The sun was still young when we went to trim the fence. In the ridges of Lari, when the dew still clings to the napier grass and the cows cough softly in their sheds, work begins before stories. I was just a boy then — not yet circumcised, not yet allowed to sit where men sit, not yet trusted with the deep secrets of the village. My hands were small, but they could hold a panga. So I worked beside my grandfather, cutting the kei-apple hedge that guarded our homestead.
The fence had grown wild, like a rumor left untended. As we trimmed, a figure staggered along the dusty path. “Look,” Grandfather said without lifting his head. It was Karuma. Karuma, son of the late Gitonga.
Everyone knew that name once. Gitonga, the bridegroom of money. His granaries were never empty. His goats multiplied like quail. His shambas stretched beyond where a boy could run without panting. When he walked into the market, even the wind seemed to step aside. But that morning, his son passed us smelling of mûratina and broken pride. His shirt hung loose. His slippers slapped the earth carelessly. He did not greet us.
When he disappeared beyond the eucalyptus trees, I spat to the side and said, “Grandfather, how does the son of Gitonga walk like that? Wasn’t his father the richest man in these ridges?” Grandfather stopped trimming. He leaned on his stick and looked at the hills as if they were pages of an old book. “Some said,” he began slowly, “‘Gitonga athire na indo ciake.’ That he went with his wealth.”
I laughed. “How can a man go with cows into the grave?” Grandfather’s eyes sharpened. “Indo cia rûà icokaga o rûÃ.” The wind moved through the hedge. Even the birds became quiet. He told me then what boys are not usually told. He told me how Gitonga built his wealth like a man building a house on stolen stones.
How he took land meant for public facilities and fenced it at night. How he paid his shamba boys coins that could not even buy salt. How bursaries meant for bright village children found their way into the pockets of his own sons. How public resources passed through his hands and shrank before reaching the people.
“He was clever,” Grandfather said. “But cleverness without uprightness is like a gourd with a crack. It carries nothing for long.” When Gitonga died, they buried him in a coffin polished like a mirror. Sweet speeches were made. Cows were slaughtered. Men praised him loudly. But slowly, like mist under the sun, his wealth began to disappear. Court cases rose like termites. Titles were revoked. Business partners demanded their hidden shares. The children fought among themselves. The land that had been grabbed was reclaimed. The money that had been swallowed found its way back through unseen cracks.
And now? Now Karuma walked drunk at sunrise. Now the homestead that once shone with iron roofs coughed dust through broken tiles. Grandfather resumed trimming the fence.
“Listen, mwana wakwa,” he said. “When a man eats alone what belongs to many, his children will vomit it in shame.” I felt the weight of his words heavier than the panga in my hand. That evening, as the sun bled behind the Aberdare ridges, I kept seeing Karuma shrinking into the horizon.
And now I ask you, as my grandfather once asked me; “Will you be like Gitonga one day? Will you gather what is not yours and call it blessing? Will you build your house with the tears of the poor? Or will you remember that indo cia rûà icokaga o rûÃ?” Because the earth has a long memory. And wealth that comes like a thief leaves like smoke.
The fence had grown wild, like a rumor left untended. As we trimmed, a figure staggered along the dusty path. “Look,” Grandfather said without lifting his head. It was Karuma. Karuma, son of the late Gitonga.
Everyone knew that name once. Gitonga, the bridegroom of money. His granaries were never empty. His goats multiplied like quail. His shambas stretched beyond where a boy could run without panting. When he walked into the market, even the wind seemed to step aside. But that morning, his son passed us smelling of mûratina and broken pride. His shirt hung loose. His slippers slapped the earth carelessly. He did not greet us.
When he disappeared beyond the eucalyptus trees, I spat to the side and said, “Grandfather, how does the son of Gitonga walk like that? Wasn’t his father the richest man in these ridges?” Grandfather stopped trimming. He leaned on his stick and looked at the hills as if they were pages of an old book. “Some said,” he began slowly, “‘Gitonga athire na indo ciake.’ That he went with his wealth.”
I laughed. “How can a man go with cows into the grave?” Grandfather’s eyes sharpened. “Indo cia rûà icokaga o rûÃ.” The wind moved through the hedge. Even the birds became quiet. He told me then what boys are not usually told. He told me how Gitonga built his wealth like a man building a house on stolen stones.
How he took land meant for public facilities and fenced it at night. How he paid his shamba boys coins that could not even buy salt. How bursaries meant for bright village children found their way into the pockets of his own sons. How public resources passed through his hands and shrank before reaching the people.
“He was clever,” Grandfather said. “But cleverness without uprightness is like a gourd with a crack. It carries nothing for long.” When Gitonga died, they buried him in a coffin polished like a mirror. Sweet speeches were made. Cows were slaughtered. Men praised him loudly. But slowly, like mist under the sun, his wealth began to disappear. Court cases rose like termites. Titles were revoked. Business partners demanded their hidden shares. The children fought among themselves. The land that had been grabbed was reclaimed. The money that had been swallowed found its way back through unseen cracks.
And now? Now Karuma walked drunk at sunrise. Now the homestead that once shone with iron roofs coughed dust through broken tiles. Grandfather resumed trimming the fence.
“Listen, mwana wakwa,” he said. “When a man eats alone what belongs to many, his children will vomit it in shame.” I felt the weight of his words heavier than the panga in my hand. That evening, as the sun bled behind the Aberdare ridges, I kept seeing Karuma shrinking into the horizon.
And now I ask you, as my grandfather once asked me; “Will you be like Gitonga one day? Will you gather what is not yours and call it blessing? Will you build your house with the tears of the poor? Or will you remember that indo cia rûà icokaga o rûÃ?” Because the earth has a long memory. And wealth that comes like a thief leaves like smoke.
