The hour for Mburu came. It was in Gitithia village, a place where people lived and breathed in rhythm with the weight of history, each villager carrying an invisible stack of files. These files held memories, judgments, and whispered tales passed down from one generation to the other. And like Jesus, Mburu could not escape his own crucifixion. He was sick, a sickness that stripped him of all dignity and wealth. His family had given everything they had, and now, Mburu had become a "professional beggar," dependent on the mercies of the villagers — a thing he had never imagined for himself. Yet, the villagers were relentless, circling him with their own version of his story.
In Gitithia, no one suffered alone. Mburu’s illness was dissected and discussed, each villager pulling from the files they kept on him. Some said his illness was the result of eating his daughter's dowry without ever having paid his wife’s dowry. Others claimed it was punishment for ignoring the village's harambees over the years, or perhaps his wife had gone for urogi, witchcraft. Still others whispered that Mburu had sold off his late father’s land in Thubukia or that his love for alcohol had finally caught up with him. The stories were endless, like the grey hairs on his head — impossible to count or control.
But Mburu knew. Like the prophet Elijah, he had his own ihuru, raven, that brought him the village’s gossip, feeding him the rumors that swirled around his name. The raven sang the villagers' thoughts: "Mburu ukurwarai cangararaica." Yet, Mburu had no strength left to defend himself. His body was weak, confined to the same bed for years, with his family begging the very villagers who judged him for help. The village had knowledge of ihuru, both from the Bible and from their own oral traditions, yet it seemed their hearts were untouched by kindness. The files they kept on Mburu were too heavy to allow compassion.
The day of the harambee came, meant to gather funds for Mburu's treatment, but it felt more like Black Friday. The villagers arrived not out of love, but to record another chapter in Mburu’s tragic file. Yes, they gave money, but it was given kwiruta ho — half-heartedly, with a sting of bitterness. As they left his home that Sunday evening, their hearts were light with satisfaction. They had seen the downfall they’d anticipated, and the money raised was pitiful — not even an eighth of what was needed. They concluded with certainty: Mundu akagirwo na miti iria attuite.
That Sunday night, however, something strange happened. As Mburu lay on his bed, he felt a warmth spread through his body. It wasn’t the kind of heat brought on by fever; it was something different. He could feel the strength returning to his bones, but he was too weak to rise. The gods of the village, the old spirits whispered about but never acknowledged aloud, had visited Mburu. But the villagers on Monday morning, caught up in their proofreading and editing of Mburu's life story, were unaware. They laughed among themselves, trading new theories about his inevitable death.
On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, Mburu lay in bed as he had for years, but something was changing. By Wednesday evening, he could stand without help. On Thursday, his sons took him to the clinic, as they had so many times before. But this time, the doctors were stunned. After a battery of tests, they declared Mburu healed through means they could not explain. They held a meeting, rechecking the results, but the answer was the same: Mburu’s illness was gone. They advised him to go home and rest as he continued to recover.
When the villagers heard the news, a new file was opened. This one was not about the wonders of divine healing or the mysteries of fate. No, the villagers decided that Mburu had conned them. He had never been sick at all, they claimed. He had pretended, tricking them into giving him money during the harambee. They were bitter, their hearts burning with a sense of betrayal. If there had been a way to reclaim the 'coins' they had given, they would have done so without hesitation.
And so, Mburu’s file grew thicker, another chapter in the endless story of Gitithia, where a man’s fate was not only determined by the gods, but by the villagers’ ever-watchful eyes, their hands always ready to write more.
In Gitithia, no one suffered alone. Mburu’s illness was dissected and discussed, each villager pulling from the files they kept on him. Some said his illness was the result of eating his daughter's dowry without ever having paid his wife’s dowry. Others claimed it was punishment for ignoring the village's harambees over the years, or perhaps his wife had gone for urogi, witchcraft. Still others whispered that Mburu had sold off his late father’s land in Thubukia or that his love for alcohol had finally caught up with him. The stories were endless, like the grey hairs on his head — impossible to count or control.
But Mburu knew. Like the prophet Elijah, he had his own ihuru, raven, that brought him the village’s gossip, feeding him the rumors that swirled around his name. The raven sang the villagers' thoughts: "Mburu ukurwarai cangararaica." Yet, Mburu had no strength left to defend himself. His body was weak, confined to the same bed for years, with his family begging the very villagers who judged him for help. The village had knowledge of ihuru, both from the Bible and from their own oral traditions, yet it seemed their hearts were untouched by kindness. The files they kept on Mburu were too heavy to allow compassion.
The day of the harambee came, meant to gather funds for Mburu's treatment, but it felt more like Black Friday. The villagers arrived not out of love, but to record another chapter in Mburu’s tragic file. Yes, they gave money, but it was given kwiruta ho — half-heartedly, with a sting of bitterness. As they left his home that Sunday evening, their hearts were light with satisfaction. They had seen the downfall they’d anticipated, and the money raised was pitiful — not even an eighth of what was needed. They concluded with certainty: Mundu akagirwo na miti iria attuite.
That Sunday night, however, something strange happened. As Mburu lay on his bed, he felt a warmth spread through his body. It wasn’t the kind of heat brought on by fever; it was something different. He could feel the strength returning to his bones, but he was too weak to rise. The gods of the village, the old spirits whispered about but never acknowledged aloud, had visited Mburu. But the villagers on Monday morning, caught up in their proofreading and editing of Mburu's life story, were unaware. They laughed among themselves, trading new theories about his inevitable death.
On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, Mburu lay in bed as he had for years, but something was changing. By Wednesday evening, he could stand without help. On Thursday, his sons took him to the clinic, as they had so many times before. But this time, the doctors were stunned. After a battery of tests, they declared Mburu healed through means they could not explain. They held a meeting, rechecking the results, but the answer was the same: Mburu’s illness was gone. They advised him to go home and rest as he continued to recover.
When the villagers heard the news, a new file was opened. This one was not about the wonders of divine healing or the mysteries of fate. No, the villagers decided that Mburu had conned them. He had never been sick at all, they claimed. He had pretended, tricking them into giving him money during the harambee. They were bitter, their hearts burning with a sense of betrayal. If there had been a way to reclaim the 'coins' they had given, they would have done so without hesitation.
And so, Mburu’s file grew thicker, another chapter in the endless story of Gitithia, where a man’s fate was not only determined by the gods, but by the villagers’ ever-watchful eyes, their hands always ready to write more.
