There once was an old man by the name Watamu who sat beside the road at the edge of the village shops. His back was bent, his hair as white as ash, and his hands carried the marks of many seasons. Every evening, young people would pass by him, laughing, running, chasing life as if it would never end.
One day, the old man called out to them. “Come here, my children,” he said. “Let me speak to you while your ears are still young enough to hear.” Some laughed. Some hesitated. But a few came and sat before him.
The old man looked at them for a long moment and then said, “I was once like you.” The young people smiled. One of them said, “Baba, it is hard to imagine you running like us.”
The old man chuckled softly. “Yes,” he said, “I cannot be young again. But you—one day—you will all be like me.” The laughter faded.
The old man picked up a dry stick from the ground and held it up. “When this branch was young,” he said, “it could be bent, shaped, and carved into something strong—a rungu fit for a warrior. But now…” he snapped it easily, “…it breaks without purpose.”
He looked into their eyes. “My life became what it is because of the choices I made when I was still soft like that young branch.” “There was a time,” the old man continued, “when I thought life was long and forgiving. I chased pleasure. I followed friends who had no direction. I ignored the quiet voice that told me to build, to prepare, to discipline myself.” “At first, nothing happened. Life was sweet. I felt free.” He paused, his voice growing heavier. “But life keeps records, my children. It does not forget.”
“As the seasons passed, the things I chose began to follow me. Opportunities passed me by. Responsibilities found me unprepared. The life I had built with careless hands began to stand before me like a stone wall I could not climb.” The young people leaned closer. “Some of my age-mates,” he continued, “had chosen differently. While I was playing, they were planting. While I was wasting, they were building. And when the dry season came…” He looked down. “…they had shade. I had none.”
One of the young boys asked quietly, “Baba, can a man not change later?” The old man nodded slowly. “He can change,” he said, “but it is harder. Much harder. The tree that grows crooked in its youth does not easily become straight in old age.”
He pointed toward the road where other youths were passing, loud and careless. “Some of you think you can live any way you want now and fix things later. You chase pleasure, thinking it will always be there for you.” He shook his head. “That road is wide at the beginning… but it becomes narrow and ends suddenly.” “You will not always have the strength. You will not always have the money. You will not always have the chances you have today.”
“And hear this,” the old man added, his voice firm now, “you attract what you become.” “If you spend your youth carelessly, you will be surrounded by those who do the same. And when trouble comes—and it will come—you will look around for help…” He spread his hands. “…but you will only find mirrors of yourself.”
The old man leaned forward. “My people say Njũgũma njega yumaga ikũriro.” The young ones repeated it softly. “It means,” he explained, “a good rungu is shaped while the wood is still young and tender. When it becomes old and hard, it is difficult to shape.” Silence fell.
The sun was setting now, painting the sky in deep orange and gold. The old man’s voice softened. “My children, your lives are still in your hands. You are still soft enough to be shaped. Choose your path wisely. Build something strong. Organize your life now.” “Because one day…” He looked far into the distance. “…you will sit where I sit.” “And on that day, your life will answer for the choices you are making now.”
The young people rose slowly, no longer laughing as before. And as they walked away, each one carried something unseen— a question. A warning. And a choice.
One day, the old man called out to them. “Come here, my children,” he said. “Let me speak to you while your ears are still young enough to hear.” Some laughed. Some hesitated. But a few came and sat before him.
The old man looked at them for a long moment and then said, “I was once like you.” The young people smiled. One of them said, “Baba, it is hard to imagine you running like us.”
The old man chuckled softly. “Yes,” he said, “I cannot be young again. But you—one day—you will all be like me.” The laughter faded.
The old man picked up a dry stick from the ground and held it up. “When this branch was young,” he said, “it could be bent, shaped, and carved into something strong—a rungu fit for a warrior. But now…” he snapped it easily, “…it breaks without purpose.”
He looked into their eyes. “My life became what it is because of the choices I made when I was still soft like that young branch.” “There was a time,” the old man continued, “when I thought life was long and forgiving. I chased pleasure. I followed friends who had no direction. I ignored the quiet voice that told me to build, to prepare, to discipline myself.” “At first, nothing happened. Life was sweet. I felt free.” He paused, his voice growing heavier. “But life keeps records, my children. It does not forget.”
“As the seasons passed, the things I chose began to follow me. Opportunities passed me by. Responsibilities found me unprepared. The life I had built with careless hands began to stand before me like a stone wall I could not climb.” The young people leaned closer. “Some of my age-mates,” he continued, “had chosen differently. While I was playing, they were planting. While I was wasting, they were building. And when the dry season came…” He looked down. “…they had shade. I had none.”
One of the young boys asked quietly, “Baba, can a man not change later?” The old man nodded slowly. “He can change,” he said, “but it is harder. Much harder. The tree that grows crooked in its youth does not easily become straight in old age.”
He pointed toward the road where other youths were passing, loud and careless. “Some of you think you can live any way you want now and fix things later. You chase pleasure, thinking it will always be there for you.” He shook his head. “That road is wide at the beginning… but it becomes narrow and ends suddenly.” “You will not always have the strength. You will not always have the money. You will not always have the chances you have today.”
“And hear this,” the old man added, his voice firm now, “you attract what you become.” “If you spend your youth carelessly, you will be surrounded by those who do the same. And when trouble comes—and it will come—you will look around for help…” He spread his hands. “…but you will only find mirrors of yourself.”
The old man leaned forward. “My people say Njũgũma njega yumaga ikũriro.” The young ones repeated it softly. “It means,” he explained, “a good rungu is shaped while the wood is still young and tender. When it becomes old and hard, it is difficult to shape.” Silence fell.
The sun was setting now, painting the sky in deep orange and gold. The old man’s voice softened. “My children, your lives are still in your hands. You are still soft enough to be shaped. Choose your path wisely. Build something strong. Organize your life now.” “Because one day…” He looked far into the distance. “…you will sit where I sit.” “And on that day, your life will answer for the choices you are making now.”
The young people rose slowly, no longer laughing as before. And as they walked away, each one carried something unseen— a question. A warning. And a choice.
