There was once a man called Mwenda Njeru. Ah! Mwenda Njeru… even his name walked ahead of him. For in our tongue, it spoke of a man who chases what is new, a man whose eyes are never satisfied, a man whose heart does not stay.
Mwenda Njeru loved new things the way a child loves sweet honey. Today it was a fine robe, bright as the feathers of a weaver bird. Tomorrow it was new sandals that sang against the dust of the road. The next day, a hat so wide it could shade a goat. And women… ah, women too were like seasons to him. He never kept anything for long.
When the rains came, he found a wife. When the harvest ended, he had another. By the time the dry wind blew, a new woman sat by his hearth. The village would laugh and say, “Mwenda Njeru does not plant—he only uproots.” And he would laugh with them, shaking his shoulders, proud like a cock at dawn.
But listen carefully, my child… Mwenda Njeru did not know that new things never fail to flood the village market. Every market day, there is always something newer, brighter, sweeter. The man who runs after new things runs a race with no finish.
Seasons passed. The young became old. The strong became slow. But Mwenda Njeru? He did not notice. Age does not knock on the door, my child. It enters like a lion stalking an antelope—quiet, patient, deadly. By the time the antelope hears the grass move… it is already too late. So it was with Mwenda Njeru.
One day, he woke up, and the mirror no longer greeted him with youth. His beard had turned the color of ash. His back had begun to bend like a tired branch. His steps had lost their pride. He was sixty seasons old.
Now he went to the market—not to buy new things—but to look for a wife. But the women turned their eyes away. The young ones whispered and laughed. The widows shook their heads. “Where were you,” they asked, “when your seasons were many? Where were you when homes were being built and children were being raised?” Mwenda Njeru had no answer.
He returned to his homestead—but there was no homestead. No wife was waiting for him. No cows lowed in the kraal. No goats bleated at dusk. No children ran to greet him, calling him father. He was alone.
The people began to call him Gichuki Mwirugiri—one who belongs only to himself. One who stands alone even in the middle of the village. He cooked his own food. He ate in silence. No footsteps came to his gate. No voice called his name in the evening. And when the night grew cold, there was no one to share his fire.
So listen well, my son. A man who chases only what is new builds nothing that lasts. A home is not built in a day, nor a family in a season. The things that endure—love, respect, children, cattle, a name—these are grown, not replaced. Do not be like Mwenda Njeru. For the market will always have something new…But life, my child, does not give back what is wasted.
Mwenda Njeru loved new things the way a child loves sweet honey. Today it was a fine robe, bright as the feathers of a weaver bird. Tomorrow it was new sandals that sang against the dust of the road. The next day, a hat so wide it could shade a goat. And women… ah, women too were like seasons to him. He never kept anything for long.
When the rains came, he found a wife. When the harvest ended, he had another. By the time the dry wind blew, a new woman sat by his hearth. The village would laugh and say, “Mwenda Njeru does not plant—he only uproots.” And he would laugh with them, shaking his shoulders, proud like a cock at dawn.
But listen carefully, my child… Mwenda Njeru did not know that new things never fail to flood the village market. Every market day, there is always something newer, brighter, sweeter. The man who runs after new things runs a race with no finish.
Seasons passed. The young became old. The strong became slow. But Mwenda Njeru? He did not notice. Age does not knock on the door, my child. It enters like a lion stalking an antelope—quiet, patient, deadly. By the time the antelope hears the grass move… it is already too late. So it was with Mwenda Njeru.
One day, he woke up, and the mirror no longer greeted him with youth. His beard had turned the color of ash. His back had begun to bend like a tired branch. His steps had lost their pride. He was sixty seasons old.
Now he went to the market—not to buy new things—but to look for a wife. But the women turned their eyes away. The young ones whispered and laughed. The widows shook their heads. “Where were you,” they asked, “when your seasons were many? Where were you when homes were being built and children were being raised?” Mwenda Njeru had no answer.
He returned to his homestead—but there was no homestead. No wife was waiting for him. No cows lowed in the kraal. No goats bleated at dusk. No children ran to greet him, calling him father. He was alone.
The people began to call him Gichuki Mwirugiri—one who belongs only to himself. One who stands alone even in the middle of the village. He cooked his own food. He ate in silence. No footsteps came to his gate. No voice called his name in the evening. And when the night grew cold, there was no one to share his fire.
So listen well, my son. A man who chases only what is new builds nothing that lasts. A home is not built in a day, nor a family in a season. The things that endure—love, respect, children, cattle, a name—these are grown, not replaced. Do not be like Mwenda Njeru. For the market will always have something new…But life, my child, does not give back what is wasted.
