Come closer, my children. Bring your stools near the fire and sit where the light can touch your faces. Let the evening settle upon us gently. Let the cattle rest in their sheds, let the crickets sing their night songs, and let the old stories find their way back into our hearts. For tonight I will tell you about my grandmother. Not because she was famous. Not because she was wealthy. Not because her name was written in books. But because some people leave behind something greater than wealth. They leave wisdom. And wisdom, my children, feeds generations long after the owner has gone.
I grew up around my grandmother. She was an old woman, but not the kind who sat quietly in the corner of the house waiting for time to pass. No. She had lived too much life for silence to become her companion. Her face carried the map of many seasons. The lines on her forehead were not signs of age alone; they were records of droughts survived, children raised, harvests gathered, and sorrows endured. Her hands were rough from years of work. Her back had bent slightly under the weight of responsibility. Yet her mind remained sharp. Very sharp.
The elders say, "The axe may grow old, but it still remembers the forest." That was my grandmother. She remembered everything. She remembered the years when food was scarce and families survived on hope and determination. She remembered seasons of abundance when granaries overflowed and neighbors shared freely. She remembered weddings that united families. She remembered funerals that taught communities how to mourn together. She remembered people who left the village and never returned. And she remembered those who returned carrying stories from distant lands. Her eyes held all those memories.
When she spoke, people listened. Not because she shouted. Not because she demanded attention. But because her words carried weight. The kind of weight that only comes from experience. The kind of weight that makes even stubborn people pause and think.
My grandmother loved family. To her, family was not simply blood. Family was responsibility. Family was duty. Family was character. Family was how you behaved when nobody was watching. Family was how you treated the weak when you had power. Family was how you carried yourself when life became difficult.
She believed that a family survives not because people share a name, but because they share values. And so she invested herself in her children and grandchildren. She taught constantly. Not always with lectures. Not always with instructions. Sometimes with stories. Sometimes with silence. Sometimes with a single question.
She watched us closely, especially us boys. Not because she distrusted us. No. She watched because she hoped for us. She wanted us to become men who could be trusted. Men who respected others. Men who understood responsibility. Men who knew themselves. And whenever one of us began drifting away from those values, she had a special way of correcting us.
She did not shout. She did not insult. She did not embarrass us before others. Instead, she would simply look at you. Sometimes she would stare quietly for a few moments. Long enough for discomfort to begin growing inside your heart. Then she would ask, "Ndûí wí mûndûrûme?" Don't you know you are a man? Ah, my children. Those words were heavier than a stick. Heavier than punishment. Heavier than shouting. Because she was never talking about muscles. She was never talking about age. She was never talking about being male. She was talking about character.
What she meant was; Don't you know who you are? Don't you know what you represent? Don't you know the responsibility that comes with knowing yourself? Don't you know that your actions should match your values? The question carried many questions inside it. And each one demanded an answer.
I remember one afternoon when one of my cousins had behaved carelessly. He had spoken disrespectfully to an elder. Everyone expected my grandmother to become angry. Instead, she called him quietly. He approached reluctantly. She looked at him. Then she asked, "Ndûí wí mûndûrûme?" That was all. The boy immediately lowered his eyes. Not because he feared punishment. But because he suddenly remembered who he was supposed to be.
The elders say, "A person who remembers himself rarely loses his way." That was my grandmother's gift. She reminded people of themselves. Sometimes we become careless. Sometimes pride enters our hearts. Sometimes temptation leads us away. Sometimes anger controls our actions. Sometimes we forget the values that raised us. And when that happens, what we need is not always punishment. Sometimes we simply need remembering. My grandmother understood this.
That question could stop you in your tracks. It forced you to examine yourself. It made you look at your feet. Then your hands. Then your heart. You began asking yourself difficult questions. Why am I behaving this way? Is this who I truly am? Would the people who raised me be proud of this choice? Am I honoring my values?
The power of the question came from its simplicity. She was saying, remember yourself. Remember your upbringing. Remember your responsibilities. Remember your dignity. Remember your values. Remember your name.
Years passed. The grandchildren grew. Some moved away. Some started families. Some traveled to distant countries. Life carried us in different directions. But my grandmother remained what she had always been. A keeper of wisdom. A guardian of values. A reminder of identity.
Then one day, as happens to all people, her journey on earth came to an end. The family gathered. Tears were shed. Stories were shared. And we buried her. But something remarkable happened afterward. Her voice refused to leave. The body was gone. The voice remained.
Even today, I hear it. Not with my ears. With my heart. I hear it when life presents difficult choices. I hear it when temptation whispers attractive lies. I hear it when anger invites me to act carelessly. I hear it when responsibility feels heavy. I hear it when nobody is watching. And sometimes, in those moments, the voice returns clearly, "Ndui wi mundurume?" Don't you know who you are?
The older I become, the more I understand what she truly meant. Her question was never just for boys. It was never just for men. It belongs to everyone. Women. Children. Parents. Leaders. Workers. Students. All of us. Because the deepest question in life is not what we own. It is not where we live. It is not how much money we make. The deepest question is: Do we know ourselves? Do we know what we stand for? Do we know the values that guide our lives? Or are we living like people who have forgotten their own names?
The elders teach us, "A tree without roots may stand for a season, but it cannot survive the storm." To know yourself is to know your roots. To know yourself is to live with intention. To know yourself is to remember your responsibilities. To know yourself is to carry your values wherever life takes you. And to forget yourself is to become like a traveler who loses the path home.
