Rohitash: Where Friendship Learned to Outrun Time

Dedication

This story is dedicated to my brother in spirit, Rohitash —
the one who believed in my words before the world learned to hear them,
the one who loved my stories before I had the courage to love them myself.

And to you, my friend, I say:
This story breathes because you exist.

Part One: The Boy Who Listened to Silence

My name is Benjamin Munyao David, and I have lived most of my life inside words, much like a man who discovers that his home is not made of bricks, but of sentences.

The world first introduced me to Rohitash not through a grand ceremony or a dramatic event, but through something far more honest: a quiet conversation that felt like a beginning we did not know we were waiting for.

He was different.

Not loud. Not forceful. Not desperate to exist.
He existed as naturally as the sky holds clouds.

Rohitash had that rare gift of listening — not just to people, but to moments. While others chased noise, he respected silence. While others mocked dreams, he protected them quietly.

He found my writing not by accident, but by destiny dressed as coincidence.

He read a rough story of mine — unfinished, unpolished, uncertain — and instead of criticism, he gave me belief.

“Keep going,” he said.
Those two words have outlived entire paragraphs of doubt.

I realized that some friendships are not formed. They are discovered.

Part Two: The Weight of Invisible Battles

Rohitash never boasted about strength, yet he carried storms inside him like a disciplined warrior.

There were days when he smiled so brightly that you would never guess his heart was tired. Days when laughter hid exhaustion. Days when silence was not empty — it was heavy.

But he never stopped caring.
Never stopped supporting.
Never stopped believing.

He loved my writing with a loyalty that humbled me. It wasn’t just admiration — it was companionship. Like two travelers walking side by side, even when the road grew darker.

He taught me something without trying:
Real friendship is not loud. It is steady.

When the world felt too sharp, Rohitash became soft shelter.
When my words felt small, he made them feel large.

He didn’t just read my writing.
He felt it.

And in return, I began to write not just for myself, but for him — for the version of him the world did not always see.

Part Three: The Letter That Changed Everything

One evening, under a sky heavy with unshed rain, I wrote a letter. Not because I had to — but because my soul demanded it.

I folded the paper as if folding a prayer.

Here is that letter, exactly as my heart wrote it:

The Letter Inside the Story

Dear Rohitash,

I don’t know how to explain what your friendship means without sounding like I am trying too hard — but here I am, trying anyway.

You have been my quiet strength, my invisible armor, my reason to believe my words matter. When I doubted myself, you believed loudly. When I felt small, you made me feel seen. When my stories shook, you became the ground beneath them.

Some people meet and become memories.
Others meet and become history.

You became something more.
You became part of my becoming.

I want you to know that even if the world forgets my name, even if my voice fades, my gratitude to you will remain louder than silence. You are not just my friend — you are a chapter in my life that I will never rewrite, only reread.

Thank you for loving my art.
Thank you for respecting my soul.
Thank you for being you.

Your brother in spirit,
Benjamin

I never told him when I wrote it.
But some letters do not need to be sent.
They live inside us until the right moment arrives.

Part Four: The Distance That Couldn’t Win

Life tried to pull us in different directions.

Time got busy. Responsibilities grew heavy. Conversations became less frequent. But true connection doesn’t die with silence — it simply learns how to breathe differently.

Rohitash and I did not need constant contact.
We had understanding.

The kind of understanding that sits quietly and says:
“I am still here, even when I am not visible.”

Friendship with him was not about possession.
It was about presence — even when unseen.

When I wrote, I imagined him reading.
When he struggled, I felt it in the quiet of my heart.

Some people walk beside you.
Rohitash walked within me.

Part Five: The Storyteller’s Promise

As I grew as a writer, something changed inside me.

My stories gained heart because of him.

I stopped writing just for applause — I started writing for truth. For connection. For that one friend who understood the language between the lines.

Rohitash was the kind of friend every writer secretly prays for:
Someone who doesn’t just read your story — they live inside it.

And so, I made a promise to myself:

If I ever wrote something that felt like legacy, his name would be written inside it — even if silently.

This story is that promise kept.

Part Six: The Brother the World Did Not Give But God Did

Some friendships feel accidental.
Ours felt designed.

He was not my blood — but he was my brother.
He was not always around — but he was always there.

In a world that teaches people to be temporary, Rohitash was permanent.

And permanence is rare.

If I ever become a name people remember, let it be known that behind my words was a friend who believed before the world did.

Let it be known that I was never alone on my road of ink and emotion.

Let it be known:
Rohitash walked with me — even when no one saw.

Part Seven: The Author Behind the Story

I am Benjamin Munyao David, and I write not because I want to be great — but because I want to be honest.

My stories are not built from imagination alone.
They are built from people who touched my life gently.

Rohitash is one of those people.

You can find more of my soul living in words here:
benmunyao.com

But no matter where my writing travels, this story will always belong to him first.

Final Words: A Friend Who Became Forever

Rohitash, if you ever read this, I want you to know something simple and eternal:

You mattered more than you know.
You inspired more than you saw.
You changed more than you touched.

This story is not fiction.
It is feeling.

It is memory.
It is gratitude.
It is legacy.

And you, my friend, are written into it forever.

Author & Narrator

Benjamin Munyao David
(benmunyacom.wordpress.com)

ECHOES OF MUSOKA

The first thing you learn about Musoka Village is that silence there is never empty. It is filled with memories, old footsteps, unfinished prayers, and stories that float in the warm air like dust. The red earth stretches endlessly, marked by barefoot paths and thorn-fenced homes that breathe history. This is where I learned to listen, and this is where I met the one person who would change my life forever — my friend, Ndeto.

I was just a boy scribbling on the back pages of old exercise books when I noticed him for the first time. He sat by the dry riverbed, holding a torn novel as though it were a treasure dug from the ground. While other boys chased goats and kicked homemade footballs, Ndeto sat quietly, eyes following words as if they were living creatures. Something about him felt familiar, like a character I had not yet written but already understood.

Our friendship started without ceremony. I walked to his rock one afternoon and asked him if stories could change people. He did not laugh. He did not hesitate. He simply said they already had. From that day, our spirits tied themselves together like roots of old trees. We shared books, dreams, questions, and a hunger for meaning that no one else in the village seemed to understand. Under the giant mango tree near my grandmother’s hut, we spent countless afternoons inventing kings without kingdoms, warriors who fought with words, and villages that listened when children spoke.

As the seasons passed, our dreams grew heavier and more serious. Musoka remained quiet and beautiful, but we began to notice cracks beneath its calm surface. There were stories people refused to tell, names that were never mentioned, and eyes that dropped to the ground when certain questions were asked. The village elders spoke in half-truths, and the wind itself seemed to carry warnings. Ndeto believed that stories were meant to awaken what people buried. I believed that stories were meant to heal. Somehow, we were both right.

One evening as the sun melted into the horizon, Ndeto turned to me and suggested something that sounded too big for boys like us. He said we should make a movie series about Musoka — not the version outsiders would imagine, but the true heartbeat of the village, the unspoken struggles, the quiet courage, and the beauty hidden beneath dust and silence. At first, it sounded impossible. We had no cameras, no training, no money. All we had were notebooks, imagination, and a stubborn fire inside our chests. But that was enough to begin.

I started writing obsessively. I wrote under candlelight, under moonlight, beneath trees, and sometimes inside my dreams. Ndeto became my first editor, my harshest critic, and my strongest believer. He would listen to every scene as if it were happening in front of him, correcting my dialogue, reshaping moments, and teaching me to feel the heartbeat of each line. The story began to change us. We no longer saw Musoka only as a quiet village — we saw it as a living character full of secrets and power.

That was when the strange things started happening.

An old woman collapsed in the marketplace one afternoon and began whispering words I had written just hours earlier, words about sleeping fires and wandering ancestors. A well that had been dry for generations filled with water overnight without explanation. Dogs howled in the distance for no reason, and birds abandoned trees that had sheltered them for years. At first, we laughed and called it coincidence, but fear slowly grew like a shadow behind our laughter. The village started to murmur. People said our writing was waking spirits, that we were digging into things better left buried.

The night the granary burned changed everything. The fire was not normal. It burned blue, silent, and controlled, as if guided by hands no one could see. By morning, the outer walls remained standing, untouched, while the inside was reduced to ash. On one of the blackened walls, written in shaky charcoal, were words that made my blood cold: STOP WRITING. Ndeto stood beside me, and for the first time since I had known him, his eyes held fear.

He asked me that night if we should stop. His voice was almost a whisper, fragile and human. For a brief moment, the weight of fear seemed heavier than our dreams. But I looked at him and realized something: if we stopped, the silence would win. The buried stories would return to darkness. So we chose to continue, even if it meant walking directly into the unknown.

Then came the stranger. He arrived quietly, wearing shoes too clean for Musoka’s dust and holding a small black camera like a sacred object. He said he had heard stories about a village with voices trying to rise. He did not threaten us, did not question us deeply. He only said he wanted to see. His presence felt like both hope and danger, a door opening and a storm gathering in the same moment.

