Long ago, when every homestead had its hearth and every family fire carried the honor of its clan, there lived a young woman called Muthoni. She had been married into a respected family beyond the ridge. Her husband had paid bride wealth according to our traditions and customs, and both families had blessed the union before Mwene Nyaga, the ancestors, and the elders.
One season, disagreements arose between Muthoni and her husband. Like many quarrels between husband and wife, the matter began with small words but grew into heavy silence. One morning, before the sun had woken up, Muthoni gathered her clothes, tied them in a bundle, carried her little child on her back, and returned to her father's homestead.
Her parents welcomed her, for a daughter is never denied shelter by her father's house. Yet they knew that according to Kikuyu customs, she was only a visitor until the elders from her husband's family came to discuss the matter. Nobody could say she had left her marriage forever before the elders sat on njûng'wa and heard both sides.
So Muthoni stayed. The first week became the second. The second became the third. Still, the elders had not yet arrived. Her mother busied herself with household work. Her father spent his days in the fields. But Muthoni found herself with long hours and little to do.
Soon she began visiting other women in the village. Not the elderly women known for wisdom. Not the women who had built peaceful homes. Not the mothers whose daughters admired their marriages. Instead, she found companionship among women whose own marriages had long collapsed.
There was Wangarĩ, who had left her husband fifteen years earlier and had never returned. There was Wanjikũ, who now lived in a rented room at the shopping center and laughed whenever marriage was mentioned. There was Nyambura, who had become so comfortable in her father's home that her brothers had already divided a portion of the family land to her. There was Wairimũ, whom children no longer called "wife" but simply "daughter of old Mûthee Karanja," though her hair had begun turning gray. There was another whose name people mentioned only in whispers because wherever quarrels arose between husbands and wives, she was somehow never far away.
Every afternoon these women gathered in their houses. They roasted maize. They shared stories. They laughed loudly. Whenever one spoke against husbands, the others clapped in agreement. "If a man cannot satisfy you," one would say, "leave him." "Marriage is slavery," another would add. "Why return? Freedom is sweeter." "If your husband wants you, let him come crawling."
Day after day Muthoni listened. Slowly their words entered her heart. The hope of reconciliation began fading. The thought of returning home became shameful. Instead of asking, "How can peace return?" she began asking, "Why should I go back?"
One evening, as the cows returned raising dust along the footpaths, my grandmother sat outside her kitchen adding firewood to the three cooking stones. She had watched Muthoni for many days. She knew every woman who visited that gathering. She sighed deeply and said, "Ûyû ndoí mwaki ûhoyagwo kûrĩa kũrĩ."
Then she looked at us children and explained. "When your cooking fire goes out, you do not borrow fire from a cold hearth." "You walk to the neighbor whose fire is still burning." "If you borrow from ashes, you return with ashes." "If you borrow from smoke, your house fills with smoke." "But if you borrow from burning fire, your own hearth burns again."
She pointed toward the path where Muthoni had disappeared with her companions. "A woman whose marriage is troubled should seek counsel from women whose homes have endured storms." "She should sit with mothers who know forgiveness." "She should learn from wives who have cried, prayed, forgiven, and rebuilt." "But if she chooses advisers whose own homes became ruins, they will teach her how to live among ruins."
My grandmother added another proverb. "A wise leader does not begin a war with people who enjoy fighting." Likewise, she said, a troubled wife should never seek advice from those who celebrate broken homes.
Months later the elders from Muthoni's husband's family finally came. They brought elders carrying walking sticks and words of peace. The matter was discussed according to our customs. Mistakes were admitted. Forgiveness was offered. But Muthoni's heart had already changed. The voices she had listened to had become stronger than the voices of the elders. She refused every proposal. The marriage ended.
Years passed. Her husband remarried. Children filled his compound. Meanwhile Muthoni remained in her father's home. When her parents died, life became difficult. Her brothers inherited the larger portion of the land. She received only a small share. Sometimes she remembered the days when reconciliation had still been possible. She remembered the women she used to walk with. One had died lonely. Another still rented a tiny room. Another quarreled daily with her brothers over family land. Another wandered from village to village. None had rebuilt a home.
One season, disagreements arose between Muthoni and her husband. Like many quarrels between husband and wife, the matter began with small words but grew into heavy silence. One morning, before the sun had woken up, Muthoni gathered her clothes, tied them in a bundle, carried her little child on her back, and returned to her father's homestead.
