In the days when the paths between homes were made by feet and not by cars, there lived an old man called Gatambia. He was my grandmother’s brother. The two of them were already old when I knew them—very old, like trees that had stood through many seasons.
My grandmother was past ninety years. Gatambia was about eighty. Yet the path between their homes was always alive with their footsteps.
For a young man, that path was only a thirty-minute walk. But for two elders whose backs had begun to bend like ripening millet, the journey took more than an hour. Still, they walked it.
Sometimes Gatambia came to our home. Sometimes my grandmother went to his. And sometimes, I walked with her.
The path wound along a forest, past grazing goats and the laughter of children. My grandmother walked slowly, leaning on her stick, greeting every person we met along the road. When we finally reached Gatambia’s home, it never felt like we had arrived somewhere strange.
His home was like our home. I knew his children. I knew his grandchildren. And whenever I entered his compound, no one asked me who I was. I belonged there. But the greatest treasure in Gatambia’s home was not the goats in the pen or the maize in the granary. It was the stories.
Gatambia would sit with us and begin speaking in that deep, playful voice that made every word feel like a drumbeat.
One day he looked at me and said with a comical smile, “Ungirega guthika Wangui wa maitu ni nii ingimuthika.” Then he laughed looking at Mt Longonot. It meant; if you fail to bury my sister, I will bury her myself. Everyone laughed, because no one could fully understand what he meant. He was a comedian in way.
My grandmother was past ninety years. Gatambia was about eighty. Yet the path between their homes was always alive with their footsteps.
For a young man, that path was only a thirty-minute walk. But for two elders whose backs had begun to bend like ripening millet, the journey took more than an hour. Still, they walked it.
Sometimes Gatambia came to our home. Sometimes my grandmother went to his. And sometimes, I walked with her.
The path wound along a forest, past grazing goats and the laughter of children. My grandmother walked slowly, leaning on her stick, greeting every person we met along the road. When we finally reached Gatambia’s home, it never felt like we had arrived somewhere strange.
His home was like our home. I knew his children. I knew his grandchildren. And whenever I entered his compound, no one asked me who I was. I belonged there. But the greatest treasure in Gatambia’s home was not the goats in the pen or the maize in the granary. It was the stories.
Gatambia would sit with us and begin speaking in that deep, playful voice that made every word feel like a drumbeat.
One day he looked at me and said with a comical smile, “Ungirega guthika Wangui wa maitu ni nii ingimuthika.” Then he laughed looking at Mt Longonot. It meant; if you fail to bury my sister, I will bury her myself. Everyone laughed, because no one could fully understand what he meant. He was a comedian in way.
He was not talking about digging the grave—though he could dig one if he wanted to. He continued, his eyes shining with humor, “Ingienja irima ndimuthike ndi wiki. Ungimurikirwo ni ngari ya gukua mwiri nginya ndikie.” And then he laughed even louder.
What he meant was this; even if I must dig the grave myself, I will do it. And if darkness finds me still digging, the lights of the hearse will shine for me until I finish. We all laughed until our stomachs hurt. Now, you can imagine an 80 yrs plus digging a grave. But beneath the laughter was a truth deeper than the grave itself.
What Gatambia meant was simple; even if no one else stood for his sister, he would stand for her.
Years later I remembered his words when a young man in our community died. The young man had no wife. His parents were already gone. The only person he had left was his brother. And that brother carried everything.
He organized the burial. He welcomed the mourners. He stood beside the grave. As I watched him, I thought about Gatambia’s words. I began to see something many people forget.
There are men and women walking through this world who, when trouble comes, will have only their brothers and sisters to stand for them. Not friends. Not crowds. Not strangers. Just family.
And so I ask you, the way elders ask questions at the end of a story; if the only people who will come to your rescue are your brothers and sisters…Do you mind your behavior toward them today?
What he meant was this; even if I must dig the grave myself, I will do it. And if darkness finds me still digging, the lights of the hearse will shine for me until I finish. We all laughed until our stomachs hurt. Now, you can imagine an 80 yrs plus digging a grave. But beneath the laughter was a truth deeper than the grave itself.
What Gatambia meant was simple; even if no one else stood for his sister, he would stand for her.
Years later I remembered his words when a young man in our community died. The young man had no wife. His parents were already gone. The only person he had left was his brother. And that brother carried everything.
He organized the burial. He welcomed the mourners. He stood beside the grave. As I watched him, I thought about Gatambia’s words. I began to see something many people forget.
There are men and women walking through this world who, when trouble comes, will have only their brothers and sisters to stand for them. Not friends. Not crowds. Not strangers. Just family.
And so I ask you, the way elders ask questions at the end of a story; if the only people who will come to your rescue are your brothers and sisters…Do you mind your behavior toward them today?