On a night when the moon hung low and red in the sky, Ndeto disappeared.

There were no signs of struggle. No broken branches. No footprints in the dust. It was as though the earth itself had swallowed him. All that remained was his notebook lying open by the riverbed. When I picked it up, my hands trembled. On the last page, he had written a single sentence meant only for me: “If they come for me, don’t stop the story.” In that moment, I understood what real loneliness felt like. Not the loneliness of being alone, but the loneliness of carrying a dream meant for two hearts.

The days that followed felt empty and heavy. Musoka went silent. Children stopped gathering under the mango tree. Elders avoided my eyes. People whispered when I passed by, adjusting their voices as though I were a dangerous spirit. Still, every night I returned to our riverbed, reading Ndeto’s words, hoping the wind would bring him back. I began to understand that stories were no longer just something I loved — they were something I owed.

One night, when the sky was soft with stars and the air felt strangely still, I heard footsteps behind me. I did not turn. I had learned by then that fear only grew stronger when fed. Then I heard his voice, quiet but real, saying my name as gently as it used to when we were boys.

It was Ndeto.

He stood before me thinner, dust-covered, but alive. His eyes carried shadows and strength at the same time. He told me he had been taken by people who feared voices, people who feared villages waking up and learning to speak. They had tried to break him with threats and silence, to make him destroy everything we had written. But instead of breaking, he wrote more. He hid pages in his clothes, memorized scenes in his heart, and held onto our story like a lifeline.

In that moment, I learned a truth deeper than fear: a story carried in the heart cannot be burned.

We did not waste time after that. The stranger with the camera returned, as if he had been waiting for the right moment. We gathered the village slowly, carefully, with respect and patience. Some were afraid. Some were curious. Some were tired of years of silence. We told them this was their story, their voices, their lives. Something shifted in the air. The same men and women who had once whispered now began to speak. Those who had hidden their pain began to breathe it into words.

Filming began under the old mango tree. Ndeto acted with a calm fire in his eyes, becoming every character we had ever imagined. I narrated, my voice shaking at first, then slowly growing stronger. Children sat close, watching the small screen flicker as if it were magic. Elders told their stories on camera, their voices trembling with years they had never been allowed to share.

When we finished the first episode, we projected it onto a white cloth tied between two wooden poles. The entire village gathered. The night felt sacred. Crickets sang softly. The moon watched like a silent witness. As the story played, people wept. Not because it was sad, but because it was true. They recognized themselves in the scenes. They saw their lives, their suffering, their strength, and their beauty reflected back to them.

Ndeto sat beside me, and for the first time in a long time, neither of us felt small.

Years passed, but that night never left my heart. Musoka did not change overnight, but it slowly began to breathe freer. Children grew up knowing their voices mattered. People began to speak what they had once buried. Stories became something sacred, not something dangerous.

Even now, when I stand at the edge of the village and watch the wind move through the dry grass, I hear echoes of our journey. I hear Ndeto’s laughter. I hear the scratching of my pen on paper. I hear the quiet courage of a village that refused to remain silent.

Musoka was never just a place on a map. It was a story waiting to be told.

And Ndeto was never just my friend.

He was, and always will be, the voice that walked beside mine.

THE SUN THAT SMILED BACK — A Tribute to Bilal Wanjau

By BENJAMIN MUNYAO DAVID (benmunyacom.wordpress.com)

I. The Bench Where Joy Sat

There are some photographs that don’t just capture a person—they capture a spirit.
In the one I keep of him, Bilal Wanjau is leaning back on a wooden bench, his shoulders relaxed, his smile warm and effortless. Behind him bloom yellow flowers, and above him sway the leaves of a tree that seems almost proud to shade him. And as I stare at it, I always feel as if joy itself decided to take a seat, allowing Bilal to wear it on his face.

This is how I choose to remember him.

Not in silence.
Not in sorrow.
But in that smile—wide, generous, open as sunrise—inviting all of us to sit at the bench of life and laugh a little louder.

Because that was Bilal.

A man who knew that even the heaviest heart can be lightened with a story well told.

II. The First Time I Saw the Star

It was an ordinary evening, the kind where the Kenyan sky glows a deep purple and the world seems to slow into a soft sigh. I had just sat down after a long day, flipping through stations, hoping to find something worth my remaining energy. And that is when I stumbled upon him.

There he was—Bilal Wanjau—portraying an ordinary man with such sincerity that he felt more real than the chair I was sitting on. His timing was perfect, his humor unforced, his presence magnetic. He spoke like someone who understood people deeply, who listened even while acting, who observed even while performing.

I remember leaning forward, whispering aloud to myself,
Who is this man?

Little did I know that he would become one of my greatest inspirations.
Little did I know that he would become a symbol of what it means to carry talent with humility.

III. The Craft That Was Also a Calling

Bilal did not simply perform; he inhabited.
He didn’t portray characters; he became them.

He had that rare actor’s gift—the ability to disappear yet become unforgettable. Each role he touched carried the weight of truth. Whether he was bringing laughter or emotion, he never faked it. He let reality seep through every word he delivered.

Kenyan film and television often live a tough life—underrated, underfunded, misunderstood. But Bilal walked into that uneven terrain with confidence, as if telling the world:

“These stories matter. And I will tell them anyway.”

And he did.

He told them with grace.
He told them with fire.
He told them with heart.

His career was a mosaic of performances—some quiet, some loud, some humorous, some tragic—but all distinctly his. He carried a gentle authority on-screen, a sort of emotional honesty that no training can teach.

To watch him was to watch a soul unafraid of truth.

IV. The Day the Curtain Fell

When news of his dismissal—his departure from this world—arrived, it moved like an invisible wind, knocking the breath out of those who loved him, admired him, or even simply knew of his work. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone, hoping it was a mistake that would soon be corrected.

But silence confirmed what words couldn’t soften.
The curtain had fallen.

And in that moment, Kenya mourned not just an actor, but a storyteller, a laughter-giver, a gentle giant whose presence filled more than screens—it filled hearts.

For me, grief came as a heaviness behind the ribs, a quiet ache that tugged at memories. I kept returning to that bench photo: Bilal smiling as if life were the best joke he had ever heard. And the absurdity of death felt sharper. How could someone so full of light leave such a shadow behind?

But maybe shadows only exist where great light once shone.

V. The Lessons He Left Behind

Bilal’s legacy is not measured merely by the roles he played, but by the people he touched—directly and indirectly.

He taught us:

• That joy is an art.
• That humility is a superpower.
• That talent without humanity is nothing.
• That life, despite everything, is worth smiling about.

He reminded us that representation matters, that Kenyan stories deserve the spotlight, and that our craft, our culture, and our voice belong on every screen without apology.

To the youth who watched him and decided, “Maybe I can act too,” Bilal planted a seed.
To the fans he made laugh even during their darkest days, he offered healing.
To the industry he helped build, he left foundations strong enough to stand for decades.

Stars like him don’t just shine.
They create constellations.

VI. A Journey I Never Told Him About

Truth is, I had always wanted to meet him.

Not to interview him or to ask for a photo, but simply to tell him:

“Thank you for what you’ve done for Kenyan storytelling.”

I had rehearsed the words many times in my mind.
I imagined shaking his hand, laughing with him, telling him how his work echoed through my life.

But life, unpredictable as ever, took him too soon.

So here I write what I never got to say in person:

Bilal, you changed us.
You changed me.
Your art reached places even your feet never stepped.

And because of that, you will live forever.

VII. The Smile That Outlived the Man

In the end, it is always the simplest memories that stay.

That smile of his—open and warm—refuses to fade. In it, I see resilience, kindness, humor, and the softhearted wisdom of a man who loved life despite its imperfections.

When I look at the bench photo, I feel as though he is still here, inviting us to sit, to breathe, to laugh again. In that captured moment, Bilal is not gone. He is simply resting, watching us from the gentle shade of memory.

Perhaps that is the true immortality of artists.
They leave pieces of themselves scattered in our hearts, and those pieces never die.

VIII. A Tribute Carved in Story

And so I write this not as a goodbye, but as a promise:

Bilal Wanjau, your story will not fade.
I will continue to honour you, speak your name, celebrate your work, and share your light.
Kenya will remember you.
Africa will remember you.
Every storyteller who picks up a pen or stands before a camera will carry a spark of your flame.

Your bench remains warm.
Your smile remains alive.
Your legacy remains unbroken.

You were not just an actor.
You were a gift.

IX. The Star That Taught Us to Shine

In a world where many chase fame, Bilal chose connection.
In a world where many perform, Bilal chose truth.
In a world where many pretend, Bilal simply was.

And perhaps that is why we loved him deeply.

He reminded us to shine in our own ways, to embrace our flaws, to share our joys, and to carry compassion like a badge of honour. He didn’t rise by stepping on others—he rose by lifting others.

