In Gitithia village, a place where the soil held memories of generations, the old people carried the weight of a forgotten promise. The children who once played in the dusty fields had grown up, but many had left their roots behind. The pioneers of Gitithia, those who had carved out a life from the wilderness, found their blessings slowly slipping away, lost to time and neglect.
Kariuki was one of the few remaining from that first generation. He had seen the village grow from a few scattered huts into a thriving community. But now, in his old age, he saw the emptiness that had crept into the hearts of the younger generation. The bonds that once tied families together had frayed, leaving the old in hunger and in search of ways to fend for themselves.
"Those who do not help their parents won't be helped by their children," Kariuki would often tell me, his voice carrying the weight of countless stories. He had been a friend, a man who spoke the truth, even when it was hard to hear.
One day, as we worked in his farm, Kariuki shared a story that had been buried in the village's past. It was the tale of a man who had refused to care for his aging parents. As they grew weaker, he stayed away, appearing only when they were too frail to speak. The villagers whispered that he had been cursed, for when his own time came, his children treated him the same way. They brought food, but he had no strength to eat. They brought clothes, but his body was too weak to wear them.
Kariuki sighed deeply as he finished the story, his eyes reflecting the pain of those forgotten years. "It’s a game of tit for tat," he said. "The old ones leave their blessings with those who care for them. The rest are left to wander, just like Esau in the Bible."
I often thought about Kariuki’s words as I walked through the village. The stories of old men and women dying of hunger were not just tales; they were memories etched into the landscape of Gitithia. Those who had neglected their parents had not vanished from our minds. We knew who had helped, and who had turned away. The past had a way of reaching into the present, pulling at the threads of our lives.
As I looked at the new generation, I wondered if they understood the weight of the blessings they had inherited. Food, clothes, and shelter might not seem important to them now, but to the old, they were the foundation of life. The pioneers of Gitithia had left more than just land and houses; they had left a legacy of care and responsibility.
But it was a legacy that was fading, lost in the rush of modern life. The young no longer valued the simple things that had sustained their ancestors. They were caught up in the pursuit of wealth and status, forgetting the hands that had fed and clothed them.
Kariuki’s words stayed with me long after he had passed on. I could still hear his voice, reminding me of the truth that the village seemed to have forgotten. The blessings of the old were not given lightly. They were earned through love and care, and once lost, they could never be reclaimed.
And so, as Gitithia continue to change, the stories remain, but who will pass them down from one generation to the next with the prevailing modernity? Perhaps, one day, the young will teach themselves these lessons. Perhaps they will realize that the blessings of the old are the most precious gifts they can ever receive.
Kariuki was one of the few remaining from that first generation. He had seen the village grow from a few scattered huts into a thriving community. But now, in his old age, he saw the emptiness that had crept into the hearts of the younger generation. The bonds that once tied families together had frayed, leaving the old in hunger and in search of ways to fend for themselves.
"Those who do not help their parents won't be helped by their children," Kariuki would often tell me, his voice carrying the weight of countless stories. He had been a friend, a man who spoke the truth, even when it was hard to hear.
One day, as we worked in his farm, Kariuki shared a story that had been buried in the village's past. It was the tale of a man who had refused to care for his aging parents. As they grew weaker, he stayed away, appearing only when they were too frail to speak. The villagers whispered that he had been cursed, for when his own time came, his children treated him the same way. They brought food, but he had no strength to eat. They brought clothes, but his body was too weak to wear them.
Kariuki sighed deeply as he finished the story, his eyes reflecting the pain of those forgotten years. "It’s a game of tit for tat," he said. "The old ones leave their blessings with those who care for them. The rest are left to wander, just like Esau in the Bible."
I often thought about Kariuki’s words as I walked through the village. The stories of old men and women dying of hunger were not just tales; they were memories etched into the landscape of Gitithia. Those who had neglected their parents had not vanished from our minds. We knew who had helped, and who had turned away. The past had a way of reaching into the present, pulling at the threads of our lives.
As I looked at the new generation, I wondered if they understood the weight of the blessings they had inherited. Food, clothes, and shelter might not seem important to them now, but to the old, they were the foundation of life. The pioneers of Gitithia had left more than just land and houses; they had left a legacy of care and responsibility.
But it was a legacy that was fading, lost in the rush of modern life. The young no longer valued the simple things that had sustained their ancestors. They were caught up in the pursuit of wealth and status, forgetting the hands that had fed and clothed them.
Kariuki’s words stayed with me long after he had passed on. I could still hear his voice, reminding me of the truth that the village seemed to have forgotten. The blessings of the old were not given lightly. They were earned through love and care, and once lost, they could never be reclaimed.
And so, as Gitithia continue to change, the stories remain, but who will pass them down from one generation to the next with the prevailing modernity? Perhaps, one day, the young will teach themselves these lessons. Perhaps they will realize that the blessings of the old are the most precious gifts they can ever receive.
