents with the bitterness of experience, neighbors with the urgency of warning, religious leaders with heavenly wisdom, and even the chief and assistant chief added their voices to the chorus of counsel. The village was alive with voices, all speaking truths that had been learned and passed down through generations. Yet, despite the cacophony of wisdom, there were those in Gitithia who did not hear.
When the young people of the village began to smoke bhang, the elders warned them. The voices that had guided the village through countless challenges spoke again, urging the youth to stay away from the path that led to destruction. But the wise counsel fell on deaf ears. The young, full of the vigor of youth and exposure to the world beyond the village, dismissed the warnings as the ramblings of the old and the localized. They believed the elders were out of touch, relics of a past that had no relevance in the new world they were discovering.
These youngsters knew the Bible, or at least they thought they did. But one couldn't help but wonder where they read from. They did not know Daniel, who refused to defile himself with the king's meal. Instead, they ate everything offered to them by the world. They ate beer, muguka, drug injections—things their forefathers would never have touched. The forbidden fruit was too enticing, and they gorged on it without restraint.
Years passed, and the consequences of their choices became apparent. Those who had eaten and eaten, indulging in every vice, now lined the village roads, their once youthful faces marked by age, their bodies broken, their minds lost, disturbed, and abandoned. They stood in stark contrast to those who had chosen a different path, those who had heeded the warnings and not defiled themselves. The difference was clear for all to see—those who had listened to the wisdom of the elders remained healthy and sound, while those who had not were but shadows of their former selves or zombies.
Even now, if you try to tell the village's young people not to eat what destroys, not to touch indo ciene, other people’s properties, they think you don't understand. They think you are blind, foolish. They don't know that nikuri indo thondeke—there are things that should never be touched. They believe that all villagers who wear church uniforms are sacred, but after five years, they see the truth. Wounds, both physical and spiritual, begin to appear, maiming their lives, cutting them off from the future they once dreamed of. It is only then, too late for many, that they realize the truth of what was spoken to them.
Now, the sound villagers, those who have remained whole, ask a question that echoes through the hearts of the wise: “Who will enter the hearts of young village people and write with bold letters, ‘THE PEOPLE WHO SPEAK TO YOU HAVE BEEN ON THE MOUNTAIN.’ They have seen your Canaan. They know the path that will take you there. But if you don’t listen to them, you will die on the way.’”
The mountain, symbolic of the wisdom and experience that comes with age, looms over Gitithia, a silent witness to the lives of those who listen and those who do not. The path to Canaan, to a future filled with promise, is there for those who heed the voices of the elders. But for those who refuse to listen, who continue to eat what destroys, the path ends in darkness, far from the land of promise.
In Gitithia, the truth remains: mbura matu—those who don't listen—have no life.
When the young people of the village began to smoke bhang, the elders warned them. The voices that had guided the village through countless challenges spoke again, urging the youth to stay away from the path that led to destruction. But the wise counsel fell on deaf ears. The young, full of the vigor of youth and exposure to the world beyond the village, dismissed the warnings as the ramblings of the old and the localized. They believed the elders were out of touch, relics of a past that had no relevance in the new world they were discovering.
These youngsters knew the Bible, or at least they thought they did. But one couldn't help but wonder where they read from. They did not know Daniel, who refused to defile himself with the king's meal. Instead, they ate everything offered to them by the world. They ate beer, muguka, drug injections—things their forefathers would never have touched. The forbidden fruit was too enticing, and they gorged on it without restraint.
Years passed, and the consequences of their choices became apparent. Those who had eaten and eaten, indulging in every vice, now lined the village roads, their once youthful faces marked by age, their bodies broken, their minds lost, disturbed, and abandoned. They stood in stark contrast to those who had chosen a different path, those who had heeded the warnings and not defiled themselves. The difference was clear for all to see—those who had listened to the wisdom of the elders remained healthy and sound, while those who had not were but shadows of their former selves or zombies.
Even now, if you try to tell the village's young people not to eat what destroys, not to touch indo ciene, other people’s properties, they think you don't understand. They think you are blind, foolish. They don't know that nikuri indo thondeke—there are things that should never be touched. They believe that all villagers who wear church uniforms are sacred, but after five years, they see the truth. Wounds, both physical and spiritual, begin to appear, maiming their lives, cutting them off from the future they once dreamed of. It is only then, too late for many, that they realize the truth of what was spoken to them.
Now, the sound villagers, those who have remained whole, ask a question that echoes through the hearts of the wise: “Who will enter the hearts of young village people and write with bold letters, ‘THE PEOPLE WHO SPEAK TO YOU HAVE BEEN ON THE MOUNTAIN.’ They have seen your Canaan. They know the path that will take you there. But if you don’t listen to them, you will die on the way.’”
The mountain, symbolic of the wisdom and experience that comes with age, looms over Gitithia, a silent witness to the lives of those who listen and those who do not. The path to Canaan, to a future filled with promise, is there for those who heed the voices of the elders. But for those who refuse to listen, who continue to eat what destroys, the path ends in darkness, far from the land of promise.
In Gitithia, the truth remains: mbura matu—those who don't listen—have no life.