His journey may have ended, but his impact continues like a song whose final note refuses to fade.

And in that endless echo, we hear him still.

X. For You, Bilal—Forever

This story is my offering.
My gratitude.
My honour to you, Bilal Wanjau.

Wherever you are, may you find benches just as comfortable, flowers just as bright, and laughter just as contagious as you left behind.

And may your soul continue to watch over the craft you loved, the people you inspired, and the country that proudly called you our own.

Rest well, legend.
But shine forever.

THE MOUNTAIN THAT SPOKE BACK

By Benjamin Munyao David

(benmunyacom.wordpress.com)

1. The Quiet Boy From Ukambani

Long before anyone in Mbooni ever imagined he would speak on grand stages or inspire crowds across Kenya, Munyao—born in the red-soiled ridges of Ukambani—was simply “the quiet boy.”
He had been different since birth. When other children ran barefoot through the dusty paths, chasing rubber-ball footballs or climbing the twisted branches of the acacia trees, Munyao walked slower, steadier, sometimes limping, sometimes catching his breath. His right leg, weakened by a childhood illness, never fully supported him. It was a leg that teased him, slowed him, betrayed him, but also—though he didn’t know it yet—would one day guide him toward his destiny.

Ukambani is a land where wind carries both dust and stories. And the people who live there are shaped by both. Every evening, especially during the dry season when hunger knocked softly on doors like a shy neighbor, children gathered around their grandmothers to hear tales of lions, of cunning hares, of warriors who fought spirits and won.

But the story that stayed closest to Munyao’s heart came from his father:

“My son, a person’s strength is not counted in bones or muscles. It is counted in the stubbornness of the spirit.”

His father would say this as he helped the young boy up a slope or steadied him when he stumbled. And though the words floated past him like a breeze then, they would return many years later, fierce like a storm that refuses to be ignored.

2. The Weight of Eyes

School was a battlefield, and not because of books.

Every morning, as he limped into class, he felt eyes on him—the curious ones, the sympathetic ones, and the cruel ones. Children have a way of speaking truths adults disguise, and sometimes those truths cut like stones.

“Mbona unatembea ivo?”
“Wewe ni mzee mdogo?”
“Utawahi cheza ball kweli?”

At first, the teasing didn’t bother him much. But as he grew older, he began to know the weight of comparison: the weight of watching others do with ease what your own body refuses. And that weight, if carried long enough, can crush even the strongest of hearts.

But something inside him—something wild, something stubborn—refused to break.

It showed itself for the first time during Standard Six. Their school had announced an inter-school competition: speeches, essays, poems. While others murmured or shrugged, something lit in Munyao’s eyes. He wrote a piece titled “The Mountain That Spoke Back.”

It was a story about a mountain that refused to be climbed because it believed it was worthless. But one day, a young boy spoke to it—told it that mountains were not meant to hide but to lift people higher. The mountain, humbled, allowed the boy to climb.

When he performed the piece in front of the entire school, something happened.

The teachers clapped.
The pupils cheered.
And for the first time in his life, Munyao did not feel small.

He felt seen.

3. When the World Shrinks, Purpose Expands

After finishing school, life introduced him to a harder truth.

Opportunities were few.
Disability-friendly spaces were fewer.
But discouragement—discouragement was plenty.

Job interviews ended with polite smiles.
Community meetings overlooked him.
People talked about him instead of to him.

And yet… a strange thing began happening. Anytime he stood up to speak, people listened. Old men nodded. Young people leaned in. Women ululated softly, especially when his voice rose with passion.

He had discovered something quietly powerful:
Though his body sometimes struggled, his voice never did.

So he spoke—
in churches,
in chief’s barazas,
in youth groups,
in school assemblies.

He spoke about courage.
About not surrendering to the labels others gave you.
About rising—slowly if you must, limping if you must, but rising anyway.

4. Flame in the Clay Jar

One afternoon, while walking home from a youth mentorship event, he met an elderly man sitting beneath a mugumo tree. The man motioned him over as if they’d known each other forever.

“My son,” the old man said after a long silence, “God hides fire inside imperfect clay jars. Your flame is showing.”

That night those words kept him awake.

Fire…
inside him?
A flame others could see?

Slowly he started realizing that people with disabilities didn’t just need encouragement; they needed a voice—someone who had lived their struggles and could translate pain into power.

That was the moment his purpose clicked into place like a final puzzle piece.

He would speak not just for himself but for all who were unseen, unheard, underestimated.

5. Roads That Test But Also Teach

Kenya is a beautiful country, but not always an easy one for persons with disabilities. Pavements are rough. Stairs are steep. Acceptance is uneven. Some days were victories; others were storms.

But Munyao walked them all—
not fast,
not perfectly,
but faithfully.

Each difficulty became a teacher:

• The rough road taught patience.
• The steep steps taught strategy.
• The long distances taught endurance.
• The stares taught courage.
• The doubters taught determination.

And slowly, very slowly, whispers became invitations:
schools calling him to speak,
radio hosts wanting his story,
organizations asking him to mentor youth living with disabilities.

His world expanded beyond Ukambani, beyond county lines, beyond the limits others had placed on him.

6. A Seed Becomes a Tree

Then came a big moment: an invitation to speak at an International Day of Persons with Disabilities event in Nairobi. For a boy who once struggled to climb small hills, standing before national leaders felt like standing atop Mount Kenya.

The hall was full.
Wheelchairs lined the aisles.
Crutches leaned against chairs.
Sign language interpreters stood ready.

Faces turned toward him with expectation.

He began—not with a shout, but with a whisper:

“I come from a place where mountains speak.
They taught me that even when the world tries to bury you, you can rise if you remember you were planted, not discarded.”

The hall fell into a silence so deep it felt sacred.

He spoke of barriers—physical, social, emotional.
He spoke of dignity—God-given, non-negotiable.
He spoke of dreams—valid, urgent, possible.
He spoke of the future—one where disability did not mean invisibility.

When he finished, the applause felt like rain on thirsty ground.

Later that day, a mother approached him with tears in her eyes. Her son, born with cerebral palsy, had refused to attend school for months. But after hearing Munyao speak, the boy said, “Mama, nitaenda kesho. Kama yeye anaweza, hata mimi naweza.”

Something inside Munyao broke and healed at the same time.
His story was no longer his alone.
It had become a bridge.

7. The Truth of Strength

With time, he developed a message he carried everywhere:

“Disability is not inability—it is a different kind of strength.”

Strength of endurance.
Strength of perspective.
Strength of creativity.
Strength of resilience.

He told people that while some climb mountains with legs, others climb with willpower.
Some run fast; others walk far.
Some shine like the sun; others glow like the moon—softly, steadily, beautifully.

His message became a movement.

8. Returning to the Mountain

Years later, after speaking across counties and inspiring thousands, he returned to his childhood home. The same hills, the same dusty paths, the same acacias. But he was no longer the quiet boy who had limped into classrooms.

He stood on a ridge overlooking his village. The wind carried the scent of dry grass and distant hope.

And he whispered:

“Baba, you were right. Strength is not counted in bones.”

The wind seemed to answer.

Below him, children played. One boy, walking with a crutch, ran—ran in his own rhythm, laughing wildly. No one teased him. No one pitied him. They simply played.

Perhaps the world was changing after all.

9. What the Mountain Said

As the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long shadows over Ukambani, he remembered the story he’d written as a boy—The Mountain That Spoke Back.

He realized something:

The mountain had always been him.
He was the one who thought he was too broken, too slow, too “less.”
But life—through pain, persistence, and purpose—had spoken back to him:

“You were never meant to hide.
You were meant to lift others higher.”

10. For Everyone Who Still Climbs

This story is not just Munyao’s.
It belongs to every person living with a disability.
To everyone who has been overlooked.
To everyone whose dream was doubted.
To everyone who moves at a different pace but moves anyway.

It is a reminder that:

• You are not defined by what others see.
• You are not limited by what your body cannot do.
• You are powerful in ways the world has not learned to measure.
• You are a flame inside a clay jar—fragile yet fierce.
• You are a mountain with stories to tell.

So rise.
Rise again.
Rise always.

Because somewhere, a child is watching you—and learning how to stand.

11. Closing Words

On this International Day of Persons with Disabilities, remember:

**You are not a burden.

You are a beacon.**

Your journey lights the way for others.
Your resilience is a testimony.
Your future is wide, waiting, ready.

And when history writes the story of those who made Kenya more inclusive, more compassionate, more just, the name Munyao of Ukambani will be there—not as a survivor, but as a shaper of change.

ECHOES ACROSS AFRICA

The sun had barely risen over the low, rolling hills of Makueni, and already the land shimmered with the promise of heat. A thin breeze slipped through the acacia trees, carrying with it the scent of dust, dry soil, and the faint sweetness of ripening mangoes. For Benjamin Munyao, or Benja as everyone called him, mornings like this held a sacred power—quiet enough to think, raw enough to remember, and vast enough to dream.

