Wamundara came home from the shamba with the sun still high in the sky. It was around three in the afternoon, the time when shadows shorten and the body begins to feel the weight of the day’s labor. His back was tired, his hands were rough with soil, and sweat had dried on his forehead. He sat outside the kitchen and began to clean his jembe, knocking off the clumps of black earth that clung to its blade.
My grandmother watched him quietly. She did not rush her words, because wisdom, like good farming, is never hurried. As her eyes rested on the jembe, she shook her grey head slightly and said, “Nduri na muro wa wira na nduri utheri.” The jembe Wamundara carried was not sharp, not strong, and not fit for a serious farmer. Yet it was still a jembe. It could break the soil, even if slowly. It was better than having no tool at all. In her words, my grandmother was teaching us that lack is worse than imperfection.
Those words stayed with me, buried deep in my memory like seeds waiting for rain. Many seasons passed, and life carried me far from the shamba and the village. One day, I was at work, helping with the induction of a new hire named Brayo. I showed him how things were done, step by step, the way elders teach the young. He struggled. He was slow to learn, and his hands did not yet know the rhythm of the work.
Later, the employer passed by and asked me, “How is Brayo doing?” For a moment, I saw my grandmother again, sitting on her njung'wa, looking at Wamundara’s jembe. I smiled and answered, just as she had taught me, “Nduri na mundu wa wira na nduri utheri.” Brayo was not the best worker, not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was better than having no one at all.
That is how wisdom travels—from the shamba to the workplace, from grandmother to grandchild, from one generation to the next. An African saying does not grow old; it only finds new soil to take root in.
My grandmother watched him quietly. She did not rush her words, because wisdom, like good farming, is never hurried. As her eyes rested on the jembe, she shook her grey head slightly and said, “Nduri na muro wa wira na nduri utheri.” The jembe Wamundara carried was not sharp, not strong, and not fit for a serious farmer. Yet it was still a jembe. It could break the soil, even if slowly. It was better than having no tool at all. In her words, my grandmother was teaching us that lack is worse than imperfection.
Those words stayed with me, buried deep in my memory like seeds waiting for rain. Many seasons passed, and life carried me far from the shamba and the village. One day, I was at work, helping with the induction of a new hire named Brayo. I showed him how things were done, step by step, the way elders teach the young. He struggled. He was slow to learn, and his hands did not yet know the rhythm of the work.
Later, the employer passed by and asked me, “How is Brayo doing?” For a moment, I saw my grandmother again, sitting on her njung'wa, looking at Wamundara’s jembe. I smiled and answered, just as she had taught me, “Nduri na mundu wa wira na nduri utheri.” Brayo was not the best worker, not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was better than having no one at all.
That is how wisdom travels—from the shamba to the workplace, from grandmother to grandchild, from one generation to the next. An African saying does not grow old; it only finds new soil to take root in.
