Come closer my child, let me tell you a story the way our elders told it—slowly, with pauses, so the wisdom can settle in your heart.
In Gitithia, long before fences were straight and roads were paved, people lived by the rhythm of the soil and the breath of their animals. A man could wake before the sun and know what kind of day it would be just by listening to the cows stir in their pens. Farming was not only work; it was a classroom. Every field, every calf, every harvest carried a lesson.
The elders would say, “Wamenya ng’ombe, niwamenya mwana wake.” If you know the cow, you already know the calf.
When someone went to buy a calf, they never rushed. They never looked only at the size of the young animal or how shiny its skin was. Instead, they asked a simple but serious question: “Nyina irutaga iria riigana atia?” How does its mother give milk?
They knew what experience had taught them. A calf born of a strong, well-kept cow would grow into a dependable animal. But a calf from a zebu cow, no matter how lively it looked, could never be expected to produce the same milk as one born of a Holstein, a Guernsey, a Jersey, or a Brown Swiss. The calf did not choose its mother, but its future was shaped by her nature.
This knowledge was not written in books. It lived in observation, in patience, and in years of watching life repeat itself.
Now, the elders were wise, and they did not keep this wisdom locked in the cowshed.
When young men and women began to speak of marriage, when hearts started to wander and eyes to linger too long at dances and ceremonies, the elders would clear their throats and ask another question—one that sounded gentle but carried great weight: “Aciari ake mahana atia?” What kind of people are her parents? What kind of people raised him?
The young ones sometimes misunderstood. They thought the elders were asking about land, or cows, or how many goats stood in the homestead. Others thought it was about beauty—whether the mother was fair, or the father tall and respected. But the elders would shake their heads slowly.
“No,” they would say. “We are not asking about wealth. We are asking about character.”
They explained it plainly. When you marry, you do not marry the face alone. You marry habits. You marry values. You marry how anger is handled, how truth is spoken, how trouble is faced. You are marrying what was taught at the fireside, what was modeled every morning, what was practiced when no visitors were watching.
Then they would tell stories, because stories are how truth survives.
They spoke of Mwangi wa Irungu’s wife. She was beautiful, they said, and hardworking too. But whenever marriage demanded patience, whenever storms came—as they always do—she would leave her husband’s home and return to her parents’. Again and again she went, carrying her troubles on her back like a bundle she refused to untie.
When the elders were consulted, they did not argue. They did not insult. They simply nodded and said, “Ucio ahana nyina.” That one is behaving just like her mother.
For those who understood, the message was clear. The path had been walked before. The pattern was familiar. Just as a calf follows the nature of its mother, so too does a child often follow the character they grew up watching.
And so, in Gitithia, wisdom moved quietly from the cowshed to the homestead, from farming to marriage, from soil to soul. Those who listened learned to look beyond appearances, beyond excitement, beyond the noise of the moment. They learned to ask the right questions—questions that do not rush life, but prepare for it.
That is how our elders taught us. Not with long speeches, but with simple questions that echo long after the answer is given.
In Gitithia, long before fences were straight and roads were paved, people lived by the rhythm of the soil and the breath of their animals. A man could wake before the sun and know what kind of day it would be just by listening to the cows stir in their pens. Farming was not only work; it was a classroom. Every field, every calf, every harvest carried a lesson.
The elders would say, “Wamenya ng’ombe, niwamenya mwana wake.” If you know the cow, you already know the calf.
When someone went to buy a calf, they never rushed. They never looked only at the size of the young animal or how shiny its skin was. Instead, they asked a simple but serious question: “Nyina irutaga iria riigana atia?” How does its mother give milk?
They knew what experience had taught them. A calf born of a strong, well-kept cow would grow into a dependable animal. But a calf from a zebu cow, no matter how lively it looked, could never be expected to produce the same milk as one born of a Holstein, a Guernsey, a Jersey, or a Brown Swiss. The calf did not choose its mother, but its future was shaped by her nature.
This knowledge was not written in books. It lived in observation, in patience, and in years of watching life repeat itself.
Now, the elders were wise, and they did not keep this wisdom locked in the cowshed.
When young men and women began to speak of marriage, when hearts started to wander and eyes to linger too long at dances and ceremonies, the elders would clear their throats and ask another question—one that sounded gentle but carried great weight: “Aciari ake mahana atia?” What kind of people are her parents? What kind of people raised him?
The young ones sometimes misunderstood. They thought the elders were asking about land, or cows, or how many goats stood in the homestead. Others thought it was about beauty—whether the mother was fair, or the father tall and respected. But the elders would shake their heads slowly.
“No,” they would say. “We are not asking about wealth. We are asking about character.”
They explained it plainly. When you marry, you do not marry the face alone. You marry habits. You marry values. You marry how anger is handled, how truth is spoken, how trouble is faced. You are marrying what was taught at the fireside, what was modeled every morning, what was practiced when no visitors were watching.
Then they would tell stories, because stories are how truth survives.
They spoke of Mwangi wa Irungu’s wife. She was beautiful, they said, and hardworking too. But whenever marriage demanded patience, whenever storms came—as they always do—she would leave her husband’s home and return to her parents’. Again and again she went, carrying her troubles on her back like a bundle she refused to untie.
When the elders were consulted, they did not argue. They did not insult. They simply nodded and said, “Ucio ahana nyina.” That one is behaving just like her mother.
For those who understood, the message was clear. The path had been walked before. The pattern was familiar. Just as a calf follows the nature of its mother, so too does a child often follow the character they grew up watching.
And so, in Gitithia, wisdom moved quietly from the cowshed to the homestead, from farming to marriage, from soil to soul. Those who listened learned to look beyond appearances, beyond excitement, beyond the noise of the moment. They learned to ask the right questions—questions that do not rush life, but prepare for it.
That is how our elders taught us. Not with long speeches, but with simple questions that echo long after the answer is given.