He stood at the edge of his homestead, letting the wind brush against his face. Beyond him stretched miles of open land, dotted with grazing cows and the thatched roofs of scattered homesteads. To many eyes, it was a hard land—dry, stubborn, unforgiving. To Benja, it was the place that raised him, the land that whispered stories only the patient could hear.

Stories he was finally ready to tell.

He lifted his old leather bag onto his shoulder and began the familiar walk toward Kikumini market, where he taught weekend writing workshops under the acacia shade. He had started the workshops three years earlier—at first for fun, then for purpose. Over time, children came with eagerness, adults came with questions, and elders came with memories they feared would fade when they did. It was from those voices that Echoes Across Africa, his passion project, was born—a dream to collect stories from ordinary people across the continent and amplify them to the world.

He had almost given up once.

But echoes, he learned, never truly disappear.

THE FIRST ECHO

The memories came back to him as he walked—a younger version of himself sitting beside his grandmother, Mumbua, under the very tree he now taught beneath.

“Listen well, Mwana witu,” she would say, her voice thick with age but sharp with wisdom. “Stories are footprints. They show where a people have been, and sometimes, where they must go.”

Little Benja would listen for hours, mesmerized by tales of hunters who spoke to wind, warriors who fought with courage instead of anger, mothers whose tears brought life to parched earth. But most important were the stories of real people—the forgotten heroes who never made it to history books. Like Mzee Ndolo, the local blacksmith who forged tools that built half the villages around them. Or Mama Kalondu, whose songs healed the sick more tenderly than herbs ever could.

His grandmother would end every story with the same words:

“Write them, Benja. Write them so they live longer than we do.”

When she passed on, something in him broke. He tried to write, but every word felt too small, too weak for the legacy she carried. For a long time he drowned in grief, believing he would never be worthy of the stories she had given him.

But time, just like the wind across the savannah, has a way of shaping even the roughest stones.

THE CALLING

Years later, while living in Nairobi and working odd jobs, Benja overheard two security guards talking behind the building where he swept floors during the night shift.

“If only people knew what we’ve gone through,” one said.
“No one listens to people like us,” the other replied.

Something stirred inside him. The same spark his grandmother planted.

And just like that, Echoes Across Africa began—first as scribbled notes in a cheap notebook, then as recorded interviews with strangers who quickly became family. He traveled across counties, sitting with boda boda riders in Kisumu, fishermen at Lake Turkana, farmers in Meru, youth groups in Kibra, Maasai warriors in Narok, Somali traders in Garissa, and elders in Taita Taveta.

And every place he went, he heard the same thing:

“Tell our stories. Let the world know we were here.”

He wrote until his fingers blistered. He traveled until his shoes wore thin. He sacrificed meals, comfort, and sleep, but never the mission. With every echo he collected, he felt his grandmother’s spirit walking beside him.

THE JOURNEY NORTH

The chapter that changed everything began in northern Kenya.

Benja had traveled to Marsabit, chasing whispers of a Turkana elder who carried the memory of a forgotten peace pact between rival communities. The story fascinated him—not because of war, but because of the bravery it took to choose peace.

The elder, Edome Lokuruka, was a tall man with deep smile lines that carved stories onto his face. He welcomed Benja into his manyatta, offering cold camel milk and a warm place by the fire.

“You want our story?” the old man asked.
“I want to help preserve it,” Benja replied.

Edome laughed softly. “Young man, stories live longer than humans. But they die when people stop telling them.”

For hours, Edome spoke of days when communities fought fiercely over water and pasture. He told of a time he nearly lost his life, of wounds that took years to heal, and of the historic gathering where elders decided enough blood had spilled. The treaty they forged that day still held power, even now—an echo that saved countless lives.

But the night grew heavy when the old man leaned closer and whispered, “The world is forgetting how precious peace is. Write this one carefully.”

Benja promised he would.

That night, beneath a sky thick with stars, he wrote until his eyes burned. A windstorm swept across the desert, but he did not move. He wrote as lightning stitched the sky in jagged lines. He wrote because he felt his grandmother’s voice behind him, soft but insistent.

The next morning, tragedy struck.

A neighboring village had been attacked—young men retaliating for stolen livestock. Edome insisted on traveling to mediate before things escalated. Despite his age, he stood tall, determined, unshaken.

“I must remind them of the old promise,” he said.

But he never reached the village.

A flash flood swept across the valley after sudden rain—a freak disaster that took several lives, including Edome’s.

Benja received the news at sunset. It shattered him.

He felt responsible—for arriving too late to record more, for failing to amplify Edome’s pleas fast enough, for not being able to stop the cycle of violence and loss.

That night, he didn’t write.
He didn’t speak.
He simply cried.

But in the morning, he rose with a new understanding:

Some stories were not just for remembering.
They were warnings.
They were guides.
They were survival.

And they had to be told.

THE RETURN HOME

After months of traveling, writing, and listening, Benja returned to Makueni with hundreds of stories—each one a heartbeat of someone who trusted him. He felt older, heavier, but also more alive than ever.

When village children saw him walking down the dusty road, they ran toward him cheering. Their faith reminded him why he began in the first place.

Under the old acacia tree—the one that now carried deep, cracked bark—he placed his grandmother’s woven shawl. It was faded, but the memories were still sharp.

“I did it, Cucu,” he whispered. “I am still doing it.”

He pulled out his notebook and began drafting the introduction to his book:

Africa is not silence. Africa is echoes—of laughter, of pain, of dreams, of hope.
To hear them, you only need to listen with your heart.

He paused as one particularly strong breeze swept across the savannah. It felt like a blessing.

THE BOY WHO WOULD NOT SPEAK

A few weeks later, a young boy approached him after a writing session. He looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot.

“Sir… can people like me also have stories?” he asked.

Benja smiled. “Everyone has a story.”

The boy, named Keli, hadn’t spoken properly since witnessing a traumatic accident two years earlier. He was the quietest child in the village—never raising his hand, never volunteering, never laughing loudly like the others.

But now he held a wrinkled piece of paper.

“It’s not good,” he whispered. “But… it’s mine.”

Benja unfolded the paper and read words that shook him more deeply than many elders’ tales. The boy had written about fear—how silence had become his shield, how he felt invisible, how he wanted to speak but could not push the words out.

When he finished reading, Benja looked up with tears in his eyes.

“Keli… this is powerful.”

The boy’s shoulders relaxed in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes. And if you allow, I want to include it in my book.”

The boy nodded slowly, and for the first time in two years, he smiled.

Keli’s story became one of the opening chapters of Echoes Across Africa, reminding readers that even the quietest voices hold the loudest truths.

THE MESSAGE THAT SPREAD

When Benja shared bits of his writing online, something astonishing happened—people across Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Rwanda, Nigeria, Ghana, Cameroon, and even the Caribbean began sending him their own stories. Some wrote about survival, some about love, others about injustice, hope, loss, dreams, childhood, and faith.

Voices that had been ignored for generations finally found a place to land.

Soon, universities invited him to speak. NGOs asked him to document community histories. Young writers sought mentorship. And everywhere he went, he felt humbled—because he knew he was simply a vessel. The stories belonged to the people.

His book, Echoes Across Africa, sold beyond his expectations. But it wasn’t the sales that mattered—it was the letters, the messages, the voices that said:

“Thank you for letting the world know we were here.”

THE FINAL ECHO

One evening, after a long interview session in Kibra, Benja sat on a rooftop overlooking the city. Lights flickered below him like scattered stars fallen to earth. Children laughed in the distance. Music thumped from somewhere. The smell of cooking oil and roasted maize drifted up on warm air.

He closed his eyes.

He heard the echoes of Africa—millions of heartbeats, millions of stories woven into a single continent-wide rhythm. Stories of resilience, love, courage, and humanity. Stories that the world rarely asks for, but that the world desperately needs.

He opened his eyes and whispered the same words his grandmother had once told him:

“Stories are footprints. They show where a people have been, and where they must go.”

And he knew, without doubt or fear, that he would spend the rest of his life collecting them.

Because Africa’s echoes never die.
They simply wait for someone to listen.

Rising From the Slopes: The Spirit of Yathui-A Narrative Speech to My People of Musoka and Yathui Location

My brothers, my sisters, my elders, my youth, and the children who will one day inherit these hills—
I stand before you today not as a stranger, not even merely as a son of this soil, but as a witness of a dream that has been growing silently in our valleys, our ridges, and our hearts.

I stand before you as Munyao David, born and raised in Musoka Village, carved by the winds that sweep across Yathui Location, and shaped by the wisdom of elders whose footsteps still echo in these slopes.

Our home—this beautiful sloping land held between Ngului, Kisinzini, Itunduni, and Lema primary schools—has a story. A story of resilience. A story of humility. A story of rising even when the world forgets to watch.

