Come closer, children of the hearth. Let the fire burn gently and let the cold remain outside. Pull your stools closer and listen carefully, for some stories wear one face while carrying another. Some words mean exactly what they say, and others carry wisdom hidden beneath them like potatoes beneath the soil. The elders say, "A wise person hears two conversations when only one is spoken." Listen carefully.
It was the month of July. Now those who know Limuru know that July is not merely a month. July is a season. A season of cold. A season of fog. A season when the hills disappear and the world seems wrapped in a gray blanket. The mornings arrive slowly. The sun struggles to find its way through the mist. The wind moves through the valleys carrying a coldness that settles into bones. Children avoid unnecessary journeys. Dogs curl themselves tightly. Even the birds seem reluctant to leave their nests. The elders say, "When July arrives in Limuru, even the stones wish for a blanket."
In those days, the best place to be was rûgito-iní. Close to the mud house wall. Close to the warmth. Close to the place where life felt safe. Mud houses were different from modern houses. Their walls breathed. They held heat. They protected people from the cold the way a mother shields a sleeping child from the night air.
And so, on that particular day, I sat rûgito-iní of my grandmother's house. The fog still hung stubbornly across the ridges. The cold still ruled the morning. I was enjoying the warmth and the comfort of being near home. Inside the house, my grandmother was talking with my aunt. My aunt had arrived that very morning. The moment she entered the compound, something felt different. Children notice things. Not always accurately. But often enough. Her greetings were brief. Her smile was missing. Her footsteps were heavy. And her voice carried the sharp edges of someone carrying a burden.
The elders say, "The mouth speaks differently when the heart is carrying stones." From where I sat, I could hear their conversation. Not every word. But enough. Now, children are always told not to listen to adult conversations. Yet children possess ears that seem to grow larger whenever adults lower their voices. I was no different. My aunt spoke quickly. Very quickly. The words poured out of her like water escaping a broken pot.
My grandmother listened. Patiently. Quietly. As grandmothers often do. Then, after some time, she asked a question. A simple question. At least that is what I thought then. She asked, "Is he eating?" My aunt answered immediately. "Not in the last two weeks." The atmosphere changed. Even from outside, I could feel it.
My grandmother became serious. Very serious. The kind of serious that makes even the walls listen. She said, "This matter is serious." "You should have spoken within three days." "Why did you wait for two weeks?" Then she shook her head. "I do not know how we shall handle it now." Silence followed. Heavy silence. The kind of silence that settles after important words have been spoken. Nobody spoke again for a long time. Inside the house, silence sat with them. Outside, curiosity sat with me. I could not understand. Who had not been eating? Why was it serious? Why would waiting two weeks make matters worse? The questions followed me throughout the day.
That evening my grandmother called me. She gave me a simple assignment. She wanted me to visit my uncle's home. "Tell him to come here tomorrow morning," she said. I obeyed. For children in those days carried messages the way telephones carry them now. The path to my uncle's home wound through fields and across footpaths familiar to my feet. When I arrived, I found him cheerful. Laughing. Relaxed. Completely unaware of the mystery occupying my mind. He welcomed me warmly. Asked about my grandmother. Asked about home.
Then insisted I stay overnight. Supper was prepared by Kabura, his eldest daughter. The food was plentiful. We ate until our stomachs were satisfied. Then we sat talking before preparing for sleep. As I lay on my bed that night, staring into darkness, my thoughts returned to my grandmother's question. "Is he eating?" Who was not eating? And why did it matter so much? The elders say, "A child's curiosity travels farther than his feet."
Years passed. I grew older. Life taught me things childhood could not understand. And one day, the meaning of that conversation finally revealed itself. My grandmother had not been speaking about food. Not maize. Not potatoes. Not beans. Not ugali. Not supper. She had been speaking about marriage. About responsibility. About neglect. The "food" she referred to was my aunt herself. The conversation was about intimacy. About companionship. About a husband who had stopped fulfilling his responsibilities within marriage. My aunt's pain had become so heavy that she had returned to her mother's home seeking wisdom, intervention, and help.
Suddenly everything made sense. The seriousness. The urgency. The silence. The concern. The elders say, "Adult conversations often arrive disguised as ordinary words." My grandmother understood something important. Marriage cannot survive on roofs and walls alone. It cannot survive on money alone. It cannot survive on food alone. People need attention. People need affection. People need companionship. People need to know they are valued. Neglect has a way of creating hunger that no kitchen can satisfy.
And so, years later, I came to appreciate the wisdom hidden in that simple question: "Is he eating?" Today, the world has changed. People speak openly about things that previous generations discussed carefully. Yet the questions remain. Are people caring for one another? Are relationships being nurtured? Are spouses remembering one another? Are hearts being fed as well as stomachs? The elders say, "A neglected field and a neglected relationship produce the same harvest: weeds."
And now, as every storyteller must, I turn toward you. I ask a question with more than one meaning. A question that may make you smile. A question that may make you think. A question that carries both laughter and wisdom. Have you been eating? Or have you been eaten? For there are people who consume life without giving anything back. There are people who receive attention without offering it. There are people who harvest affection without planting any. And there are others who are slowly consumed by loneliness, neglect, disappointment, or waiting.
