Long ago—no, not so long ago—when the road to Gitithia was still red with dust and hope was cheaper than sugar, a man named Kíihû returned to our village. He came from United States, a land we knew only through stories, photographs, and accents that bent words in strange ways. When Kíihû spoke, English rolled from his tongue like ripe maize from a sack, and the villagers said, “This one has seen the world.”
We trusted him.
In Gitithia, trust is not given lightly. It is brewed slowly, like mûratina, traditional beer, shared in gourds, sealed with handshakes and proverbs. Kíihû greeted elders properly. He sat where he was told to sit. He gave small gifts. He spoke of progress, of education, of opening doors that had always been closed to village children.
“Your children do not need A’s,” he said. “A C+ is enough. Abroad, opportunity is wide.”
He did not speak of Harvard or MIT—those names were too heavy for our ears. Instead, he spoke of universities that sounded reachable, affordable, possible. Universities hidden in backstreets, but still abroad, still powerful in our imagination.
The village gathered.
There were harambees. Women removed savings from wrappers hidden under beds. Men sold goats, cows, even small pieces of land inherited from their fathers. Some sold iron sheets from their roofs, saying, “Education will build us a better roof tomorrow.”
Money was collected. Dreams were packed carefully.
Kíihû said the fees must be sent early. He wired the money to accounts far away, beyond oceans and understanding. We trusted him because he smiled. Because he came from America. Because he spoke like success.
The children waited. Suitcases were bought. Goodbyes were practiced. Mothers cried in advance. Fathers walked taller. But the days passed. Weeks passed. Nothing happened.
Kíihû stopped answering his phone. His house stood quiet like a grave. One morning, people said he had gone back to United States. To this day, no one knows what truly happened to the money, to the papers, to the promises.
From that day, Gitithia changed.
When children spoke of school, elders looked away. When teachers asked for support, silence answered. Education, once a ladder, became a wound.
And before the village could heal, another returnee arrived. Her name was Wanjoki.
Like Kíihû, she came from United States. Like Kíihû, she dressed smartly and spoke confidently. But her plan wore a different skin.
“I will give your children jobs,” she said. “Real jobs. Dollars. Nursing. Home care.”
She opened a Home Care Aide and Certified Nursing Assistant college right there, near the village. The name alone was long enough to sound important. She promised training, certificates, and jobs waiting in America. But her fees were heavy—like elephant tusks. Still, parents paid. They said, “We were fooled once, but this one has papers.”
Village children trained day and night. They learned to lift patients, to speak politely, to dream in dollars. They graduated with certificates and hope.
Then one morning, Wanjoki was gone. The college doors were locked. Phones were off. The office was empty, like a pot after a feast. She had vanished, swallowed by the same America that had sent her.
Gitithia fell silent again.
Now, when someone returns from abroad, the village listens with one ear and guards its pocket with both hands. Trust walks slowly. Hope limps.
And the elders say, “Not everyone who comes from far has brought light. Some return with shadows in their bags.”
That is the story of Gitithia. That is why today, we teach our children not only to chase opportunity—but to ask questions, to read small letters, and to remember that a smooth tongue can hide sharp teeth.
We trusted him.
In Gitithia, trust is not given lightly. It is brewed slowly, like mûratina, traditional beer, shared in gourds, sealed with handshakes and proverbs. Kíihû greeted elders properly. He sat where he was told to sit. He gave small gifts. He spoke of progress, of education, of opening doors that had always been closed to village children.
“Your children do not need A’s,” he said. “A C+ is enough. Abroad, opportunity is wide.”
He did not speak of Harvard or MIT—those names were too heavy for our ears. Instead, he spoke of universities that sounded reachable, affordable, possible. Universities hidden in backstreets, but still abroad, still powerful in our imagination.
The village gathered.
There were harambees. Women removed savings from wrappers hidden under beds. Men sold goats, cows, even small pieces of land inherited from their fathers. Some sold iron sheets from their roofs, saying, “Education will build us a better roof tomorrow.”
Money was collected. Dreams were packed carefully.
Kíihû said the fees must be sent early. He wired the money to accounts far away, beyond oceans and understanding. We trusted him because he smiled. Because he came from America. Because he spoke like success.
The children waited. Suitcases were bought. Goodbyes were practiced. Mothers cried in advance. Fathers walked taller. But the days passed. Weeks passed. Nothing happened.
Kíihû stopped answering his phone. His house stood quiet like a grave. One morning, people said he had gone back to United States. To this day, no one knows what truly happened to the money, to the papers, to the promises.
From that day, Gitithia changed.
When children spoke of school, elders looked away. When teachers asked for support, silence answered. Education, once a ladder, became a wound.
And before the village could heal, another returnee arrived. Her name was Wanjoki.
Like Kíihû, she came from United States. Like Kíihû, she dressed smartly and spoke confidently. But her plan wore a different skin.
“I will give your children jobs,” she said. “Real jobs. Dollars. Nursing. Home care.”
She opened a Home Care Aide and Certified Nursing Assistant college right there, near the village. The name alone was long enough to sound important. She promised training, certificates, and jobs waiting in America. But her fees were heavy—like elephant tusks. Still, parents paid. They said, “We were fooled once, but this one has papers.”
Village children trained day and night. They learned to lift patients, to speak politely, to dream in dollars. They graduated with certificates and hope.
Then one morning, Wanjoki was gone. The college doors were locked. Phones were off. The office was empty, like a pot after a feast. She had vanished, swallowed by the same America that had sent her.
Gitithia fell silent again.
Now, when someone returns from abroad, the village listens with one ear and guards its pocket with both hands. Trust walks slowly. Hope limps.
And the elders say, “Not everyone who comes from far has brought light. Some return with shadows in their bags.”
That is the story of Gitithia. That is why today, we teach our children not only to chase opportunity—but to ask questions, to read small letters, and to remember that a smooth tongue can hide sharp teeth.