And today, I want to tell you that story.

1. WHERE THE HILLS KEEP OUR MEMORIES

Many years ago, before the boda roads carved new paths through our villages, before electricity touched our evenings, before mobile phones lit the faces of our young ones, our people worked with nothing but their bare hands and the hope in their hearts.

I remember walking to Ngului Primary School, the school that held my childhood dreams with both hands.
There, under the guidance of Muia, my headteacher and English teacher—now a retired elder whose wisdom still walks with us—I learned the meaning of discipline, determination, and dignity.

Muia didn’t only teach grammar; he taught belief. He would stand at the front of the dusty classroom, chalk in his hand, and say:

“Children, the world is big—but your mind can be bigger.”

Those words still guide me.

And in Musoka Village, when the sun dipped behind the hills and evening gathered its shadows, I remember hearing the deep, calm voice of Kimende, the elder who heads our welfare committees. A man of few words, but when he speaks, the Earth listens. His dedication is a quiet river—steady, unstoppable, life-giving.

These elders, and many others, are the roots of our identity.

And from those roots grows the reason I believe so deeply in our future.

2. A FUTURE PLANTED IN THE SOIL OF HOPE

Yathui is not a place of weakness.
Yathui is not a place of poverty.
Yathui is not a place the world should overlook.

Yathui is a place of potential—raw, unpolished, but powerful.

Look around you.

Look at the rising fields that slope toward Musoka.
Look at the hills that hold the memories of generations.
Look at the children walking to Kisinzini, Itunduni, Lema, and Ngului Primary Schools with books in their bags and dreams in their hearts.

These children are not only walking to school—they are walking into the future.

And we must walk with them.

Because a village that supports its children is a village that rewrites its destiny.

3. THE POWER IN OUR HANDS

Let me tell you a story.

When I was still a boy, I used to watch the elders gather under the shade of an old tree in Musoka—some discussing harvests, others water shortages, others the welfare of widows, orphans, and young families struggling to stand.

I would stand at a distance, watching the debates, the laughter, the disagreements, and the final handshake that always sealed their unity.

I didn’t understand it then.

But now I do:

Community is not built by wealth.
Community is built by responsibility.

And Musoka, Yathui, and the surrounding villages have enough responsibility to light up the entire county.

Look at our youth—strong, talented, creative, eager to learn.
Look at our mothers—pillars of endurance.
Look at our farmers—turning dry soil into food with nothing but faith.
Look at our teachers—carrying generations on their backs.

We have everything we need.

Everything except one thing:

Belief in ourselves.

And today, I want to return that belief to you.

4. THE WIND THAT BLOWS ACROSS YATHUI

There is something special about Yathui Location.

The wind here is not like the wind elsewhere.
It blows with a certain ancient wisdom, rolling down from hills that have watched centuries unfold.

Sometimes, when the wind blows at dusk, carrying the distant laughter of children walking home from Ngului, or the sound of goats and cows being herded back into bomas, I feel it whisper:

“Rise.”

Rise, Yathui.
Rise, Musoka.
Rise, every son and daughter of our hills.

Because we were not born for the background.
We were not born for silence.
We were not born to be forgotten.

We were born for greatness—quiet greatness, humble greatness, but greatness all the same.

5. WHAT WE CAN BUILD TOGETHER

I dream of a day when our village paths will be lined with businesses created by our own youth.
I dream of a day when children from Yathui schools will stand on national stages, speaking confidently of where they come from.
I dream of farmers using modern techniques, harvesting not just food but prosperity.
I dream of unity so strong that no struggle can break us.

We can do it.

We will do it.

Together.

6. A MESSAGE TO THE YOUTH

To the young men and women of Yathui:

Do not wait for opportunity to come from outside.
Do not wait for someone to rescue you.
Do not think you are too small, too rural, or too forgotten to rise.

You are the backbone of this community.

Use your hands.
Use your mind.
Learn a skill.
Start a business.
Grow something.
Build something.
Create something.

The world does not reward those who wait—it rewards those who begin.

7. A MESSAGE TO THE ELDERS

To the elders—like Muia, like Kimende, like all who have carried the weight of this community longer than we have been alive:

We honor you.
We respect you.
We need you.

Your wisdom is our compass.
Your stories are our teachings.
Your blessings are our protection.

Guide us, but also trust us.

Let us stand where you once stood, so that the chain of generations may never be broken.

8. A MESSAGE TO THE PARENTS

To every mother and father in Yathui:

Your children are watching you.
Your courage is their courage.
Your discipline is their discipline.
Your hope becomes their hope.

Support their education.
Support their dreams.
Support their curiosity.

The greatest inheritance you can give them is belief.

9. A MESSAGE TO MY PEOPLE

My people of Musoka.
My people of Yathui.

We are standing at the door of a new chapter.

A chapter of growth.
A chapter of unity.
A chapter of possibilities.

Let us write it together.

Let our hills hear new songs.
Let our schools produce new stars.
Let our farms yield new blessings.
Let our homes be filled with new peace.

And let our hearts never forget:

We are Yathui.
We are Musoka.
We are one.

10. THE PROMISE OF TOMORROW

As I look across these slopes—across the valleys that cradle our villages, across the hills that carry our memories, across the skies that bless us with rain—I see something beautiful.

I see a future.

A future built by us.
A future owned by us.
A future worthy of our children.

Let us rise together.

Let us build together.

Let us believe together.

**This is our story.

This is our moment.
This is Yathui.**

—BENJAMIN MUNYAO DAVID
(benmunyacom.wordpress.com)

When the Sun Sat on Sycamore Hill

The first time I saw her, the sun had just begun to slide past the roof of the old administration block, scattering long amber streaks across the dusty assembly ground of Sycamore Hill High School. I remember because that light hit her first—before any of us saw her face, her uniform, or even her eyes. It was the light that announced her arrival.

Her name was Lynn Mwikali.

And though I had no idea at the time, she would become the girl whose laughter stitched itself into every corridor of my memory, the girl who made the world feel wider and yet more intimate at the same time, the girl whose absence would later teach me that even the most beautiful stories have chapters we can never rewrite.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me begin at the beginning.
Let me tell this the way it deserves to be told.

CHAPTER ONE — The Arrival

It was the second week of first term when Lynn arrived. New students were rare during the year, so naturally every pair of eyes on the assembly ground turned toward her. Mine did too.

She stood beside the deputy principal, hands clasped behind her, as though holding herself in place. Her uniform still had its factory stiffness, her shoes were too shiny, and her expression—though trying to appear neutral—revealed tiny hints of worry hiding beneath her eyelashes.

Then she looked up.

And that was when the unexpected happened—our eyes met, and instead of looking away like most new students would, she held the gaze. Not boldly. Just long enough to carve an impression onto my mind.

The deputy introduced her and dismissed the school. I thought that would be the last I’d see of her for the day, but fate has a strange way of nudging two lives together.

During English class, the teacher pointed her toward the empty desk beside mine.

“Sit next to Munyao. He’ll help you catch up,” she said.

I felt my ears warm. Lynn flashed a gentle, grateful smile before settling into the seat. When she opened her bag, the faint scent of new books and vanilla drifted toward me. I pretended not to notice.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi,” I replied, trying to swallow the brick lodged in my throat.

“Could you lend me yesterday’s notes?”

I passed my book to her. She read the first paragraph, then turned to me with a surprised look.

“You have really good handwriting.”

“Well,” I shrugged, “I try.”

She chuckled softly. “I’m Lynn.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m Munyao.”

And that was it—the moment the story began.

CHAPTER TWO — The Growing

High school is a strange world. Four years, a few thousand students, all of us pretending to understand life while stumbling through it. But for me, those stumbling steps became easier because Lynn walked beside me.

We studied together, shared break-time mandazis from the canteen, raced to class when the bell rang, and argued about whose turn it was to clean our shared desk. We talked about everything—from the books we liked, to the songs we couldn’t get out of our heads, to the dreams we didn’t dare admit aloud.

She wanted to be an architect.
I wanted to be a writer.

“You’re a storyteller,” she told me once as we sat on the school field, watching a slow-moving kite dance against the sky. “Words follow you.”

“Maybe,” I answered. “But you build things. Real things.”

“Stories build worlds too,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “Mine are just the kind that need rulers and pencils. Yours need feelings.”

I didn’t say it then, but everything I wrote after that had a piece of her woven into it.

By mid-term, everyone already knew: where there was Lynn, there was Munyao. We were not dating—not officially—but the air around us was heavy with unspoken possibility.

Teachers teased. Friends speculated. Some students whispered. But neither of us cared enough to let their words define us.

We were building a world of our own.

CHAPTER THREE — The Shift

Near the end of second term, something subtle changed between us—something bigger than friendship.

It was a Friday afternoon. The sky was bruised with rain clouds, and the wind whipped dust across the courtyard. Most students had already rushed home, eager to escape the coming storm.