As you think about love, companionship, and the people who matter in your life, remember this: relationships, like fields, must be tended. Affection, like crops, must be cultivated. And companionship, like fire, must be fed if it is to keep burning. For hunger comes in many forms. Some hunger lives in the stomach. Other hunger lives in the heart. That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
It was the month of July. Now those who know Limuru know that July is not merely a month. July is a season. A season of cold. A season of fog. A season when the hills disappear and the world seems wrapped in a gray blanket. The mornings arrive slowly. The sun struggles to find its way through the mist. The wind moves through the valleys carrying a coldness that settles into bones. Children avoid unnecessary journeys. Dogs curl themselves tightly. Even the birds seem reluctant to leave their nests. The elders say, "When July arrives in Limuru, even the stones wish for a blanket."
In those days, the best place to be was rûgito-iní. Close to the mud house wall. Close to the warmth. Close to the place where life felt safe. Mud houses were different from modern houses. Their walls breathed. They held heat. They protected people from the cold the way a mother shields a sleeping child from the night air.
And so, on that particular day, I sat rûgito-iní of my grandmother's house. The fog still hung stubbornly across the ridges. The cold still ruled the morning. I was enjoying the warmth and the comfort of being near home. Inside the house, my grandmother was talking with my aunt. My aunt had arrived that very morning. The moment she entered the compound, something felt different. Children notice things. Not always accurately. But often enough. Her greetings were brief. Her smile was missing. Her footsteps were heavy. And her voice carried the sharp edges of someone carrying a burden.
The elders say, "The mouth speaks differently when the heart is carrying stones." From where I sat, I could hear their conversation. Not every word. But enough. Now, children are always told not to listen to adult conversations. Yet children possess ears that seem to grow larger whenever adults lower their voices. I was no different. My aunt spoke quickly. Very quickly. The words poured out of her like water escaping a broken pot.
My grandmother listened. Patiently. Quietly. As grandmothers often do. Then, after some time, she asked a question. A simple question. At least that is what I thought then. She asked, "Is he eating?" My aunt answered immediately. "Not in the last two weeks." The atmosphere changed. Even from outside, I could feel it.
My grandmother became serious. Very serious. The kind of serious that makes even the walls listen. She said, "This matter is serious." "You should have spoken within three days." "Why did you wait for two weeks?" Then she shook her head. "I do not know how we shall handle it now." Silence followed. Heavy silence. The kind of silence that settles after important words have been spoken. Nobody spoke again for a long time. Inside the house, silence sat with them. Outside, curiosity sat with me. I could not understand. Who had not been eating? Why was it serious? Why would waiting two weeks make matters worse? The questions followed me throughout the day.
That evening my grandmother called me. She gave me a simple assignment. She wanted me to visit my uncle's home. "Tell him to come here tomorrow morning," she said. I obeyed. For children in those days carried messages the way telephones carry them now. The path to my uncle's home wound through fields and across footpaths familiar to my feet. When I arrived, I found him cheerful. Laughing. Relaxed. Completely unaware of the mystery occupying my mind. He welcomed me warmly. Asked about my grandmother. Asked about home.
Then insisted I stay overnight. Supper was prepared by Kabura, his eldest daughter. The food was plentiful. We ate until our stomachs were satisfied. Then we sat talking before preparing for sleep. As I lay on my bed that night, staring into darkness, my thoughts returned to my grandmother's question. "Is he eating?" Who was not eating? And why did it matter so much? The elders say, "A child's curiosity travels farther than his feet."
Years passed. I grew older. Life taught me things childhood could not understand. And one day, the meaning of that conversation finally revealed itself. My grandmother had not been speaking about food. Not maize. Not potatoes. Not beans. Not ugali. Not supper. She had been speaking about marriage. About responsibility. About neglect. The "food" she referred to was my aunt herself. The conversation was about intimacy. About companionship. About a husband who had stopped fulfilling his responsibilities within marriage. My aunt's pain had become so heavy that she had returned to her mother's home seeking wisdom, intervention, and help.
Suddenly everything made sense. The seriousness. The urgency. The silence. The concern. The elders say, "Adult conversations often arrive disguised as ordinary words." My grandmother understood something important. Marriage cannot survive on roofs and walls alone. It cannot survive on money alone. It cannot survive on food alone. People need attention. People need affection. People need companionship. People need to know they are valued. Neglect has a way of creating hunger that no kitchen can satisfy.
And so, years later, I came to appreciate the wisdom hidden in that simple question: "Is he eating?" Today, the world has changed. People speak openly about things that previous generations discussed carefully. Yet the questions remain. Are people caring for one another? Are relationships being nurtured? Are spouses remembering one another? Are hearts being fed as well as stomachs? The elders say, "A neglected field and a neglected relationship produce the same harvest: weeds."
And now, as every storyteller must, I turn toward you. I ask a question with more than one meaning. A question that may make you smile. A question that may make you think. A question that carries both laughter and wisdom. Have you been eating? Or have you been eaten? For there are people who consume life without giving anything back. There are people who receive attention without offering it. There are people who harvest affection without planting any. And there are others who are slowly consumed by loneliness, neglect, disappointment, or waiting.
As you think about love, companionship, and the people who matter in your life, remember this: relationships, like fields, must be tended. Affection, like crops, must be cultivated. And companionship, like fire, must be fed if it is to keep burning. For hunger comes in many forms. Some hunger lives in the stomach. Other hunger lives in the heart. That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