I grew up around my grandmother. She was an old woman, but not the kind who sat quietly in the corner of the house waiting for time to pass. No. She had lived too much life for silence to become her companion. Her face carried the map of many seasons. The lines on her forehead were not signs of age alone; they were records of droughts survived, children raised, harvests gathered, and sorrows endured. Her hands were rough from years of work. Her back had bent slightly under the weight of responsibility. Yet her mind remained sharp. Very sharp.
The elders say, "The axe may grow old, but it still remembers the forest." That was my grandmother. She remembered everything. She remembered the years when food was scarce and families survived on hope and determination. She remembered seasons of abundance when granaries overflowed and neighbors shared freely. She remembered weddings that united families. She remembered funerals that taught communities how to mourn together. She remembered people who left the village and never returned. And she remembered those who returned carrying stories from distant lands. Her eyes held all those memories.
When she spoke, people listened. Not because she shouted. Not because she demanded attention. But because her words carried weight. The kind of weight that only comes from experience. The kind of weight that makes even stubborn people pause and think.
My grandmother loved family. To her, family was not simply blood. Family was responsibility. Family was duty. Family was character. Family was how you behaved when nobody was watching. Family was how you treated the weak when you had power. Family was how you carried yourself when life became difficult.
She believed that a family survives not because people share a name, but because they share values. And so she invested herself in her children and grandchildren. She taught constantly. Not always with lectures. Not always with instructions. Sometimes with stories. Sometimes with silence. Sometimes with a single question.
She watched us closely, especially us boys. Not because she distrusted us. No. She watched because she hoped for us. She wanted us to become men who could be trusted. Men who respected others. Men who understood responsibility. Men who knew themselves. And whenever one of us began drifting away from those values, she had a special way of correcting us.
She did not shout. She did not insult. She did not embarrass us before others. Instead, she would simply look at you. Sometimes she would stare quietly for a few moments. Long enough for discomfort to begin growing inside your heart. Then she would ask, "Ndûí wí mûndûrûme?" Don't you know you are a man? Ah, my children. Those words were heavier than a stick. Heavier than punishment. Heavier than shouting. Because she was never talking about muscles. She was never talking about age. She was never talking about being male. She was talking about character.
What she meant was; Don't you know who you are? Don't you know what you represent? Don't you know the responsibility that comes with knowing yourself? Don't you know that your actions should match your values? The question carried many questions inside it. And each one demanded an answer.
I remember one afternoon when one of my cousins had behaved carelessly. He had spoken disrespectfully to an elder. Everyone expected my grandmother to become angry. Instead, she called him quietly. He approached reluctantly. She looked at him. Then she asked, "Ndûí wí mûndûrûme?" That was all. The boy immediately lowered his eyes. Not because he feared punishment. But because he suddenly remembered who he was supposed to be.
The elders say, "A person who remembers himself rarely loses his way." That was my grandmother's gift. She reminded people of themselves. Sometimes we become careless. Sometimes pride enters our hearts. Sometimes temptation leads us away. Sometimes anger controls our actions. Sometimes we forget the values that raised us. And when that happens, what we need is not always punishment. Sometimes we simply need remembering. My grandmother understood this.
That question could stop you in your tracks. It forced you to examine yourself. It made you look at your feet. Then your hands. Then your heart. You began asking yourself difficult questions. Why am I behaving this way? Is this who I truly am? Would the people who raised me be proud of this choice? Am I honoring my values?
The power of the question came from its simplicity. She was saying, remember yourself. Remember your upbringing. Remember your responsibilities. Remember your dignity. Remember your values. Remember your name.
Years passed. The grandchildren grew. Some moved away. Some started families. Some traveled to distant countries. Life carried us in different directions. But my grandmother remained what she had always been. A keeper of wisdom. A guardian of values. A reminder of identity.
Then one day, as happens to all people, her journey on earth came to an end. The family gathered. Tears were shed. Stories were shared. And we buried her. But something remarkable happened afterward. Her voice refused to leave. The body was gone. The voice remained.
Even today, I hear it. Not with my ears. With my heart. I hear it when life presents difficult choices. I hear it when temptation whispers attractive lies. I hear it when anger invites me to act carelessly. I hear it when responsibility feels heavy. I hear it when nobody is watching. And sometimes, in those moments, the voice returns clearly, "Ndui wi mundurume?" Don't you know who you are?
The older I become, the more I understand what she truly meant. Her question was never just for boys. It was never just for men. It belongs to everyone. Women. Children. Parents. Leaders. Workers. Students. All of us. Because the deepest question in life is not what we own. It is not where we live. It is not how much money we make. The deepest question is: Do we know ourselves? Do we know what we stand for? Do we know the values that guide our lives? Or are we living like people who have forgotten their own names?
The elders teach us, "A tree without roots may stand for a season, but it cannot survive the storm." To know yourself is to know your roots. To know yourself is to live with intention. To know yourself is to remember your responsibilities. To know yourself is to carry your values wherever life takes you. And to forget yourself is to become like a traveler who loses the path home.
So today, as I remember my grandmother, I pass her question to you. Carry it carefully. Place it among your treasures. And whenever life confuses you, stop and ask yourself, "Ndui wi mundurume?" Don’t you know who you are? Because a person who truly knows himself—or herself—walks differently. Speaks differently. Chooses differently. Lives differently. And when the storms of life arrive, it is that knowledge that keeps them standing. That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
