Kababa was the son of Ciru, but his life unfolded under the roof of another woman’s fading strength. He grew up in the homestead of his grandmother, Wakiuru, a name that once made the village straighten its back. In her Kang’ei era, Wakiuru was a village legend. They said she could slaughter a whole goat alone, her hands steady, her will unbending. Men who dared to wink at her learned quickly that courage without respect was foolishness. She fought them with words sharper than knives and with fists that carried no fear. She was a village elder not by title alone, but by force of spirit.
But time is a quiet thief.
By the time Ciru brought Kababa to her mother’s home, Wakiuru had entered her Kiheti era. The strong had gone. Her hands trembled. Her eyes carried questions instead of fire. Often she would whisper to herself, “Nu wi nja nyume?” — what strength do I have left? The woman who once molded sons like clay now struggled to rise from her stool. Kababa arrived when discipline had softened into silence. She could no longer admonish him. She could no longer chase him, scold him, or shape him the way she had shaped her own children.
All she could do was cook.
Every morning, she lit the fire slowly, coughing through the smoke. Every evening, she waited for Kababa’s footsteps, her ears straining for the sound of life returning to the compound. Ciru sent money faithfully—food, clothes, school fees—but money could not replace presence. It could not ask questions. It could not notice sadness hiding behind laughter. It could not protect a boy from the peer pressure storms growing quietly inside him. Sadly, it was not an era of video call.
In the village, they called Kababa gitunio. A boy without direction. A boy who drifted. A boy people spoke about in lowered voices and shaking heads. Yet behind that name lived a sharp mind and a restless brilliance. He surprised everyone when he joined a national high school from a village unknown public school. People whispered again, this time with disbelief. Wakiuru would sit outside her house, pride warming her tired bones, even as her body failed her.
Kababa carried that brilliance forward and entered university. Medical school. A future that shimmered like dawn over Gitithia village. He was becoming the answer to prayers no one remembered praying. But somewhere along the way, long before the white coats and hospital corridors, another companion had joined his journey. Hard drugs. They crept into his life quietly, pretending to be relief, pretending to be strength, pretending to be control. He carried them from high school into university, hiding them as carefully as he hid his pain.
In his final year, the weight became too much. The ambition that once pushed him forward now collapsed under the burden he carried alone. His mind, once bright, grew tired. His body, once young, betrayed him. He did not graduate. He did not heal others. He did not return home as the village’s pride.
He died young.
When the news reached Gitithia, Wakiuru did not scream. She simply sat down. Her tears fell silently onto the earth that had witnessed her strength and now bore her grief. She had buried sons before, but this pain was different. Kababa was the child she loved with what little strength she had left. The one she fed when she could not discipline. The one she hoped for when hope was all she had.
Ciru arrived too late to save her son. Money had paid the fees, but love needed arms, not envelopes. The village mourned, and their tears mixed with regret. They remembered the name gitunio and wished they had spoken corrective words. They remembered the boy who was brilliant and wondered when they had stopped seeing him.
Kababa became the flower that never bloomed in Gitithia village.
His story lingered in the dust paths, in the quiet homesteads, in the eyes of children sent away to be raised by aging hands. It became a reminder that strength fades, silence wounds, and brilliance can be lost when pain is left unattended. And every time Wakiuru whispered “Nu wi nja nyume?”, the village finally understood that her question was not only about age—it was about the limits of love when time has already taken too much.
But time is a quiet thief.
By the time Ciru brought Kababa to her mother’s home, Wakiuru had entered her Kiheti era. The strong had gone. Her hands trembled. Her eyes carried questions instead of fire. Often she would whisper to herself, “Nu wi nja nyume?” — what strength do I have left? The woman who once molded sons like clay now struggled to rise from her stool. Kababa arrived when discipline had softened into silence. She could no longer admonish him. She could no longer chase him, scold him, or shape him the way she had shaped her own children.
All she could do was cook.
Every morning, she lit the fire slowly, coughing through the smoke. Every evening, she waited for Kababa’s footsteps, her ears straining for the sound of life returning to the compound. Ciru sent money faithfully—food, clothes, school fees—but money could not replace presence. It could not ask questions. It could not notice sadness hiding behind laughter. It could not protect a boy from the peer pressure storms growing quietly inside him. Sadly, it was not an era of video call.
In the village, they called Kababa gitunio. A boy without direction. A boy who drifted. A boy people spoke about in lowered voices and shaking heads. Yet behind that name lived a sharp mind and a restless brilliance. He surprised everyone when he joined a national high school from a village unknown public school. People whispered again, this time with disbelief. Wakiuru would sit outside her house, pride warming her tired bones, even as her body failed her.
Kababa carried that brilliance forward and entered university. Medical school. A future that shimmered like dawn over Gitithia village. He was becoming the answer to prayers no one remembered praying. But somewhere along the way, long before the white coats and hospital corridors, another companion had joined his journey. Hard drugs. They crept into his life quietly, pretending to be relief, pretending to be strength, pretending to be control. He carried them from high school into university, hiding them as carefully as he hid his pain.
In his final year, the weight became too much. The ambition that once pushed him forward now collapsed under the burden he carried alone. His mind, once bright, grew tired. His body, once young, betrayed him. He did not graduate. He did not heal others. He did not return home as the village’s pride.
He died young.
When the news reached Gitithia, Wakiuru did not scream. She simply sat down. Her tears fell silently onto the earth that had witnessed her strength and now bore her grief. She had buried sons before, but this pain was different. Kababa was the child she loved with what little strength she had left. The one she fed when she could not discipline. The one she hoped for when hope was all she had.
Ciru arrived too late to save her son. Money had paid the fees, but love needed arms, not envelopes. The village mourned, and their tears mixed with regret. They remembered the name gitunio and wished they had spoken corrective words. They remembered the boy who was brilliant and wondered when they had stopped seeing him.
Kababa became the flower that never bloomed in Gitithia village.
His story lingered in the dust paths, in the quiet homesteads, in the eyes of children sent away to be raised by aging hands. It became a reminder that strength fades, silence wounds, and brilliance can be lost when pain is left unattended. And every time Wakiuru whispered “Nu wi nja nyume?”, the village finally understood that her question was not only about age—it was about the limits of love when time has already taken too much.
