Long before your footsteps began to mark the earth, before even mine, there lived my grandmother, a woman born in Kabete. Ah, Kabete! A place spoken of with both pride and laughter. For it is said among our people, “niacune maitho ni mbaka”—that the daughters of Kabete are never shy, their eyes never lowered, their voices never hidden.
People would chuckle when they said it. Some meant it as praise, others as a warning. But my grandmother, she carried that saying differently in her heart.
She would sit on a three-legged stool in the evening, her back straight like the trunk of a mukuyu tree, and say to us, “Children, listen well. The world will teach you to hide your truth, to lower your voice, to pretend. But remember this—kirira ni uura thoni. If you have something important to say, do not be coy. Speak it. Let your words walk boldly like a warrior.”
Then she would lean forward, her eyes sharp, and speak the words that settled deep into our bones, “A young man ukunyaga mbaki ya aka ene ona wake no agakunyirwo wake… and a young girl ukunyithagia arume ene mbaki ona wake no agakunyithio.”
We did not fully understand then. We were children, chasing goats and laughter, thinking the world was as simple as the path to the river. But time… ah, time is a patient teacher. As the seasons turned and we grew, we began to see what she meant.
We saw young men who reached for what was not theirs, laughing in the daylight, only to weep in the darkness when their own homes broke apart. We saw young women who played with the hearts of others, thinking it was a game, only to cry when their own love was taken from them. We saw marriages shaken like dry leaves in the wind. We heard whispers in the market, tears behind closed doors, and regrets that no apology could fully wash away.
People would chuckle when they said it. Some meant it as praise, others as a warning. But my grandmother, she carried that saying differently in her heart.
She would sit on a three-legged stool in the evening, her back straight like the trunk of a mukuyu tree, and say to us, “Children, listen well. The world will teach you to hide your truth, to lower your voice, to pretend. But remember this—kirira ni uura thoni. If you have something important to say, do not be coy. Speak it. Let your words walk boldly like a warrior.”
Then she would lean forward, her eyes sharp, and speak the words that settled deep into our bones, “A young man ukunyaga mbaki ya aka ene ona wake no agakunyirwo wake… and a young girl ukunyithagia arume ene mbaki ona wake no agakunyithio.”
We did not fully understand then. We were children, chasing goats and laughter, thinking the world was as simple as the path to the river. But time… ah, time is a patient teacher. As the seasons turned and we grew, we began to see what she meant.
We saw young men who reached for what was not theirs, laughing in the daylight, only to weep in the darkness when their own homes broke apart. We saw young women who played with the hearts of others, thinking it was a game, only to cry when their own love was taken from them. We saw marriages shaken like dry leaves in the wind. We heard whispers in the market, tears behind closed doors, and regrets that no apology could fully wash away.
And then, like the echo of a drum across the hills, our grandmother’s words would return to us. What you do to others will find its way back to you. Not because the world is cruel—but because it remembers.
My child, my grandmother of Kabete was not unashamed as people said. No. She was brave. Brave enough to speak truth when others hid behind silence. Brave enough to teach us that honesty is not loudness, but courage. And today, as I remember her words, I know they are true.
For the river you poison upstream will be the same one you drink from downstream. So walk carefully. Speak truthfully. Love faithfully.
My child, my grandmother of Kabete was not unashamed as people said. No. She was brave. Brave enough to speak truth when others hid behind silence. Brave enough to teach us that honesty is not loudness, but courage. And today, as I remember her words, I know they are true.
For the river you poison upstream will be the same one you drink from downstream. So walk carefully. Speak truthfully. Love faithfully.
And when you have something important to say—do not hide it. For even now, if you listen closely, you will hear her voice carried by the wind of Kabete, reminding us all.