Her parents welcomed her, for a daughter is never denied shelter by her father's house. Yet they knew that according to Kikuyu customs, she was only a visitor until the elders from her husband's family came to discuss the matter. Nobody could say she had left her marriage forever before the elders sat on njûng'wa and heard both sides.
So Muthoni stayed. The first week became the second. The second became the third. Still, the elders had not yet arrived. Her mother busied herself with household work. Her father spent his days in the fields. But Muthoni found herself with long hours and little to do.
Soon she began visiting other women in the village. Not the elderly women known for wisdom. Not the women who had built peaceful homes. Not the mothers whose daughters admired their marriages. Instead, she found companionship among women whose own marriages had long collapsed.
There was Wangarĩ, who had left her husband fifteen years earlier and had never returned. There was Wanjikũ, who now lived in a rented room at the shopping center and laughed whenever marriage was mentioned. There was Nyambura, who had become so comfortable in her father's home that her brothers had already divided a portion of the family land to her. There was Wairimũ, whom children no longer called "wife" but simply "daughter of old Mûthee Karanja," though her hair had begun turning gray. There was another whose name people mentioned only in whispers because wherever quarrels arose between husbands and wives, she was somehow never far away.
Every afternoon these women gathered in their houses. They roasted maize. They shared stories. They laughed loudly. Whenever one spoke against husbands, the others clapped in agreement. "If a man cannot satisfy you," one would say, "leave him." "Marriage is slavery," another would add. "Why return? Freedom is sweeter." "If your husband wants you, let him come crawling."
Day after day Muthoni listened. Slowly their words entered her heart. The hope of reconciliation began fading. The thought of returning home became shameful. Instead of asking, "How can peace return?" she began asking, "Why should I go back?"
One evening, as the cows returned raising dust along the footpaths, my grandmother sat outside her kitchen adding firewood to the three cooking stones. She had watched Muthoni for many days. She knew every woman who visited that gathering. She sighed deeply and said, "Ûyû ndoí mwaki ûhoyagwo kûrĩa kũrĩ."
Then she looked at us children and explained. "When your cooking fire goes out, you do not borrow fire from a cold hearth." "You walk to the neighbor whose fire is still burning." "If you borrow from ashes, you return with ashes." "If you borrow from smoke, your house fills with smoke." "But if you borrow from burning fire, your own hearth burns again."
She pointed toward the path where Muthoni had disappeared with her companions. "A woman whose marriage is troubled should seek counsel from women whose homes have endured storms." "She should sit with mothers who know forgiveness." "She should learn from wives who have cried, prayed, forgiven, and rebuilt." "But if she chooses advisers whose own homes became ruins, they will teach her how to live among ruins."
My grandmother added another proverb. "A wise leader does not begin a war with people who enjoy fighting." Likewise, she said, a troubled wife should never seek advice from those who celebrate broken homes.
Months later the elders from Muthoni's husband's family finally came. They brought elders carrying walking sticks and words of peace. The matter was discussed according to our customs. Mistakes were admitted. Forgiveness was offered. But Muthoni's heart had already changed. The voices she had listened to had become stronger than the voices of the elders. She refused every proposal. The marriage ended.
Years passed. Her husband remarried. Children filled his compound. Meanwhile Muthoni remained in her father's home. When her parents died, life became difficult. Her brothers inherited the larger portion of the land. She received only a small share. Sometimes she remembered the days when reconciliation had still been possible. She remembered the women she used to walk with. One had died lonely. Another still rented a tiny room. Another quarreled daily with her brothers over family land. Another wandered from village to village. None had rebuilt a home.
Then Muthoni finally understood my grandmother's words. Indeed, one borrows fire only where fire still burns. When life is broken, be careful whom you choose as your counselors. Those who have overcome trials can help rebuild your life. Those who have surrendered to failure often teach others to remain where they themselves have fallen.
As my people say, "Mwaki ûhoyagwo kûrĩa kũrĩ." "A wise person knows that fire is borrowed only from a place where there is already fire."
As my people say, "Mwaki ûhoyagwo kûrĩa kũrĩ." "A wise person knows that fire is borrowed only from a place where there is already fire."
