In our village, Gitithia, there’s a man named Kibogoro who is widely regarded as the most useless villager around. He doesn't take care of his family, nor does he engage in any meaningful work like the other village men. Instead, Kibogoro spends his days singing a repetitive tune, "Wamaturamu, Wamaturamu," wandering aimlessly through the village. Despite his lack of looks and wealth, he somehow has a beautiful wife named Wangechi.
The villagers often gossip and speculate that Kibogoro must have used love potions to capture Wangechi’s heart. However, my grandfather always dismisses these rumours with a saying, "ya hûma gûtirí mûtí ítangíûmba."
Wangechi, despite her stunning beauty, had a reputation that followed her from her high school days. She was known to have relationships with both young and old men. By the time she was sitting for her KCSE exams, she was already pregnant, unable to identify the father among her many suitors. When she couldn’t convince any of the sober, respectable men she had been involved with to take responsibility for her pregnancy, she settled on Kibogoro.
Kamau, named after Kibogoro's father, is Wangechi’s son, but it’s an open secret that he does not share Kibogoro’s blood. This story of misfit and scandal is one that colours the lives of these individuals, set against the backdrop of village life.
The sun rose over the village, casting long shadows that danced across the dew-kissed grass. Kibogoro ambled through the narrow dirt paths, his off-key rendition of " Wamaturamu, Wamaturamu" trailing behind him. The villagers, already busy with their morning chores, shot him disapproving glances. Their disdain was palpable, but Kibogoro seemed oblivious, lost in his own world.
At the small Gitithia market, a group of women gathered around a vegetable stall, their conversation hushed but intense. Wangechi’s name cropped up frequently, punctuated by clicks of tongues and shaking heads. "Did you see Wangechi’s new dress?" one woman whispered. "Where does she get the money? Certainly not from Kibogoro." Another woman, older and with a knowing look in her eyes, nodded sagely. "She is always a resourceful one, even in school. Always had her ways."
Wangechi, meanwhile, was at home, tending to Kamau. The little boy, with his bright eyes and infectious smile, was the centre of her world. Despite the whispers and rumours, Wangechi held her head high. She knew her past was colourful, but she had made her choices and was determined to live with them.
"Kibogoro," she called out as her husband wandered into the yard. "Can you fetch some water from the well? We’re running low." Kibogoro nodded absentmindedly, his song faltering as he shuffled towards the well. As he filled the buckets, he caught sight of his reflection in the water. His worn, tired face stared back at him, and for a moment, a flicker of self-awareness crossed his features. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the familiar tune of " Wamaturamu, Wamaturamu."
Back at the house, Wangechi watched him return with the water, her expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. She had long given up on expecting more from Kibogoro. Her life was now about making the best of what she had, for herself and for Kamau.
Days turned into weeks, and life in the village continued its predictable rhythm. The gossip about Kibogoro and Wangechi never ceased, but it became background noise, a constant hum that they both learned to live with.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Napier grass fields, Wangechi sat on the porch, cradling Kamau in her arms. Kibogoro was nowhere to be seen, likely off in some corner of the village, singing his song. A figure approached through the twilight, and Wangechi squinted to see who it was.
"Evening, Wangechi," a deep voice called out. It was Mzee Mwangi, an elder of the village nyumba kumi and a man of considerable respect. "Good evening, Mzee," Wangechi replied, her tone polite but guarded.
Mzee Mwangi settled himself on a nearby stool, his eyes softening as he looked at Kamau. "The boy is growing well," he remarked. "Looks strong." Wangechi smiled faintly. "Yes, he is. Thank you."
There was a moment of silence, then Mzee Mwangi leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "Wangechi, the village talks. You know that. But I wanted to say, do not let their words weigh too heavily on you. You have made your choices, as we all do. What matters is how you live with them." Wangechi’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. She nodded, grateful for the unexpected kindness. "Thank you, Mzee. That means a lot."
As the elder left, Wangechi felt a renewed sense of determination. She would continue to hold her head high, for herself and for Kamau. The village could talk all it wanted, but she knew her worth and her strength.
Kibogoro returned home later that night, his song softer, almost a whisper in the dark. Wangechi watched him, a mixture of pity and affection in her gaze. She knew he was not the man the Gitithia village wanted him to be, but he was the man she had chosen, and that had to count for something.
The seasons changed, and with them, the dynamics of the village. New scandals emerged, new stories to gossip about, but Kibogoro and Wangechi remained constant, their lives intertwined in a dance of love, duty, and resilience.
Kamau grew older, his curiosity and energy filling their small home with life. Wangechi poured all her hopes and dreams into him, determined that he would have a better future, free from the shadows of her past and Kibogoro’s failings.
One day, as Kamau played outside, he stumbled upon an old, weathered book hidden under the doorway of their late grandmother house. Intrigued, he brought it to his mother. "Look, Mama! What’s this?" he asked, his eyes wide with excitement.
Wangechi took the book, her fingers tracing the faded cover. "It’s an old family journal," she explained. "It belonged to your grandfather." Kamau’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Can you read it to me?"
