Listen, listen, my people, and I will tell you a story. If you hear well, you will hear wisdom. If you hear poorly, you will only hear laughter.
Long ago—but not too long ago—there lived a man called Mugambi, son of our soil, child of the red earth. As a young man, fresh from college and full of dreams, he crossed the great waters to the land where snow falls like ash from the sky—the United States. The elders slaughtered a goat when he left, saying, “Let him go and bring back knowledge and blessings.”
In that far land Mugambi met Wametumi, a woman strong like the mortar stone. They married, they built a home, and children came, one after another, like maize cobs on a healthy stalk. Years passed—sixteen of them. But Mugambi did not forget the village. Every three to five years he returned, walking tall, wearing shiny shoes, carrying stories thicker than his suitcase.
“Ah! Mugambi has come!” the villagers would say. “America has cooked him well,” others whispered.
This visit, the fourth one, was different. Mugambi arrived alone, silent like an owl that flies at night. No wife. No children. When asked, he smiled and said, “They are well, they are busy.” The village does not question too much; it only observes.
He ate well, laughed loudly, and poured words like honey. Then, when the sun had finished its round, he returned to America.
But, my people, a month had not even completed its journey when a small glowing box—the one that carries news faster than drums—began to sing. A video spread like wildfire in dry grass. And there, clear as day, was Mugambi, son of our village, behaving in ways that made elders clear their throats and women shake their heads.
He was seen handling a young woman’s flowers and lifting her muthuru, forgetting himself as if shame had taken a long journey. The woman was grown, yes, but she had no mwengū, no restraint, and Mugambi too had forgotten the weight of his own name. Though he had told her, “I have a wife and children almost your age,” the young woman’s ears were closed, and her eyes were fixed on the shine she thought she saw.
Soon after, trouble knocked. The young woman took Mugambi to court, hoping to harvest dollars, thinking the tree she held for a month was heavy with fruit. But listen carefully, my people: a drum that sounds loud may be empty inside.
Mugambi, it turned out, was rich only in stories. In the village, he was a big man. On social media, he shone like a full moon. But in America, his pockets were thin, his credit broken like a cracked pot. He lived from paystub to paystub, eating today and worrying tomorrow. He could not even rent a house in his own name; he stayed under Wametumi’s shadow, using her name like a borrowed coat.
So when the young woman reached for wealth, she found only air. There was no good name to destroy, no riches to seize. Mugambi had already exhausted his dignity, one lie at a time.
And so the elders say; do not measure a man by his noise, but by his roots. Do not admire a shadow before you see the body. And above all, remember— a traveler who forgets where he comes from will one day be exposed by the sun.
That is the story. I have finished.
Long ago—but not too long ago—there lived a man called Mugambi, son of our soil, child of the red earth. As a young man, fresh from college and full of dreams, he crossed the great waters to the land where snow falls like ash from the sky—the United States. The elders slaughtered a goat when he left, saying, “Let him go and bring back knowledge and blessings.”
In that far land Mugambi met Wametumi, a woman strong like the mortar stone. They married, they built a home, and children came, one after another, like maize cobs on a healthy stalk. Years passed—sixteen of them. But Mugambi did not forget the village. Every three to five years he returned, walking tall, wearing shiny shoes, carrying stories thicker than his suitcase.
“Ah! Mugambi has come!” the villagers would say. “America has cooked him well,” others whispered.
This visit, the fourth one, was different. Mugambi arrived alone, silent like an owl that flies at night. No wife. No children. When asked, he smiled and said, “They are well, they are busy.” The village does not question too much; it only observes.
He ate well, laughed loudly, and poured words like honey. Then, when the sun had finished its round, he returned to America.
But, my people, a month had not even completed its journey when a small glowing box—the one that carries news faster than drums—began to sing. A video spread like wildfire in dry grass. And there, clear as day, was Mugambi, son of our village, behaving in ways that made elders clear their throats and women shake their heads.
He was seen handling a young woman’s flowers and lifting her muthuru, forgetting himself as if shame had taken a long journey. The woman was grown, yes, but she had no mwengū, no restraint, and Mugambi too had forgotten the weight of his own name. Though he had told her, “I have a wife and children almost your age,” the young woman’s ears were closed, and her eyes were fixed on the shine she thought she saw.
Soon after, trouble knocked. The young woman took Mugambi to court, hoping to harvest dollars, thinking the tree she held for a month was heavy with fruit. But listen carefully, my people: a drum that sounds loud may be empty inside.
Mugambi, it turned out, was rich only in stories. In the village, he was a big man. On social media, he shone like a full moon. But in America, his pockets were thin, his credit broken like a cracked pot. He lived from paystub to paystub, eating today and worrying tomorrow. He could not even rent a house in his own name; he stayed under Wametumi’s shadow, using her name like a borrowed coat.
So when the young woman reached for wealth, she found only air. There was no good name to destroy, no riches to seize. Mugambi had already exhausted his dignity, one lie at a time.
And so the elders say; do not measure a man by his noise, but by his roots. Do not admire a shadow before you see the body. And above all, remember— a traveler who forgets where he comes from will one day be exposed by the sun.
That is the story. I have finished.
