In the heart of Gitithia, the morning sun cast a golden hue over the village paths. Amid the village noise and chaos, a group of women gathered at the local shopping centre, their laughter and chatter a soothing symphony against the backdrop of the village hustle. Among them was Ciru, a young woman in her early thirties, who was known for her keen observations and thoughtful nature.
Ciru, along with her friends, often took a break from their shopping to sit at a small village Soup kitchen nearby. It was here, over cups of steaming broth and the aroma of fresh Mandazi, that they would discuss everything from family matters to dreams of the future. Today’s topic, however, was one that frequently captivated their imaginations—love and marriage.
“Did you see that old white couple in the church yesterday?” asked Mugure, her eyes wide with admiration. “They were holding hands, just like they were young lovers.” “Yes,” Ciru replied, a soft smile on her lips. “They looked so happy. It’s the kind of love we all dream of, isn’t it? To grow old with someone and still be in love.”
The other women nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting the same longing. In their Kikuyu culture, the idea of a lifelong partnership was held in high esteem. Marriage was a commitment made with the intention of lasting a lifetime, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health.
As they sat there, another woman, older and more seasoned, joined their conversation. Her name was Mama Ciku, a widow who had seen many seasons of life. She had a reputation for her wisdom and often shared stories that left the younger women with much to ponder.
“You know,” Mama Ciku began, her voice calm and steady, “not everything is as it seems. Those old white couples you admire, holding hands and looking so in love—they are not always what you think.” The younger women turned their attention to her, intrigued by the hint of mystery in her words. “What do you mean, Mama Ciku?” Ciru asked, leaning in closer.
Mama Ciku took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. “Many of these couples you see have not been married for as long as you are. Some have only been together for a few months, perhaps a year at most. They marry, they divorce, and then they marry again. What you see as enduring love might very well be the tenth marriage for some of them.”
The women gasped, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. “Ten marriages?” Mugure echoed, her voice filled with incredulity. “How is that possible?” “It’s a different way of life,” Mama Ciku explained. “In their culture, unlike our Kikuyu culture where at a certain age a woman is considered too old for marriage, there is no age limit to falling in love again and remarrying. They believe in finding happiness, even if it means starting over multiple times.”
Ciru felt a pang of disappointment. The image of the old couple, hand in hand, had been a beacon of hope, a symbol of the love she aspired to have with her own husband, Kimani. She had married Kimani with dreams of growing old together, of facing life’s challenges side by side, and of finding joy in the simple act of holding hands in their twilight years.
“But, Mama Ciku,” Ciru protested gently, “doesn’t that mean they still believe in love? Even after many marriages, they still seek companionship and happiness.” Mama Ciku nodded, her eyes softening. “Yes, it does. And there is something beautiful in that too. It’s just a different kind of beauty, one that comes from resilience and the hope of new beginnings.”
As the conversation continued, the women reflected on the complexities of love and marriage. They realized that while their own culture valued the endurance and steadfastness of a lifelong partnership, there was also something to be admired in the willingness to seek happiness and start afresh, even in the later years of life.
That evening, as Ciru walked home, she thought deeply about Mama Ciku’s words. When she arrived, she found Kimani sitting on their porch, a serene smile on his face as he watched the sunset. She sat beside him, and he took her hand in his, their fingers intertwining effortlessly.
“Kimani,” Ciru began, her voice thoughtful, “do you think we’ll still be holding hands like this when we’re old?” Kimani looked at her, his eyes filled with love and sincerity. “I believe we will, Ciru. Because holding your hand is a promise I made, and it’s one I intend to keep.” Ciru smiled, her heart swelling with affection. She realized that while the journey of love might look different for everyone, the essence of it remained the same—companionship, understanding, and the simple joy of being together.
In the days that followed, Ciru found herself observing the world with new eyes. She still admired the old couples holding hands, but now she did so with a deeper understanding. She saw in them not just the illusion of everlasting love but the resilience to find happiness, no matter how many times they had to start over.
One afternoon, as she strolled through the village with Kimani, they passed by an elderly white couple. The woman’s eyes crinkled with laughter as her husband whispered something in her ear, and they walked hand in hand, oblivious to the world around them.
Ciru smiled at them, and the woman caught her eye, returning the smile with a knowing nod. It was a moment of silent understanding between two women from different worlds, each appreciating the beauty of love in its myriad forms.
As Ciru and Kimani continued their walk, she squeezed his hand a little tighter, grateful for the journey they were on together. She knew that their path would be filled with its own challenges and joys, but as long as they faced it hand in hand, they would find their way.
