Gitithia village, a small settlement 44 kilometers from Nairobi, was a place where hope seemed to hang in the balance, tethered insecurely to the whims of its elected leaders. Despite its proximity to Kenya's capital, Gitithia shared the same unfortunate characteristics as Olpiroi, a village 374 kilometers away, in terms of infrastructure—particularly its roads. These roads, winding through the village like veins, were in a deplorable state. For over six decades, not a single motor-powered road construction vehicle had graced some of these paths. The villagers had long abandoned the dream of government intervention.
Instead, the responsibility of road maintenance fell squarely on the shoulders of the villagers themselves. Armed with nothing more than crude jembes and shovels, they patched up their roads as best as they could. It was a communal effort, driven by necessity and guided by the village chief and assistant chief, who regularly dispatched elders to rally the villagers for roadwork. But as time wore on, the villagers grew weary. Their patience had been tested beyond measure.
Gitithia was not without representation. The village had elected leaders in both the Kiambu Council Assembly and the National Assembly. However, when the villagers voiced their concerns about the state of their roads, they were met with a response that had become all too familiar—a chorus that had been repeated so often that even the youngest children knew it by heart.
"Kindly maintain our village roads," the villagers would say. "They are in bad shape, yet we pay taxes like other Kenyans."
The Kiambu Council Assembly representative would respond, "Barabara ithukite kundu guothe; they are the same in Kirenga, Mwimutoni, Githirioni, Kanyekiine, Gituamba, and Thikimu."
The National Assembly representative would echo the sentiment: "Barabara ithukite kundu guothe; even in Kinale, Kijabe, Kamburu, and Nyanduma. But we will give them first aid."
This chorus, once spoken with authority, had become a village anthem. It was sung daily, not in praise but in mockery—a refrain that no longer touched the villagers' hearts. It had lost its power, its taste, and its meaning. Yet, the villagers held on to a sliver of hope.
In the quiet moments, when the pregnant cloud covered the dusty village, the villagers would raise their eyes towards Kiharu or Kikuyu, where road development seemed to flourish. They hoped that one day, their roads would be like those in the New Jerusalem, smooth and straight, free of potholes, stagnant water, mud and dust. They imagined a future where the roads of Gitithia would no longer be a source of political shame but a testament to the progress they had long been denied.
But for now, the anthem of neglect continued to echo through the village, a constant reminder of promises unfulfilled and dreams deferred. The villagers sang it not with hope, but with a weary acceptance of the reality they had come to know all too well.
Instead, the responsibility of road maintenance fell squarely on the shoulders of the villagers themselves. Armed with nothing more than crude jembes and shovels, they patched up their roads as best as they could. It was a communal effort, driven by necessity and guided by the village chief and assistant chief, who regularly dispatched elders to rally the villagers for roadwork. But as time wore on, the villagers grew weary. Their patience had been tested beyond measure.
Gitithia was not without representation. The village had elected leaders in both the Kiambu Council Assembly and the National Assembly. However, when the villagers voiced their concerns about the state of their roads, they were met with a response that had become all too familiar—a chorus that had been repeated so often that even the youngest children knew it by heart.
"Kindly maintain our village roads," the villagers would say. "They are in bad shape, yet we pay taxes like other Kenyans."
The Kiambu Council Assembly representative would respond, "Barabara ithukite kundu guothe; they are the same in Kirenga, Mwimutoni, Githirioni, Kanyekiine, Gituamba, and Thikimu."
The National Assembly representative would echo the sentiment: "Barabara ithukite kundu guothe; even in Kinale, Kijabe, Kamburu, and Nyanduma. But we will give them first aid."
This chorus, once spoken with authority, had become a village anthem. It was sung daily, not in praise but in mockery—a refrain that no longer touched the villagers' hearts. It had lost its power, its taste, and its meaning. Yet, the villagers held on to a sliver of hope.
In the quiet moments, when the pregnant cloud covered the dusty village, the villagers would raise their eyes towards Kiharu or Kikuyu, where road development seemed to flourish. They hoped that one day, their roads would be like those in the New Jerusalem, smooth and straight, free of potholes, stagnant water, mud and dust. They imagined a future where the roads of Gitithia would no longer be a source of political shame but a testament to the progress they had long been denied.
But for now, the anthem of neglect continued to echo through the village, a constant reminder of promises unfulfilled and dreams deferred. The villagers sang it not with hope, but with a weary acceptance of the reality they had come to know all too well.
