I grew up around my grandmother. She was an old woman, but not the kind that sits quietly in the corner of the house. She had seen too much life for that. Her eyes carried stories—stories of hunger and harvest, of loss and laughter, of people leaving and people returning. When she spoke, you listened, not because she raised her voice, but because her words carried weight.
My grandmother had a heart for family. To her, family was not just blood; it was responsibility. It was how you stood when others were weak, how you behaved when no one was watching. She wanted us—her grandchildren—to be family people, people who understood where they came from and what they stood for.
She watched us closely, especially us boys. Not with suspicion, but with hope. And when one of us started to drift—when our actions no longer matched the values she had poured into us—she would not shout. She would simply look at you and ask, quietly but firmly; “Ndui wi mundurume?” Don’t you know you are a man?
In that question was everything. She wasn’t talking about age or strength. She was talking about character. She meant: don’t you know who you are? Don’t you know the responsibility that comes with knowing yourself? Don’t you know that being a man—or a woman—is not about pride, but about discipline, respect, and accountability?
That question could stop you in your tracks. It made you look at your feet, then at your heart. It reminded you that behaving carelessly was not just a mistake—it was forgetting yourself.
Today, my grandmother is gone, but her voice is not. I hear it in moments of decision. I hear it when life pulls me in many directions. And now, I ask the same question she once asked us—not just to boys, not just to family, but to everyone: Do you know yourself? Or are you living and behaving like a person who does not know himself—or herself? Because to know yourself is to live with intention. And to forget yourself is to lose the very roots that hold you upright.
My grandmother had a heart for family. To her, family was not just blood; it was responsibility. It was how you stood when others were weak, how you behaved when no one was watching. She wanted us—her grandchildren—to be family people, people who understood where they came from and what they stood for.
She watched us closely, especially us boys. Not with suspicion, but with hope. And when one of us started to drift—when our actions no longer matched the values she had poured into us—she would not shout. She would simply look at you and ask, quietly but firmly; “Ndui wi mundurume?” Don’t you know you are a man?
In that question was everything. She wasn’t talking about age or strength. She was talking about character. She meant: don’t you know who you are? Don’t you know the responsibility that comes with knowing yourself? Don’t you know that being a man—or a woman—is not about pride, but about discipline, respect, and accountability?
That question could stop you in your tracks. It made you look at your feet, then at your heart. It reminded you that behaving carelessly was not just a mistake—it was forgetting yourself.
Today, my grandmother is gone, but her voice is not. I hear it in moments of decision. I hear it when life pulls me in many directions. And now, I ask the same question she once asked us—not just to boys, not just to family, but to everyone: Do you know yourself? Or are you living and behaving like a person who does not know himself—or herself? Because to know yourself is to live with intention. And to forget yourself is to lose the very roots that hold you upright.
