Long ago, in a quiet village where the hills listened and the wind carried news faster than drums, there lived a man called Wainaina. He was married according to the ways of his clan, and his home was full of life. His wife, Mama Kabura, worked the land, and their three children laughed like morning birds. Wainaina was known as a responsible man, and people trusted his word.
One season, bad news came like dark clouds. Wainaina’s brother in the United States was gravely ill. Wainaina left the village to visit him, promising to return soon. He left his goat wife and children with hope in their hearts. “I will come back,” he said, and the elders blessed his journey.
When Wainaina arrived in America, he found his brother very weak. To stay longer and help him, Wainaina sought asylum. Time passed. The brother grew strong again. In the first year and the second, Wainaina remembered home. He sent money. He built a better house in the village. He paid school fees. The children walked proudly, and Mama Kabura thanked God and the ancestors.
But after some time, silence entered the house like a thief at night. Wainaina stopped sending support. Calls became arguments. Emails became bitter. Each time Mama Kabura reached out, words returned sharp and heavy. The village began to whisper. “What happened to Wainaina?” they asked. “Did the road swallow him?”
What the village did not know was hidden across the ocean. In the United States, Wainaina had taken another wife. This new wife held the keys to his life. She managed everything. Wainaina had no voice. He lived carefully, like a man walking on thorns. Any disagreement could delay his papers. Without papers, he was not free.
So Wainaina became a man in a soft prison—not of iron bars, but of fear and waiting. He obeyed, he kept quiet, and he hoped. He told himself, “When I get papers, I will go home.” He counted years like beads on a string. One year. Five years. Ten years, if need be.
Back in the village, Mama Kabura raised the children alone. The house still stood, but the laughter was thin. The elders said, “A river that forgets its source will dry.” The children grew, asking questions no one could answer. And the wind kept carrying silence where drums once spoke.
This is the story the elders tell by the fire: that distance can change a man, that silence can wound more than hunger, and that hope, though small, can keep a heart alive. Wainaina still believes he will return. Whether the road will bring him back, only time and the ancestors know.
One season, bad news came like dark clouds. Wainaina’s brother in the United States was gravely ill. Wainaina left the village to visit him, promising to return soon. He left his goat wife and children with hope in their hearts. “I will come back,” he said, and the elders blessed his journey.
When Wainaina arrived in America, he found his brother very weak. To stay longer and help him, Wainaina sought asylum. Time passed. The brother grew strong again. In the first year and the second, Wainaina remembered home. He sent money. He built a better house in the village. He paid school fees. The children walked proudly, and Mama Kabura thanked God and the ancestors.
But after some time, silence entered the house like a thief at night. Wainaina stopped sending support. Calls became arguments. Emails became bitter. Each time Mama Kabura reached out, words returned sharp and heavy. The village began to whisper. “What happened to Wainaina?” they asked. “Did the road swallow him?”
What the village did not know was hidden across the ocean. In the United States, Wainaina had taken another wife. This new wife held the keys to his life. She managed everything. Wainaina had no voice. He lived carefully, like a man walking on thorns. Any disagreement could delay his papers. Without papers, he was not free.
So Wainaina became a man in a soft prison—not of iron bars, but of fear and waiting. He obeyed, he kept quiet, and he hoped. He told himself, “When I get papers, I will go home.” He counted years like beads on a string. One year. Five years. Ten years, if need be.
Back in the village, Mama Kabura raised the children alone. The house still stood, but the laughter was thin. The elders said, “A river that forgets its source will dry.” The children grew, asking questions no one could answer. And the wind kept carrying silence where drums once spoke.
This is the story the elders tell by the fire: that distance can change a man, that silence can wound more than hunger, and that hope, though small, can keep a heart alive. Wainaina still believes he will return. Whether the road will bring him back, only time and the ancestors know.
