Come closer to the fire and listen, for this is not a story that likes to be rushed. It is a story that walks slowly, like an old man leaning on his staff, pausing now and then to cough, to remember, to warn.
Long ago, when the ridges still spoke to one another through drums and smoke, there lived a boy named Njoroge. He was not ugly, nor was he poor in strength. His words were sweet like ripe sugarcane, and his laughter could loosen even the tightest hearts. Girls followed his shadow without knowing why, and he followed desire without knowing where it would lead him.
By the time the elders began clearing their throats in meetings, Njoroge had already left his footprints on every ridge. One girl here, another beyond the river, another where the sun sets. Bellies swelled quietly, secrets grew heavy, and mothers whispered at dawn. Yet no council was called to fine him. No goats were demanded. No cow was tethered at his gate. The village only watched and waited, for time is the elder that never sleeps.
It was then that his grandmother summoned him.
She was old, older than most stories, her back bent like a question that had been asked too many times. Her eyes, however, were sharp, still cutting through lies like a blade through dry grass. She listened as Njoroge spoke, boasting without boasting, excusing without shame. When he finished, she spat gently into the dust and said, “ÛkÃrÃtwo nà GÃthatûri.”
Njoroge laughed at first. He thought it was just another proverb, another riddle the old people enjoyed throwing at the young. But his grandmother did not laugh. She poked the fire and began to speak.
“GÃthatûri was a man of long ago,” she said. “He walked these ridges when your grandfather’s grandfather was still learning to herd goats. He was useful, very useful. When a woman cried because her womb was silent, it was GÃthatûri they called. He made barren women conceive, and for that he was paid well. Goats bleated at his gate. Cows lowed in his honor. He never worked for free.”
Njoroge leaned closer, curiosity replacing pride.
“But GÃthatûri was bound,” the old woman continued. “Before he began his work, he took muma. An oath heavier than iron. He was never to speak of the women he helped. Never to boast. Never to claim them. He moved from ridge to ridge like the wind, leaving life behind him but owning none of it. His name was known, but his children were not his.”
She paused and looked straight at Njoroge.
“Now look at you,” she said softly. “You have walked where GÃthatûri walked, but without permission, without oath, without wisdom. You have planted seeds everywhere, but you have no granary. No goats. No cows. No wife sitting at your hearth. Your children will call other men father, and your homestead will remain quiet, like a drum with torn skin.”
The fire cracked, as if agreeing.
Years passed, and the words of the old woman followed Njoroge like a shadow at noon. Indeed, his compound stayed empty. No child chased chickens in his yard. No woman ground millet by his door. News reached him of sons and daughters growing tall in other homes, calling other men “Mûthee.” He remained alone, surrounded by memories but owned by none.
And so the elders say, when desire walks ahead of wisdom, it may fertilize many fields but leave its own land barren. That is why, even today, when a young man boasts too loudly, an old woman will shake her head and whisper, “ÛkÃrÃtwo nà GÃthatûri.”
And the fire will burn a little quieter, for the lesson has already been told.
Long ago, when the ridges still spoke to one another through drums and smoke, there lived a boy named Njoroge. He was not ugly, nor was he poor in strength. His words were sweet like ripe sugarcane, and his laughter could loosen even the tightest hearts. Girls followed his shadow without knowing why, and he followed desire without knowing where it would lead him.
By the time the elders began clearing their throats in meetings, Njoroge had already left his footprints on every ridge. One girl here, another beyond the river, another where the sun sets. Bellies swelled quietly, secrets grew heavy, and mothers whispered at dawn. Yet no council was called to fine him. No goats were demanded. No cow was tethered at his gate. The village only watched and waited, for time is the elder that never sleeps.
It was then that his grandmother summoned him.
She was old, older than most stories, her back bent like a question that had been asked too many times. Her eyes, however, were sharp, still cutting through lies like a blade through dry grass. She listened as Njoroge spoke, boasting without boasting, excusing without shame. When he finished, she spat gently into the dust and said, “ÛkÃrÃtwo nà GÃthatûri.”
Njoroge laughed at first. He thought it was just another proverb, another riddle the old people enjoyed throwing at the young. But his grandmother did not laugh. She poked the fire and began to speak.
“GÃthatûri was a man of long ago,” she said. “He walked these ridges when your grandfather’s grandfather was still learning to herd goats. He was useful, very useful. When a woman cried because her womb was silent, it was GÃthatûri they called. He made barren women conceive, and for that he was paid well. Goats bleated at his gate. Cows lowed in his honor. He never worked for free.”
Njoroge leaned closer, curiosity replacing pride.
“But GÃthatûri was bound,” the old woman continued. “Before he began his work, he took muma. An oath heavier than iron. He was never to speak of the women he helped. Never to boast. Never to claim them. He moved from ridge to ridge like the wind, leaving life behind him but owning none of it. His name was known, but his children were not his.”
She paused and looked straight at Njoroge.
“Now look at you,” she said softly. “You have walked where GÃthatûri walked, but without permission, without oath, without wisdom. You have planted seeds everywhere, but you have no granary. No goats. No cows. No wife sitting at your hearth. Your children will call other men father, and your homestead will remain quiet, like a drum with torn skin.”
The fire cracked, as if agreeing.
Years passed, and the words of the old woman followed Njoroge like a shadow at noon. Indeed, his compound stayed empty. No child chased chickens in his yard. No woman ground millet by his door. News reached him of sons and daughters growing tall in other homes, calling other men “Mûthee.” He remained alone, surrounded by memories but owned by none.
And so the elders say, when desire walks ahead of wisdom, it may fertilize many fields but leave its own land barren. That is why, even today, when a young man boasts too loudly, an old woman will shake her head and whisper, “ÛkÃrÃtwo nà GÃthatûri.”
And the fire will burn a little quieter, for the lesson has already been told.