But we remained behind, helping arrange books in the library for the club we both secretly joined just to spend more time together.

“Hold this,” Lynn said, passing me a pile of magazines.

Our hands touched.

It was brief. Accidental.
But electric.

She looked up sharply, a blush rising to her cheeks. I felt my heartbeat thud against the walls of my chest like a trapped drum.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence between us filled the entire library.

Finally she whispered, “You felt that… didn’t you?”

I nodded.

Then, for the first time since I’d known her, Lynn looked away. “I… don’t know what it means,” she said quietly.

“It means something,” I said.

And it did.
It meant everything.

CHAPTER FOUR — The Becoming

We didn’t plan it. We didn’t even talk about it directly. But over the next month, our closeness matured into something tender and fragile and unbelievably real.

Walking home together became a ritual. She lived two streets away from me, so our paths overlapped. We’d stroll past shops, joke about teachers, or talk about dreams we were too shy to share with anyone else.

One evening, as the sky draped itself in purple twilight, she stopped in front of the old sycamore tree near her gate.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Always,” I replied.

“You’re the first person I’ve felt completely safe with.”

The words wrapped themselves around my heart like warm hands.

I wanted to tell her I felt the same.
I wanted to tell her she had become the echo in every thought of mine.
I wanted to tell her—

But before I could speak, she leaned forward and rested her forehead on my shoulder. Not quite a hug. Not quite not.

I closed my eyes.

And in that quiet, breathless moment beneath the sycamore tree, we became something unspoken but unmistakable. Something soft. Something ours.

CHAPTER FIVE — The Conflict

Every love story faces its storm.

Ours arrived in the form of her parents’ decision: Lynn would transfer schools at the end of the year.

I found out from her own trembling voice as we sat on the back steps of the hall.

“My dad got a new job,” she whispered, tears gathering. “We’re moving.”

“Where?” I asked, though every part of me already feared the answer.

“Very far.”

The wind stilled.
My thoughts scattered.

“But… why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I asked gently.

“I didn’t know how,” she said. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have.”

“What do we have?” The question came out before I could stop it.

She looked at me then—really looked.

“We have… love, I think,” she said. “Or something dangerously close.”

I swallowed. “I think so too.”

We sat in silence, listening to the distant shouts of the football team practicing on the field. Life went on, unaware of the storm brewing inside two teenagers trying to understand fate.

“Promise me we won’t forget each other,” Lynn finally said.

“Impossible,” I replied.

She smiled weakly. “Then let’s make the most of the time we have left.”

And so we did.

CHAPTER SIX — The Last Days

Those final weeks were a blur of stolen moments—walking slower than necessary after school, sharing warm sodas at the shop near the gate, sitting in the empty classroom during lunch, talking about everything and nothing.

Every smile felt sharper.
Every laugh felt borrowed.
Every touch felt like it carried the weight of goodbye.

On the last day of school, she handed me a small notebook.

“For your stories,” she said.

“Write ours first,” she added softly.

I opened the first page.
There, in her neat handwriting, she had written:

“For Munyao,
who saw me before the world did.”

When I looked up, tears blurred my vision.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

We embraced—really embraced—in the middle of the empty hallway where we first sat together months earlier. Her head rested on my chest, her fingers tightening into the fabric of my shirt as though trying to hold the moment in place.

“I’ll miss you,” she murmured.

“I’ll miss you too.”

And then she left.

Just like that.

But the story did not end there.

It lived on.
It grew.
It became a world I continue to build every time I write.

EPILOGUE — The Memory

Years have passed since that day.
Life has carried me through winding roads and unexpected turns.

But sometimes, when I sit down to write, I still feel the echo of her presence—the quiet strength of her voice telling me that stories build worlds, that memories are blueprints, that love, even brief, can become a foundation.

I do not know where Lynn is today, or if she ever reads the words I send into the world.

But I know this:

The girl who arrived beneath the golden light at Sycamore Hill—the girl who taught me about courage, tenderness, and the fragile beauty of youth—will forever be woven into every story I tell.

Especially this one.

BORN OF SORROW, RAISED IN STRENGTH

A Story Narrated by Muli

By Benjamin Munyao David

I have often wondered why tears come so easily to some people and not to others. My grandmother once told me that tears are simply the body’s way of letting the soul breathe. At the time, I did not understand what she meant. But now, many years later, after all that has unfolded in my life, I finally do. I understand it completely.

My name is Muli, and this is a story of tears—tears shed, tears hidden, tears swallowed, and tears that healed. It is a story I have carried inside me like a heavy stone. For years I tried to forget, but stories have a way of returning, pressing against the heart until they demand to be told.

So today, I will tell mine.

1. THE MORNING THAT NEVER ENDED

The morning it happened began like any other in Kathiani. The sun had just begun pushing its soft, golden fingers above the hills. The roosters were competing for dominance, women were lighting fires, and the distant hum of boda bodas echoed along the dusty murram roads.

But beneath all that normalcy was a heaviness—one only I seemed to feel at the time. My father had not come home the previous night. That alone was not unusual; he was a man with habits that often kept him away. But this time felt different. My mother kept glancing toward the gate, her hands trembling slightly as she stirred the tea.

“Maybe he slept at Ndunda’s place,” she said, though her voice quivered. “They were together yesterday.”

I nodded, but something in me whispered otherwise.

An hour later, a frantic knock broke the fragile calm. I still remember the dread that crawled up my spine as my mother opened the door and found two neighbors—faces pale, eyes avoiding hers.

“Mama Muli…” one of them began.

I don’t remember the rest of the words. I only remember the world spinning, the steaming cup of tea crashing to the floor, and my mother’s knees buckling as the news sliced through our small home like a cold wind.

My father was gone. Taken by a road accident along the Machakos–Wote road. It was quick, they said. It was painless, they said. But the pain it left behind was anything but.

That morning is a wound that never fully healed.

2. SHADOWS OF SURVIVAL

Grief has a way of rearranging a home. Suddenly, there were silences where laughter used to live, and responsibilities that once belonged to someone else now sat heavily on my young shoulders. I was only sixteen, but overnight I became the “man of the house.”

My mother tried, but grief consumed her like slow fire. Some days she rose strong, determined to keep us afloat. Other days she drifted around the house like a ghost, her eyes distant, her voice barely a whisper.

The community helped at first—food donations, prayers, promises. But as months passed, life moved on for everyone else, leaving us to navigate our storm alone.

School fees became a battle. I found myself doing odd jobs: fetching water for neighbors, digging shambas, loading sand onto lorries. I learned to swallow exhaustion the way some people swallow pride.

And through it all, I carried my father’s memory like a weight strapped to my chest—too heavy to lift, too painful to drop.

3. THE UNCLE WHO BROKE THE CHILD IN ME

In every story, there is a character who brings darkness. For me, that character was Uncle Kivuva.

He arrived after my father’s burial, claiming to want to “help the family.” At first, he brought food, paid small bills, even gave me a pair of shoes. But goodwill often wears masks.

Slowly, he began to poison my mother’s hope.

“You cannot manage alone,” he told her.
“These children need a man’s guidance,” he insisted.
“Let me handle the land, the finances, everything.”

And my mother—tired, grieving, desperate—allowed him in. Allowed him too close.

One evening, I overheard him telling her she should sell our small piece of land. Another day, I heard him suggest sending my younger siblings to live with relatives “until things stabilized.”

But the day he laid his hand on my mother—pushing her during an argument—I snapped. I stood between them like a wounded animal ready to fend off a predator.

He slapped me so hard my ears rang.

“You don’t talk to grown men like that,” he growled. “You’re just a boy!”

Maybe I was. But in that moment, a boy became something sharper, something angrier, something unbreakable.

From that day on, I vowed no one would ever make my mother cry again.

4. THE GIRL WITH SMILE-BRIGHT EYES

Life, though cruel, occasionally sprinkles small mercies along our path. Mine came in the form of Kendi, a girl who joined our school mid-term.

Kendi had smile-bright eyes, the kind that seemed to hold sunshine even on the cloudiest days. She laughed easily, walked with purpose, and carried books like they were treasures.

The first time she spoke to me, I had just finished offloading water cans at the borehole.

“You work too hard,” she said.
“And you talk too much,” I replied without thinking.

She laughed.
A sound like bells.

We became friends—slowly, cautiously. She asked questions without pity, listened without judgment, and understood silence better than most people understood words.

One day she asked, “Muli, what do you want from life?”

I didn’t know how to answer that then. Dreams felt like luxuries for other people. But she waited patiently, her eyes soft.

Finally, I whispered, “I want… to be more than my pain.”

She nodded as though she had always known.

5. THE NIGHT THE SKY FELL

It’s strange how tragedy circles back, as though testing how much one heart can endure before it breaks completely.

It was a stormy night—rain hammering the tin roof, thunder shaking the hills. My mother was late from the market, and worry knotted my stomach.

