When I was a young man, strong in limb and proud in stride, I loved a girl called Karura. Ahh… Karura. Her laugh was like the river touching smooth stones. When she walked, even the wind slowed down to listen.
In those days I lived in my thingira—the hut of a young unmarried man, built a little apart from my mother’s house, where boys became men and dreams were whispered to the night.
One evening, as the sun was melting into the hills and the goats were returning home in little clouds of dust, Karura came to see me. We talked as young hearts talk—softly, foolishly, as if tomorrow would always wait for us.
But elders say, “The eyes of the old see farther than the legs of the young can run.” My grandmother saw us. She saw Karura step out of my thingira. She said nothing. Not a word. Only her eyes followed us like a hawk watching chicks.
That evening, she served me my food as always—ugali steaming, sukuma shining with oil. She did not look at me at first. The fire cracked. The night insects began their song.
Then she spoke. “Kairitu kau uma nako nigaguthinja kana nigakuriithia?” My heart trembled like a drumskin before the first beat. I answered, “Nigaguthinja.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. But, my children, words from an elder are never only what they seem.
From that day, I did not speak to Karura again. Not because my grandmother beat me. Not because she shouted. Not because she cursed. No. Because I understood.
To “slaughter” is quick and final. To “rear” is patient and watchful. My grandmother was asking: Are you ready to finish this thing, or are you ready to carry its weight? And I, foolish and proud, had answered without knowing the depth of her question.
Karura was married the next planting season. I watched from afar as songs rose and dust lifted around her new home.
Years passed. My beard grew. My hands hardened. I built my own family.
But sometimes, when evening falls and the firewood snaps like it did that night, I remember Karura stepping out of my thingira, and my grandmother’s steady voice cutting through the dark.
And I tell you this; a young man hears words. An old woman speaks wisdom. If you do not know which you are listening to, you may lose what your heart once held.
One evening, as the sun was melting into the hills and the goats were returning home in little clouds of dust, Karura came to see me. We talked as young hearts talk—softly, foolishly, as if tomorrow would always wait for us.
But elders say, “The eyes of the old see farther than the legs of the young can run.” My grandmother saw us. She saw Karura step out of my thingira. She said nothing. Not a word. Only her eyes followed us like a hawk watching chicks.
That evening, she served me my food as always—ugali steaming, sukuma shining with oil. She did not look at me at first. The fire cracked. The night insects began their song.
Then she spoke. “Kairitu kau uma nako nigaguthinja kana nigakuriithia?” My heart trembled like a drumskin before the first beat. I answered, “Nigaguthinja.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. But, my children, words from an elder are never only what they seem.
From that day, I did not speak to Karura again. Not because my grandmother beat me. Not because she shouted. Not because she cursed. No. Because I understood.
To “slaughter” is quick and final. To “rear” is patient and watchful. My grandmother was asking: Are you ready to finish this thing, or are you ready to carry its weight? And I, foolish and proud, had answered without knowing the depth of her question.
Karura was married the next planting season. I watched from afar as songs rose and dust lifted around her new home.
Years passed. My beard grew. My hands hardened. I built my own family.
But sometimes, when evening falls and the firewood snaps like it did that night, I remember Karura stepping out of my thingira, and my grandmother’s steady voice cutting through the dark.
And I tell you this; a young man hears words. An old woman speaks wisdom. If you do not know which you are listening to, you may lose what your heart once held.
