Nyina wa Mwangi was a well-known figure in Gitithia village. A widow, she lived alone in the modest homestead where she had raised her children—both sons and daughters. Her late husband’s grave lay near the homestead gate, a silent sentinel marking the entrance to her world.
Despite her years, Nyina wa Mwangi maintained an immaculate home. Her sufurias gleamed, a testament to her fastidious nature, rivaling even the efforts of the younger wives in the village. She had a secret—scrubbing with cedar charcoal—that left her utensils spotless, reflecting her unwavering commitment to cleanliness.
It was common to see the older village women stopping by to check on her, a gesture of both respect and camaraderie. But every Wednesday and Saturday, her daughter Wairimu made the journey to her mother’s home. Wairimu would arrive with a kiondo on her back, a bottle of milk in hand, ready to wash her mother’s clothes and fetch water. Though she was not wealthy, Wairimu had a heart of gold. Her kindness and generosity endeared her to the villagers, and her visits brought joy to her mother's life.
Wanjiku, another daughter, also visited, though less frequently than Wairimu. Wanjiku was more well-off, and whenever she left her mother’s compound, Nyina wa Mwangi would hold a five-hundred-shilling note, muttering, “Ici nicio nguhuthira nginya riria ugacoka.” Then, her gaze would drift toward Mount Longonot, and she would fall into a reflective silence.
Despite the differences in their circumstances, both Wairimu and Wanjiku were dearly loved by their mother. They were a stark contrast to their brothers—Mwangi, Njuguna, Kariuki, Mungai, and even their sister Wangari—who were barely known to the younger generation. These siblings had not visited their mother since the funeral of their late brother, over twelve years ago.
In her twilight years, Nyina wa Mwangi had a favorite song, “Nii ningwenda Ngai Umenyage.” But she had another melody, one that she hummed more often: Wairimu. To the schoolchildren who passed by her home, it seemed as though she had only one child, so frequently did she sing her daughter’s name. For Nyina wa Mwangi, Wairimu was everything—her food, her clothes, her drink, her entire world. Like the poor widow who gave her last offering out of poverty, Wairimu gave her mother all she had, even what she needed to survive. And in return, she was the song of her mother’s heart, echoing across the years.
Despite her years, Nyina wa Mwangi maintained an immaculate home. Her sufurias gleamed, a testament to her fastidious nature, rivaling even the efforts of the younger wives in the village. She had a secret—scrubbing with cedar charcoal—that left her utensils spotless, reflecting her unwavering commitment to cleanliness.
It was common to see the older village women stopping by to check on her, a gesture of both respect and camaraderie. But every Wednesday and Saturday, her daughter Wairimu made the journey to her mother’s home. Wairimu would arrive with a kiondo on her back, a bottle of milk in hand, ready to wash her mother’s clothes and fetch water. Though she was not wealthy, Wairimu had a heart of gold. Her kindness and generosity endeared her to the villagers, and her visits brought joy to her mother's life.
Wanjiku, another daughter, also visited, though less frequently than Wairimu. Wanjiku was more well-off, and whenever she left her mother’s compound, Nyina wa Mwangi would hold a five-hundred-shilling note, muttering, “Ici nicio nguhuthira nginya riria ugacoka.” Then, her gaze would drift toward Mount Longonot, and she would fall into a reflective silence.
Despite the differences in their circumstances, both Wairimu and Wanjiku were dearly loved by their mother. They were a stark contrast to their brothers—Mwangi, Njuguna, Kariuki, Mungai, and even their sister Wangari—who were barely known to the younger generation. These siblings had not visited their mother since the funeral of their late brother, over twelve years ago.
In her twilight years, Nyina wa Mwangi had a favorite song, “Nii ningwenda Ngai Umenyage.” But she had another melody, one that she hummed more often: Wairimu. To the schoolchildren who passed by her home, it seemed as though she had only one child, so frequently did she sing her daughter’s name. For Nyina wa Mwangi, Wairimu was everything—her food, her clothes, her drink, her entire world. Like the poor widow who gave her last offering out of poverty, Wairimu gave her mother all she had, even what she needed to survive. And in return, she was the song of her mother’s heart, echoing across the years.
