Come closer, daughters of the village. Sit under the old mûkindûri tree where stories grow wiser with every telling. Let the goats pass, let the fire crackle, and let your ears be open, for this is not just a story—it is advice wrapped in laughter.
Long ago, in our village, there lived many beautiful girls with bright eyes and busy dreams. Every December, when the harmattan dust danced in the air, men from majuu would return—wearing heavy jackets in the heat, shiny shoes that feared dust, and accents that had traveled farther than their hearts.
Ah! When they arrived, the village would whisper. “Eeh! He has come from abroad.” “Money has landed.” “Majuu has entered the village!”
One such man was Gathee. He arrived with two suitcase, three classy phones, and a loud laugh. He bought beer for the whole Karûma-indo bar, changed outfits twice a day, and spoke of dollars as if they grew on trees where he lived. The girls’ eyes followed him like chicks following maize.
But my daughters, listen well: a calabash may have a shiny lid, but inside it may carry only water, not milk. What the village did not see was that Gatheee counted quarters at night. What they did not hear were the messages from abroad—about rent, child support, a wife who was tired, and children who needed college fees. Abroad had not been gentle with him; it had squeezed him like sugarcane until only fiber remained.
Still, some girls believed. “One day he will take me to majuu,” they said. “He will save me,” they hoped. Hope is good—but desperation is a bad counselor. One girl, Nyanjega, almost lost njikaríro chasing Gathee. But her grandmother pulled her aside and said, “My child, no grown man is coming with a rope to pull you out of life. If you want to cross the river, you must learn to swim.” Nyanjega listened. She returned to her sewing, her schooling, her dreams. She learned to stand straight, not bend for small money. When Gathee left—quietly, with crying girls behind him—Nyanjega remained, stronger, wiser, and free.
Now hear this proverb and keep it in your baskets: not every bird that flies far brings back gold feathers. Some only return with stories. Yes, my daughters, there are good and responsible men abroad. They exist. But let your choices be guided by your head, not hunger. Build your own life. Grow your mind and your heart. Because a woman who knows her worth cannot be bought with quarters—and a future built on illusion collapses when the music stops.
That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
Long ago, in our village, there lived many beautiful girls with bright eyes and busy dreams. Every December, when the harmattan dust danced in the air, men from majuu would return—wearing heavy jackets in the heat, shiny shoes that feared dust, and accents that had traveled farther than their hearts.
Ah! When they arrived, the village would whisper. “Eeh! He has come from abroad.” “Money has landed.” “Majuu has entered the village!”
One such man was Gathee. He arrived with two suitcase, three classy phones, and a loud laugh. He bought beer for the whole Karûma-indo bar, changed outfits twice a day, and spoke of dollars as if they grew on trees where he lived. The girls’ eyes followed him like chicks following maize.
But my daughters, listen well: a calabash may have a shiny lid, but inside it may carry only water, not milk. What the village did not see was that Gatheee counted quarters at night. What they did not hear were the messages from abroad—about rent, child support, a wife who was tired, and children who needed college fees. Abroad had not been gentle with him; it had squeezed him like sugarcane until only fiber remained.
Still, some girls believed. “One day he will take me to majuu,” they said. “He will save me,” they hoped. Hope is good—but desperation is a bad counselor. One girl, Nyanjega, almost lost njikaríro chasing Gathee. But her grandmother pulled her aside and said, “My child, no grown man is coming with a rope to pull you out of life. If you want to cross the river, you must learn to swim.” Nyanjega listened. She returned to her sewing, her schooling, her dreams. She learned to stand straight, not bend for small money. When Gathee left—quietly, with crying girls behind him—Nyanjega remained, stronger, wiser, and free.
Now hear this proverb and keep it in your baskets: not every bird that flies far brings back gold feathers. Some only return with stories. Yes, my daughters, there are good and responsible men abroad. They exist. But let your choices be guided by your head, not hunger. Build your own life. Grow your mind and your heart. Because a woman who knows her worth cannot be bought with quarters—and a future built on illusion collapses when the music stops.
That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
