When the fires burned low in the workers’ camp and the moon sat quietly above the unfinished buildings, old men loved to tell stories of the days of mjengo — the days when young men carried stones on their backs, mixed cement with bare feet, and measured life one Saturday at a time.
Among those workers was a man called Kinuthia. Ah, Kinuthia! Even before the pay reached his hand, everybody already knew what would happen. Every Saturday afternoon, old Gitonga the contractor would arrive with a brown envelope full of wages. One by one the young men lined up, dusty like road travelers after a long drought.
“Kamau!” “Present!” “Seven days… three thousand five hundred.” “Wanjogu!” “Present!” And so it went.
When Kinuthia received his money, he would walk aside like a church elder counting offerings. Carefully he separated one crisp five-hundred shilling note and raised it for everybody to see. “Ici ní cia iraya ríakwa!” he would announce proudly. And the whole site would burst into laughter.
For that five hundred belonged to his side chick — the young woman who sold us lunch every weekday. During the week she brought beans, ugali, cabbage, and sometimes matumbo when fortunes smiled. But on Saturdays she never came to the site. No. She stayed home, bathing twice, oiling her legs, and waiting for Kinuthia like a queen awaiting tribute.
And Kinuthia never failed her. Rain or sun, dust or hunger, that five hundred always found its way to her hands. But if Kinuthia was a river, Nyang’au was a flood. That man feared no skirt on earth.
He loved women the way goats love tender leaves — especially the brown and skinny ones. The moment Gitonga paid us, Nyang’au vanished like smoke chased by wind. Saturday night belonged to Maggie. Sunday belonged to Ann. Before Friday even ended, he had already arranged to visit Mueni.
By Tuesday morning he would return to the site walking slowly like a wounded warrior from war. “Where were you?” we would ask. He would laugh and slap his pockets that held nothing but air. “My brothers,” he would say, “three days’ wages gone like a politician’s promise!”
Then Kinuthia would join him, shaking his head wisely, and together they would say the words everybody on that site knew by heart, “Mbia cia Gitonga itinyitaga guoko.” Gitonga’s money never stayed in the hand.
According to them, the wages were cursed. They said no man could build a future with that money. They said the notes had legs. They said the money disappeared faster than salt in rainwater. And because young men love excuses more than wisdom, many believed them. But not everybody.
There were quiet workers among us — men who did not chase every smiling woman who peeked at the construction site. Men who ate simple supper and slept. Men who sent money home to wives caring for their kids. Men who bought iron sheets one by one. Men who saved coins in hidden tins beneath their beds. While Kinuthia bought perfume and Nyang’au bought pleasure, others bought goats. While Nyang’au wandered from Maggie to Ann to Mueni, others paid school fees for their children.
Years passed. The buildings we constructed grew tall enough to touch clouds. Roads changed. Towns expanded. Hairlines retreated. One day, long after the mjengo days had ended, some of us met again at village gathering. Kinuthia with torn gumboots. Nyang’au came wearing dirty and dilapidated kabuti. But another former worker arrived driving a pickup full of cabbages from his own farm. Another came wearing the uniform of a contractor. Another had built rental rooms in the village.
And when the meeting became warm with memories, somebody reminded Kinuthia of his famous saying. The old men laughed. Even Nyang’au laughed until tears entered his eyes.
Then one quiet worker spoke while stirring tea. “My friends,” he said, “Gitonga’s money was never bewitched. It only followed the owner’s heart.” Silence fell like evening mist.
For truly, money is like water in a calabash. In careless hands it leaks away. But in careful hands it cooks food, raises children, buys land, and plants tomorrow. And that is why elders say, “A fool blames the river for his thirst, yet he carries a leaking pot.”
Among those workers was a man called Kinuthia. Ah, Kinuthia! Even before the pay reached his hand, everybody already knew what would happen. Every Saturday afternoon, old Gitonga the contractor would arrive with a brown envelope full of wages. One by one the young men lined up, dusty like road travelers after a long drought.
“Kamau!” “Present!” “Seven days… three thousand five hundred.” “Wanjogu!” “Present!” And so it went.
When Kinuthia received his money, he would walk aside like a church elder counting offerings. Carefully he separated one crisp five-hundred shilling note and raised it for everybody to see. “Ici ní cia iraya ríakwa!” he would announce proudly. And the whole site would burst into laughter.
For that five hundred belonged to his side chick — the young woman who sold us lunch every weekday. During the week she brought beans, ugali, cabbage, and sometimes matumbo when fortunes smiled. But on Saturdays she never came to the site. No. She stayed home, bathing twice, oiling her legs, and waiting for Kinuthia like a queen awaiting tribute.
And Kinuthia never failed her. Rain or sun, dust or hunger, that five hundred always found its way to her hands. But if Kinuthia was a river, Nyang’au was a flood. That man feared no skirt on earth.
He loved women the way goats love tender leaves — especially the brown and skinny ones. The moment Gitonga paid us, Nyang’au vanished like smoke chased by wind. Saturday night belonged to Maggie. Sunday belonged to Ann. Before Friday even ended, he had already arranged to visit Mueni.
By Tuesday morning he would return to the site walking slowly like a wounded warrior from war. “Where were you?” we would ask. He would laugh and slap his pockets that held nothing but air. “My brothers,” he would say, “three days’ wages gone like a politician’s promise!”
Then Kinuthia would join him, shaking his head wisely, and together they would say the words everybody on that site knew by heart, “Mbia cia Gitonga itinyitaga guoko.” Gitonga’s money never stayed in the hand.
According to them, the wages were cursed. They said no man could build a future with that money. They said the notes had legs. They said the money disappeared faster than salt in rainwater. And because young men love excuses more than wisdom, many believed them. But not everybody.
There were quiet workers among us — men who did not chase every smiling woman who peeked at the construction site. Men who ate simple supper and slept. Men who sent money home to wives caring for their kids. Men who bought iron sheets one by one. Men who saved coins in hidden tins beneath their beds. While Kinuthia bought perfume and Nyang’au bought pleasure, others bought goats. While Nyang’au wandered from Maggie to Ann to Mueni, others paid school fees for their children.
Years passed. The buildings we constructed grew tall enough to touch clouds. Roads changed. Towns expanded. Hairlines retreated. One day, long after the mjengo days had ended, some of us met again at village gathering. Kinuthia with torn gumboots. Nyang’au came wearing dirty and dilapidated kabuti. But another former worker arrived driving a pickup full of cabbages from his own farm. Another came wearing the uniform of a contractor. Another had built rental rooms in the village.
And when the meeting became warm with memories, somebody reminded Kinuthia of his famous saying. The old men laughed. Even Nyang’au laughed until tears entered his eyes.
Then one quiet worker spoke while stirring tea. “My friends,” he said, “Gitonga’s money was never bewitched. It only followed the owner’s heart.” Silence fell like evening mist.
For truly, money is like water in a calabash. In careless hands it leaks away. But in careful hands it cooks food, raises children, buys land, and plants tomorrow. And that is why elders say, “A fool blames the river for his thirst, yet he carries a leaking pot.”