Hours passed.
The storm intensified.
Still no sign of her.

When a neighbor finally knocked at our door past midnight, I knew.
I felt it in my bones.

There had been a confrontation. A quarrel with my uncle over money. Voices raised. People intervened. My mother collapsed.

The diagnosis was vague—“too much stress,” “weak heart,” “shock.” But the truth was simple: grief had eaten away at her until there was barely anything left.

She passed away at dawn.

In that moment, the world lost its color.
I became an orphan.
And every tear I had swallowed for years erupted like a broken dam.

6. RUNNING, FALLING, RISING

After my mother’s burial, everything collapsed. My uncle moved quickly to seize our remaining land. Relatives offered sympathy but not solutions. My siblings were taken in by different households. And I—angry, lost, drowning—ran.

I left Kathiani with nothing but a small bag and a bigger ache.

For months, I drifted between towns—doing construction work in Tala, selling fruit in Machakos, offloading miraa in Nairobi. Life was a constant struggle, but at least it was mine.

Yet something inside me refused to die. A voice, faint but persistent, reminding me of my mother’s sacrifices, my father’s laughter, Kendi’s hope.

I decided to go back to school. It took courage, pride-swallowing, and help from unexpected strangers—people who believed in a broken boy trying to stitch himself back together.

I studied like a man chasing salvation.
Because I was.

7. TEARS THAT BLOOM

Years passed. Slowly, painfully, I rebuilt my life.

I graduated.
Found work.
Reunited my siblings.
Cut ties with my uncle.
Forgave what could be forgiven and released what could not.

And through those years, the meaning of tears changed.
They were no longer signs of weakness, but of growth.
Of healing.
Of remembering.
Of honoring the people I loved.

Pain had shaped me, yes—but it had not defined me.

8. WHY I TELL THIS STORY

I share this story not for pity, not for applause, but for anyone carrying silent wounds. For anyone struggling to breathe beneath the weight of life. For anyone who thinks tears are a sign of defeat.

They are not.

Tears are truth.
Tears are release.
Tears are the seeds from which strength grows.

I am Muli.
A boy born of sorrow.
A man raised in strength.
A soul still learning to love the world despite everything it has taken.

This is my story.
And if it reaches even one heart—if it becomes a mirror, a comfort, a spark—then every tear I ever shed will have been worth it.

FIRE ON TOM MBARAKI ROAD

A Romantic Crime Story Set in Nairobi

Nairobi never forgets.
The city stores its secrets in the cracks of River Road pavements, in the whisper of matatus speeding toward Rongai, in the shimmering dusk that settles over Uhuru Park like burnt orange smoke. And on this particular Thursday evening, the city watched quietly as fate braided the paths of two strangers—one chasing justice, the other running from it.

1. The Night of the Explosion

Detective Amani Karanja tasted metal in the air as soon as she stepped out of her unmarked car on Tom Mboya Street. Sirens howled behind her as firefighters battled the raging flames consuming half of the abandoned warehouse. A warehouse that, according to her intel, housed the heart of Nairobi’s largest illegal firearms syndicate.

Her boss had told her to wait for backup.
But waiting had never been her gift.

“Detective, it’s too dangerous!” a rookie officer shouted as she ducked under the caution tape.

Amani ignored him, her boots crunching on broken glass. The heat from the blaze slapped her face, and through the swirling smoke she saw a shadow dragging itself away from the collapsing structure.

A survivor.

“Hey! Stop!” she yelled, sprinting forward.

The figure staggered, turned—and their eyes locked.

A young man with ash-soaked braids. Jacket torn. Blood streaked across his cheek. A backpack slung over one shoulder. And the most striking pair of brown eyes she had ever seen—startled, intelligent, burning with secrets.

For a second, neither spoke.

Then he bolted.

And Amani chased.

2. The Man Called Kael

His name, she would later learn, was Kael Musyoka, a talented street photographer who made a living selling portraits near the National Archives. His charm was the type that felt accidental—like he didn’t know the world softened when he smiled.

But tonight, there was no softness.
Only desperation.

Kael sprinted across the street, weaving through oncoming cars, horns blaring, pedestrians shouting. Amani followed until her lungs burned and her boots threatened mutiny—but he was fast. Too fast.

He vanished into the labyrinth of downtown Nairobi.

All he left behind was a dropped memory card.

When Amani picked it up, her pulse quickened.

If she could decode its contents, she might finally expose The Black Mamba Syndicate, the group responsible for flooding the city with illegal guns—and the same group she blamed for her father’s death.

And she suspected Kael was either the key… or another enemy.

3. A Photograph Never Lies

The next morning, Nairobi woke to the scent of rain. Footsteps splashed through puddles as the city rushed into its routine chaos.

Amani sat in her office at DCI headquarters, scrolling through the recovered memory card.

Photo after photo flashed across her computer screen:

Street portraits.
Children eating vibanzi.
Boda boda riders laughing outside a garage.
A sunset over Uhuru Park.

Nothing suspicious.

Until she reached the last folder—labeled “NOT FOR PRINT.”

Her breath caught.

Inside were photos taken inside the warehouse. Crates of weapons. Men in tactical gear. A masked figure signing documents. And worst of all—images stamped with a symbol she would know anywhere:

A black mamba coiled around a rifle.

Her father’s killer’s mark.

Her heart hammered.
Kael wasn’t a criminal—he was a witness.

And the syndicate would come for him.

4. Kael’s Hiding Place

Kael paced inside his cramped bedsitter in Ngara, clutching his camera like a lifeline.

He hadn’t meant to get involved.
He had only been hired to take photos of the warehouse for “inventory purposes.” When he realized what was really inside—the guns, the money, the whispers about politicians and hit-lists—he panicked.

Then the explosion happened.
Someone wanted everyone inside dead.
Including him.

So why had the detective chased him instead of shooting him?

He replayed the moment in his mind.
Her eyes—sharp, determined—hadn’t been filled with hatred. They had looked… curious. Concerned.

He shook off the thought.
He didn’t have time for fantasies.

A knock sounded on his door.

Kael froze.

Then—

“It’s Detective Amani. Open the door. I’m not here to arrest you.”

5. Sparks and Suspicion

Kael opened the door a crack.
Amani stood there, rain dripping from her hair, her badge tucked inside her coat.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“You dropped your memory card,” she replied. “Nice photos, by the way. Especially the ones that could get you killed.”

His jaw clenched.
“You think I’m part of them?”

“If you were,” she said, “you wouldn’t be hiding in a bedsitter with a broken padlock. I think you’re a witness. And I think you have more to tell me than the photos show.”

Kael hesitated… then stepped aside.

She entered.

The air between them felt charged, like static after lightning.
Amani noticed the gentle disorder of his room—sketches on the wall, camera lenses on the table, books stacked near the bed. He noticed her unwavering confidence… and the sadness she carried like armor.

For a moment, time slowed.

Then she spoke:
“Tell me everything.”

And Kael did.

6. A Dangerous Alliance

By evening, they had formed an uneasy truce.

Kael would help her identify the men in the photos.
Amani would protect him from the syndicate.

But they both knew the danger closing in.

“So,” Kael said quietly, “what happens when we take them down?”

Amani looked at him, lips curving slightly.
“Maybe then… I’ll take you for coffee.”

He chuckled.
“Java House or one of those small places along Kimathi Street?”

“Surprise me.”

Their eyes lingered.

And the city outside buzzed like it knew something was beginning.

7. The Trap on Thika Road

Two days later, they left Ngara in an undercover car, heading toward a rumored Black Mamba meeting point near Garden City Mall.

Kael sat in the passenger seat, tapping his knee nervously.

“You don’t have to do this,” Amani whispered.

“I do,” Kael replied. “If I don’t help you end this… I’ll never sleep again.”

She admired his bravery.
More than she cared to admit.

As they neared the meeting site, she saw a black SUV parked suspiciously near the underpass.

Her instincts screamed.

“Kael—get down!”

Gunfire erupted.

Bullets shattered the windshield.
Kael ducked.
Amani slammed the car into reverse, drifting dangerously as the SUV gave chase.

Traffic trapped them on both sides.

Then Kael shouted, “This way!”
He pointed to a narrow footpath.

Amani swerved onto it, tires screeching.
Pedestrians leaped out of the way.

They drove until the engine coughed smoke and died.

“Move!” she yelled.

They ran into an abandoned construction site—and found themselves cornered.

The masked leader of Black Mamba stepped forward.

“Well, well,” he said. “Detective Karanja. And the photographer who took inconvenient pictures.”

Amani drew her gun.

Kael stood behind her, heart pounding.

“You killed my father,” she growled.

The leader laughed.
“And now I’ll finish what I started.”

8. When the City Roared

What happened next would become a whispered legend in Nairobi.

Amani fired first.
Kael hurled a stone at one of the gunmen, distracting him long enough for her to disarm him. They fought back-to-back, moving with a strange, perfect rhythm—like this moment had been written for them.