In the end, Ciru realized that love was not about how many times you started over, but about the courage to keep believing in it, no matter the twists and turns of life. And in that realization, she found a deeper appreciation for the love she shared with Kimani—a love that was not perfect, but enduring and true.
Ciru, along with her friends, often took a break from their shopping to sit at a small village Soup kitchen nearby. It was here, over cups of steaming broth and the aroma of fresh Mandazi, that they would discuss everything from family matters to dreams of the future. Today’s topic, however, was one that frequently captivated their imaginations—love and marriage.
“Did you see that old white couple in the church yesterday?” asked Mugure, her eyes wide with admiration. “They were holding hands, just like they were young lovers.” “Yes,” Ciru replied, a soft smile on her lips. “They looked so happy. It’s the kind of love we all dream of, isn’t it? To grow old with someone and still be in love.”
The other women nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting the same longing. In their Kikuyu culture, the idea of a lifelong partnership was held in high esteem. Marriage was a commitment made with the intention of lasting a lifetime, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health.
As they sat there, another woman, older and more seasoned, joined their conversation. Her name was Mama Ciku, a widow who had seen many seasons of life. She had a reputation for her wisdom and often shared stories that left the younger women with much to ponder.
“You know,” Mama Ciku began, her voice calm and steady, “not everything is as it seems. Those old white couples you admire, holding hands and looking so in love—they are not always what you think.” The younger women turned their attention to her, intrigued by the hint of mystery in her words. “What do you mean, Mama Ciku?” Ciru asked, leaning in closer.
Mama Ciku took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. “Many of these couples you see have not been married for as long as you are. Some have only been together for a few months, perhaps a year at most. They marry, they divorce, and then they marry again. What you see as enduring love might very well be the tenth marriage for some of them.”
The women gasped, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. “Ten marriages?” Mugure echoed, her voice filled with incredulity. “How is that possible?” “It’s a different way of life,” Mama Ciku explained. “In their culture, unlike our Kikuyu culture where at a certain age a woman is considered too old for marriage, there is no age limit to falling in love again and remarrying. They believe in finding happiness, even if it means starting over multiple times.”
Ciru felt a pang of disappointment. The image of the old couple, hand in hand, had been a beacon of hope, a symbol of the love she aspired to have with her own husband, Kimani. She had married Kimani with dreams of growing old together, of facing life’s challenges side by side, and of finding joy in the simple act of holding hands in their twilight years.
“But, Mama Ciku,” Ciru protested gently, “doesn’t that mean they still believe in love? Even after many marriages, they still seek companionship and happiness.” Mama Ciku nodded, her eyes softening. “Yes, it does. And there is something beautiful in that too. It’s just a different kind of beauty, one that comes from resilience and the hope of new beginnings.”
As the conversation continued, the women reflected on the complexities of love and marriage. They realized that while their own culture valued the endurance and steadfastness of a lifelong partnership, there was also something to be admired in the willingness to seek happiness and start afresh, even in the later years of life.
That evening, as Ciru walked home, she thought deeply about Mama Ciku’s words. When she arrived, she found Kimani sitting on their porch, a serene smile on his face as he watched the sunset. She sat beside him, and he took her hand in his, their fingers intertwining effortlessly.
“Kimani,” Ciru began, her voice thoughtful, “do you think we’ll still be holding hands like this when we’re old?” Kimani looked at her, his eyes filled with love and sincerity. “I believe we will, Ciru. Because holding your hand is a promise I made, and it’s one I intend to keep.” Ciru smiled, her heart swelling with affection. She realized that while the journey of love might look different for everyone, the essence of it remained the same—companionship, understanding, and the simple joy of being together.
In the days that followed, Ciru found herself observing the world with new eyes. She still admired the old couples holding hands, but now she did so with a deeper understanding. She saw in them not just the illusion of everlasting love but the resilience to find happiness, no matter how many times they had to start over.
One afternoon, as she strolled through the village with Kimani, they passed by an elderly white couple. The woman’s eyes crinkled with laughter as her husband whispered something in her ear, and they walked hand in hand, oblivious to the world around them.
Ciru smiled at them, and the woman caught her eye, returning the smile with a knowing nod. It was a moment of silent understanding between two women from different worlds, each appreciating the beauty of love in its myriad forms.
As Ciru and Kimani continued their walk, she squeezed his hand a little tighter, grateful for the journey they were on together. She knew that their path would be filled with its own challenges and joys, but as long as they faced it hand in hand, they would find their way.
In the end, Ciru realized that love was not about how many times you started over, but about the courage to keep believing in it, no matter the twists and turns of life. And in that realization, she found a deeper appreciation for the love she shared with Kimani—a love that was not perfect, but enduring and true.
