It was around eleven in the morning. The sun had climbed high enough to warm our backs, but not yet high enough to chase us away from the fields. My friend Mbugua and I had been weeding my grandmother’s maize farm since the rooster’s second crow, around six. The maize plants stood in straight green lines, and the soil was dark and soft beneath our hoes.
We worked the way boys work—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes talking more than digging.
From the path that curved through the farm came the gentle sound of footsteps. When we lifted our heads, we saw my grandmother walking toward us. In her hands she carried a small kinya, calabash, and three cups. “Come, boys,” she called. “You must drink porridge before the sun becomes too proud.”
We sat under the small shade of a mukinduri tree and drank the warm porridge she had brought. It was thick and sweet, and it settled nicely in our stomachs after the long morning of work. Just as we were finishing, something strange happened.
Before we heard any footsteps… before we saw anyone on the path… a smell floated through the air. It was sweet and strong, like flowers after rain.
Mbugua stopped drinking. He raised his upper lip like a ram in flehmen response. I stopped breathing for a moment to feel it. Then we both laughed. “That is Wanjakii,” Mbugua said. “Yes,” I said. “Even the wind knows her.” For in our village, Wanjakii’s perfume always arrived before she did.
Soon enough, she appeared on the path. Her dress was pink bright, her walk was light with increased free pelvic movement, greater vertebral rotation, and a fluid, confident, and slower gait, and her head was held high. She was heading toward the shopping center where she owned a small pub that opened when the sun was still young and closed when the moon was already tired.
She greeted us with a wave as she passed. “Work well, boys!” she said cheerfully. Then she continued down the road, her perfume following her like a stubborn child. For a while the smell stayed in the air, dancing among the maize leaves. Then slowly, like morning mist, it faded.
My grandmother watched the road long after Wanjakii had disappeared. Then she shook her head gently and said in a quiet voice, “Nii ndingirundwo ni ihii.” Mbugua and I did not ask her what she meant. But we understood.
You see, Wanjakii was no young girl. Her children had children of their own. She was already a grandmother. Yet her ways were still like those of a teenager—laughing too easily with boys, walking too lightly toward trouble, letting sweet words carry her wherever they wished.
And in the village, elders always said, "A tree may grow old, but if its roots are shallow,
the wind will still play with it."
So Mbugua and I returned to our weeding, the hoes biting again into the soil, while the sun climbed higher and the story of Wanjakii floated away with the wind.
We worked the way boys work—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes talking more than digging.
From the path that curved through the farm came the gentle sound of footsteps. When we lifted our heads, we saw my grandmother walking toward us. In her hands she carried a small kinya, calabash, and three cups. “Come, boys,” she called. “You must drink porridge before the sun becomes too proud.”
We sat under the small shade of a mukinduri tree and drank the warm porridge she had brought. It was thick and sweet, and it settled nicely in our stomachs after the long morning of work. Just as we were finishing, something strange happened.
Before we heard any footsteps… before we saw anyone on the path… a smell floated through the air. It was sweet and strong, like flowers after rain.
Mbugua stopped drinking. He raised his upper lip like a ram in flehmen response. I stopped breathing for a moment to feel it. Then we both laughed. “That is Wanjakii,” Mbugua said. “Yes,” I said. “Even the wind knows her.” For in our village, Wanjakii’s perfume always arrived before she did.
Soon enough, she appeared on the path. Her dress was pink bright, her walk was light with increased free pelvic movement, greater vertebral rotation, and a fluid, confident, and slower gait, and her head was held high. She was heading toward the shopping center where she owned a small pub that opened when the sun was still young and closed when the moon was already tired.
She greeted us with a wave as she passed. “Work well, boys!” she said cheerfully. Then she continued down the road, her perfume following her like a stubborn child. For a while the smell stayed in the air, dancing among the maize leaves. Then slowly, like morning mist, it faded.
My grandmother watched the road long after Wanjakii had disappeared. Then she shook her head gently and said in a quiet voice, “Nii ndingirundwo ni ihii.” Mbugua and I did not ask her what she meant. But we understood.
You see, Wanjakii was no young girl. Her children had children of their own. She was already a grandmother. Yet her ways were still like those of a teenager—laughing too easily with boys, walking too lightly toward trouble, letting sweet words carry her wherever they wished.
And in the village, elders always said, "A tree may grow old, but if its roots are shallow,
the wind will still play with it."
So Mbugua and I returned to our weeding, the hoes biting again into the soil, while the sun climbed higher and the story of Wanjakii floated away with the wind.