But the leader escaped into the darkness.

“We’ll get him,” Amani vowed, breathing hard.

Kael touched her shoulder gently.
“We will. Together.”

A siren wailed nearby—backup finally arriving.

And as the adrenaline faded, their hands found each other.
Not out of fear.

Out of something deeper.

9. Hearts in the City

Weeks passed.

Arrests were made.
The Black Mamba Syndicate fell apart.
The city began to breathe easier.

One evening, Amani met Kael at Uhuru Park, where the sunset painted the sky with Nairobi’s favorite colors—gold and fire.

He brought coffee.
She brought peace.

“You kept your promise,” she teased.

“I did,” he said softly. “And I have one more.”

He handed her a photograph—a candid shot of her from that first night, standing before the burning warehouse, determination blazing in her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“So are you,” he whispered.

And under the fading amber light, Amani kissed him.

The city didn’t forget this moment either.

10. A New Beginning

Months later, Kael’s photography book launched:
“Light Over Nairobi—Stories Through a Lens.”

Amani stood beside him at the exhibition, proud and glowing.

“Look at us,” Kael said. “Detective and photographer.”

“Partners,” she corrected.

“In crime?” he teased.

“In everything.”

They laughed as cameras flashed around them.

Amani leaned close and whispered,
“You know… I think Nairobi finally gave me something back after taking so much.”

Kael squeezed her hand.
“And I think it’s just the beginning.”

The lights dimmed.
Music played.
Love blossomed in the city where danger once ruled.

And somewhere in Nairobi’s restless heartbeat, two souls found home in each other.

Under the Wisdom Tree: The Story of Peace, Unity, and the Muli Makau Lineage

Narrated by Grandfather Muli & Grandmother Ndungwa

Written by: Benjamin Munyao David

Musoka Village, Yathui Location, Mwala Subcounty, Machakos County

The sun had just begun to soften its heat over the hills of Ukambani, the warm orange glow sliding gently across the slopy ridges of Musoka Village. From far, the land looked as though God Himself had leaned over and brushed it with a golden hand. The winds carried the familiar scent of dry grass, woodsmoke, and ancient stories—stories older than us, older than our parents, and even older than the great tree standing at the center of our grandfather’s compound.

This tree had been our silent witness since childhood. It had watched us grow, play, quarrel, laugh, and return home after long journeys. Its branches curved as if embracing the sky, and its roots stretched deep into the soil, anchoring not just the soil but our memories. Today, it would anchor a story—a story we would carry for life.

On this day, all of us cousins gathered beneath its shade, sitting in a wide circle. I, Benjamin Munyao David, sat right at the front, my notebook open though I knew I wouldn’t need it. Some stories carve themselves into the soul; no ink can hold them better.

To my right was Mbithe, quiet as always but with eyes that missed nothing. Beside her sat Mueni, cheerful and restless, tapping her feet on the dry soil. Charles, Mwendwa, and Kyalo leaned back on their elbows, shading their faces from the light that trickled through the branches. Nzioka, Martin, Ndolo, Michael, Ndinda, and Juma sat in a line behind us.

We were twelve in total, the Muli Makau grandchildren who happened to be present that day—twelve small branches of a tree planted long before any of us were born.

And at the center of this gathering, sitting on their carved stools, were the roots of our lineage:

Grandfather Muli Makau and Grandmother Ndungwa Muli.

They looked at us with the kind of pride that settles deeply into a person—quiet, warm, and unshakable.

Grandfather cleared his throat, and all the small noises in the compound—chirping birds, distant bleating goats, rustling leaves—seemed to pause in respect.

“My children, today we tell you the story of unity, the story of why peace must live in your hearts like breath itself.”

THE BEGINNING OF THE LESSON

Grandmother Ndungwa, covered in her bright leso, leaned forward slightly.

“You see this land?” she began, pointing toward the hills. “This land remembers everything. It remembers the footsteps of those who fought, those who loved, and those who built. And it remembers the families that lived as one.”

She looked at each of us slowly, her eyes shining beneath the afternoon light.

“A family that walks together cannot fall apart. A family filled with love does not get broken by small storms.”

Grandfather nodded and continued.

“In life, my children, nothing grows without peace. Not crops, not families, not dreams. Even this great tree above your heads—it lives because nothing disturbs its roots.”

We glanced upward at the wide crown of branches. The tree seemed to agree.

THE STORY OF THE THREE BROTHERS OF UKAMBANI

Grandfather leaned back, his voice taking on that storytelling rhythm that belonged only to elders.

“Long ago, here in Ukambani, there lived three brothers born of one father,” he began. “Their father was a great herdsman, strong and respected. When he died, he left his sons many cows, goats, and land.

“But the brothers—though born of one womb of the land—were very different.

“The first brother was wise, the second was proud, and the third loved peace above all.”

We listened, drawn in.

“One day, a long drought came. The wells dried, the grass turned to dust. The brothers had to decide whether to share what they had or fight for it.

“The proud brother said, ‘Let each man stand alone. What is mine is mine!’

“The wise brother said, ‘Let us divide fairly so that no one is left hungry.’

“But the peaceful brother said, ‘Brothers, before we divide cows or goats, let us divide our hearts from conflict. For no wealth grows from hatred.’”

Grandfather paused, letting the words settle.

“In the end,” Grandmother added, “the two brothers saw that anger does not fill the stomach. They shared their land, worked together, dug new wells, and planted drought-resistant crops. And when the rains came back, they were stronger—not because of wealth, but because they stayed united.”

She lifted a hand toward us.

“That, my children, is the power of peace. Peace grows wealth. Peace grows respect. Peace grows the future.”

THE HEART OF A FAMILY

Grandfather looked deep into the open compound, as though seeing his past far beyond the present.

“You all come from the lineage of Muli Makau and Ndungwa, and our parents before us. You come from people who worked hard, who shared what little they had, who never let disputes divide them.”

He pointed gently at each one of us.

“Mbithe, Mueni, Charles, Mwendwa, Kyalo, Nzioka, Martin, Ndolo, Michael, Ndinda, Juma, and you Benjamin—
all of you carry the same blood. You are leaves of one tree. Never forget that.”

Grandmother added softly,
“You must be each other’s strength, not each other’s burden.”

“When one of you falls, lift them. When one of you rises, cheer for them.
Jealousy is a fire that burns its owner.
Unity is water that nourishes all.”

THE LESSON OF THE TREE

Grandfather gestured toward the massive tree shading us.

“You see this tree?” he asked.

We nodded.

“When Makau Mbisi—my own father—first brought us here, this tree was small. Just a thin stick with a few leaves. But we watered it, protected it, and allowed it space. And now look at it.”

We all looked. The branches formed a living umbrella above us.

“This tree is like a family,” he continued. “If you uproot it, the wind will carry it away. But if you help it grow, it will shade your children and your children’s children.”

Grandmother added:

“A peaceful family stands tall like this tree. A divided family withers like a branch cut from its trunk.”

THE FUTURE BELONGS TO YOU

The air had changed. Even the youngest cousins were completely silent.

Grandfather spoke again, his voice low but powerful.

“You, the young generation, must carry unity like a shield. Ukambani has changed. The world has changed. But the heart of a family must remain strong.”

He pointed down the slope where the hills dipped toward the horizon.

“The future is waiting for you down there. Some of you will be doctors, engineers, teachers, leaders, business people, or farmers. Some will build homes outside Musoka Village, others will stay.”

Grandmother smiled warmly.

“But wherever you go, whatever you become, remember your roots. Remember home. Remember peace.”

THE PROMISE OF PROSPERITY

Grandfather stood up slowly, leaning on his carved walking stick.

“Let me tell you one truth that will carry you through life,” he said.
“Prosperity does not come from fighting. Development does not grow where hatred lives. Only unity builds anything worth keeping.”

He tapped his chest.

“When I was a young man, I had friends and brothers who fought over inheritance, over land, over words spoken in anger. But those who united, who forgave each other, who worked hand in hand—those are the ones whose children prosper today.”

Grandmother followed:

“And that is what we want for you. Prosperity. Development. A good name. A strong lineage.”

She looked at us with eyes full of love.

“But you cannot achieve these things unless you love each other. Respect each other. Stand together.”

THE EVENING BLESSING

As the sun settled behind the hills, casting long golden shadows across the compound, the two elders lifted their hands over us.

“My children,” Grandfather said softly, “may peace follow you like a faithful companion.”

Grandmother added,
“May unity live in your hearts. May love fill your homes. May you prosper in everything you do.”

We bowed our heads.

And in that moment, beneath the ancient tree of Musoka Village, surrounded by cousins who will walk the journey of life beside me, I felt something unbreakable settle inside us:

The power of family.
The strength of unity.
The blessing of peace.

And I knew, without doubt, that we would carry this story with us—not just as listeners,
but as the next storytellers of the Muli Makau lineage.