Wangechi smiled, opening the journal. As she read the stories of their ancestors, tales of courage, love, and sacrifice, she realized that they too were writing their own story. A story that would one day be told and remembered.
The villagers often gossip and speculate that Kibogoro must have used love potions to capture Wangechi’s heart. However, my grandfather always dismisses these rumours with a saying, "ya hûma gûtirí mûtí ítangíûmba."
Wangechi, despite her stunning beauty, had a reputation that followed her from her high school days. She was known to have relationships with both young and old men. By the time she was sitting for her KCSE exams, she was already pregnant, unable to identify the father among her many suitors. When she couldn’t convince any of the sober, respectable men she had been involved with to take responsibility for her pregnancy, she settled on Kibogoro.
Kamau, named after Kibogoro's father, is Wangechi’s son, but it’s an open secret that he does not share Kibogoro’s blood. This story of misfit and scandal is one that colours the lives of these individuals, set against the backdrop of village life.
The sun rose over the village, casting long shadows that danced across the dew-kissed grass. Kibogoro ambled through the narrow dirt paths, his off-key rendition of " Wamaturamu, Wamaturamu" trailing behind him. The villagers, already busy with their morning chores, shot him disapproving glances. Their disdain was palpable, but Kibogoro seemed oblivious, lost in his own world.
At the small Gitithia market, a group of women gathered around a vegetable stall, their conversation hushed but intense. Wangechi’s name cropped up frequently, punctuated by clicks of tongues and shaking heads. "Did you see Wangechi’s new dress?" one woman whispered. "Where does she get the money? Certainly not from Kibogoro." Another woman, older and with a knowing look in her eyes, nodded sagely. "She is always a resourceful one, even in school. Always had her ways."
Wangechi, meanwhile, was at home, tending to Kamau. The little boy, with his bright eyes and infectious smile, was the centre of her world. Despite the whispers and rumours, Wangechi held her head high. She knew her past was colourful, but she had made her choices and was determined to live with them.
"Kibogoro," she called out as her husband wandered into the yard. "Can you fetch some water from the well? We’re running low." Kibogoro nodded absentmindedly, his song faltering as he shuffled towards the well. As he filled the buckets, he caught sight of his reflection in the water. His worn, tired face stared back at him, and for a moment, a flicker of self-awareness crossed his features. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the familiar tune of " Wamaturamu, Wamaturamu."
Back at the house, Wangechi watched him return with the water, her expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. She had long given up on expecting more from Kibogoro. Her life was now about making the best of what she had, for herself and for Kamau.
Days turned into weeks, and life in the village continued its predictable rhythm. The gossip about Kibogoro and Wangechi never ceased, but it became background noise, a constant hum that they both learned to live with.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the Napier grass fields, Wangechi sat on the porch, cradling Kamau in her arms. Kibogoro was nowhere to be seen, likely off in some corner of the village, singing his song. A figure approached through the twilight, and Wangechi squinted to see who it was.
"Evening, Wangechi," a deep voice called out. It was Mzee Mwangi, an elder of the village nyumba kumi and a man of considerable respect. "Good evening, Mzee," Wangechi replied, her tone polite but guarded.
Mzee Mwangi settled himself on a nearby stool, his eyes softening as he looked at Kamau. "The boy is growing well," he remarked. "Looks strong." Wangechi smiled faintly. "Yes, he is. Thank you."
There was a moment of silence, then Mzee Mwangi leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "Wangechi, the village talks. You know that. But I wanted to say, do not let their words weigh too heavily on you. You have made your choices, as we all do. What matters is how you live with them." Wangechi’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. She nodded, grateful for the unexpected kindness. "Thank you, Mzee. That means a lot."
As the elder left, Wangechi felt a renewed sense of determination. She would continue to hold her head high, for herself and for Kamau. The village could talk all it wanted, but she knew her worth and her strength.
Kibogoro returned home later that night, his song softer, almost a whisper in the dark. Wangechi watched him, a mixture of pity and affection in her gaze. She knew he was not the man the Gitithia village wanted him to be, but he was the man she had chosen, and that had to count for something.
The seasons changed, and with them, the dynamics of the village. New scandals emerged, new stories to gossip about, but Kibogoro and Wangechi remained constant, their lives intertwined in a dance of love, duty, and resilience.
Kamau grew older, his curiosity and energy filling their small home with life. Wangechi poured all her hopes and dreams into him, determined that he would have a better future, free from the shadows of her past and Kibogoro’s failings.
One day, as Kamau played outside, he stumbled upon an old, weathered book hidden under the doorway of their late grandmother house. Intrigued, he brought it to his mother. "Look, Mama! What’s this?" he asked, his eyes wide with excitement.
Wangechi took the book, her fingers tracing the faded cover. "It’s an old family journal," she explained. "It belonged to your grandfather." Kamau’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Can you read it to me?"
Wangechi smiled, opening the journal. As she read the stories of their ancestors, tales of courage, love, and sacrifice, she realized that they too were writing their own story. A story that would one day be told and remembered.
