I was sitting outside my grandmother’s mud house with her, on a small three-legged stool that wobbled if you leaned too much. The sun was going down slowly, like an old man who knows the road and is in no hurry. The walls of the house were the color of the earth itself, cracked in some places, smooth in others, just like my grandmother’s hands.
My grandmother was an old woman who had seen so much. Her eyes were cloudy, but they saw far. They saw yesterday, and they saw tomorrow. When she spoke, she did not rush her words. She allowed them to walk.
Beside us lay her dog, stretched out on the ground, its head resting on its paws. It looked harmless—thin, quiet, almost sleepy. It did not bark. It did not disturb anyone. You would look at it and think, this one cannot even chase a chicken.
My grandmother looked at the dog for a long time. Then she turned to me and said,
“My child, do you see this dog?” “Yes, grandmother,” I said. “It looks very innocent,” she continued. “But one day you might hear someone from Kijabe saying this dog ate his maize during the night.”
I laughed, the way children laugh when they think elders are joking. Kijabe was far. Even the strong men did not walk there at night. My grandmother did not laugh.
“My child,” she said, “when you hear that story, believe that person. This dog is capable of walking from here to Kijabe at night. Before the cock crows in the morning, it will be back here, lying on this same ground. No one will know it left. No one will know it returned—except the person who saw it with his own eyes.” I looked again at the dog. It did not move. It only blinked slowly.
My grandmother leaned closer and lowered her voice, the way elders do when truth is about to enter your bones. “Not everything dangerous looks dangerous,” she said. “And not every journey leaves footprints.”
Time passed. My grandmother went the way of all elders. The mud house collapsed. The dog died and was forgotten. I grew up.
Then one day, I began to read stories. Stories of men who vanished without a trace. Stories of women who went out smiling and never returned. People asked questions, but there were no answers. No one knew where they went. No one knew who they were with. No one knew which path they took. Everything about them was blank.
That is when my grandmother’s voice returned to me. "This dog is capable of walking at night and coming back before morning." I understood then that my grandmother was not only talking about a dog.
Some people are like that dog. They walk in the night of other people’s lives. They move quietly. They leave no witnesses. In the morning, they return to their normal places—workplaces, homes, conversations—clean and untouched. And when questions are asked, there is silence.
And some people are also like that dog in another way. They leave without telling anyone. They walk alone into the dark, trusting that nothing will happen because nothing has happened before.
That is why, in my memory, my grandmother spoke again and said, “My child, never be like the dog that walks at night without anyone’s knowledge. If you must go, let someone know where you are going. Let someone know who you are with. Even if you trust them. Even if you have known them for years.”
She paused, as elders do, to let fear do its work. “Because when something happens,” she said, “your people will not know where to start looking. And some journeys, my child, do not allow a return.”
So today I tell you this story, the way it was told to me. Not to frighten you, but to protect you. The night is clever. People are cleverer. And silence is the friend of danger. Before you go out, speak. Before you meet, tell someone. Do not disappear like a dog that walks in the night. Because some stories are never finished, and some bodies are never found.
My grandmother was an old woman who had seen so much. Her eyes were cloudy, but they saw far. They saw yesterday, and they saw tomorrow. When she spoke, she did not rush her words. She allowed them to walk.
Beside us lay her dog, stretched out on the ground, its head resting on its paws. It looked harmless—thin, quiet, almost sleepy. It did not bark. It did not disturb anyone. You would look at it and think, this one cannot even chase a chicken.
My grandmother looked at the dog for a long time. Then she turned to me and said,
“My child, do you see this dog?” “Yes, grandmother,” I said. “It looks very innocent,” she continued. “But one day you might hear someone from Kijabe saying this dog ate his maize during the night.”
I laughed, the way children laugh when they think elders are joking. Kijabe was far. Even the strong men did not walk there at night. My grandmother did not laugh.
“My child,” she said, “when you hear that story, believe that person. This dog is capable of walking from here to Kijabe at night. Before the cock crows in the morning, it will be back here, lying on this same ground. No one will know it left. No one will know it returned—except the person who saw it with his own eyes.” I looked again at the dog. It did not move. It only blinked slowly.
My grandmother leaned closer and lowered her voice, the way elders do when truth is about to enter your bones. “Not everything dangerous looks dangerous,” she said. “And not every journey leaves footprints.”
Time passed. My grandmother went the way of all elders. The mud house collapsed. The dog died and was forgotten. I grew up.
Then one day, I began to read stories. Stories of men who vanished without a trace. Stories of women who went out smiling and never returned. People asked questions, but there were no answers. No one knew where they went. No one knew who they were with. No one knew which path they took. Everything about them was blank.
That is when my grandmother’s voice returned to me. "This dog is capable of walking at night and coming back before morning." I understood then that my grandmother was not only talking about a dog.
Some people are like that dog. They walk in the night of other people’s lives. They move quietly. They leave no witnesses. In the morning, they return to their normal places—workplaces, homes, conversations—clean and untouched. And when questions are asked, there is silence.
And some people are also like that dog in another way. They leave without telling anyone. They walk alone into the dark, trusting that nothing will happen because nothing has happened before.
That is why, in my memory, my grandmother spoke again and said, “My child, never be like the dog that walks at night without anyone’s knowledge. If you must go, let someone know where you are going. Let someone know who you are with. Even if you trust them. Even if you have known them for years.”
She paused, as elders do, to let fear do its work. “Because when something happens,” she said, “your people will not know where to start looking. And some journeys, my child, do not allow a return.”
So today I tell you this story, the way it was told to me. Not to frighten you, but to protect you. The night is clever. People are cleverer. And silence is the friend of danger. Before you go out, speak. Before you meet, tell someone. Do not disappear like a dog that walks in the night. Because some stories are never finished, and some bodies are never found.
