Chapter One: The Dust of Makueni

CRY OF THE POOR
By Benjamin Munyao David

The morning sun crawled slowly over the dry ridges of Makueni, throwing long shadows across the cracked earth. The wind carried the scent of dust, hunger, and quiet desperation. The village of Kiumoni lay silent, its thatched roofs half-collapsed, its paths scarred by drought and time. From the distance came the sound of a rooster — faint, tired, as though even the animals had lost the will to greet another day of want.

At the edge of the village stood Naomi, a mother of three, her back bent from years of carrying water from a well that was now dry. Her youngest, Mutheu, clung to her skirt, his ribs visible beneath his faded shirt. Beside them, a yellow jerrican rolled over the dust, empty — as empty as the promises made by the leaders who never came back after election day.

“Today we go farther,” Naomi said softly, her voice cracked but firm. “There’s water near the old hills. We’ll walk before the sun becomes cruel.”

She wrapped a worn leso around her head and began the long walk, her feet bare and calloused. The horizon shimmered with heat. Behind her, Mutheu stumbled, dust rising around his small feet like a halo of suffering.

Chapter Two: Dreams in the Dust

Naomi’s husband, Muli, had once been a teacher. Before the droughts, before the government closed rural schools for lack of funds, he used to sit under the shade of a baobab tree and teach children the meaning of hope. He told them that books were ladders — that through learning, one could climb out of poverty’s pit. But poverty had no mercy; it swallowed even the strongest dreamers.

When the rains stopped three years ago, Muli went to Nairobi to look for work. He sent one letter, then nothing more. Rumors said he had joined the army of street boys scavenging for scraps near Dandora. Others said he had died in the protests. Naomi refused to believe either story.

At night, when the children slept, she would sit outside her hut and whisper to the wind, “Muli, if you can hear me, we are still waiting. The children still believe.”

Chapter Three: The Politician’s Convoy

The day the convoy came, the village stirred for the first time in months. A cloud of dust rose on the main road, and the sound of engines echoed through the valley. Children ran barefoot to see. Women adjusted their torn dresses. Men leaned on their jembes, squinting at the shiny vehicles that smelled of power and distant cities.

Out stepped Honorable Kilonzo, smiling wide, his shirt spotless white, his belly full of comfort. He spoke of development, of boreholes, of the future. Cameras clicked as he handed out sacks of unga and took pictures beside old women who had forgotten the taste of sugar.

Naomi stood at the back, her eyes not on the politician but on the boy next to him — her son Mutua, now a street vendor in town, who had disappeared a year earlier. She gasped. He looked older, thinner, his eyes distant.

When the convoy left, Naomi ran toward the road, shouting his name. But the dust swallowed her cries, and all that remained was the echo — a mother’s voice lost in the wind.

Chapter Four: The Rain that Never Came

That night, the clouds gathered but gave no rain. Lightning flashed across the hills, mocking the dry land below. The people prayed. The pastors shouted into the darkness. Children lifted their small hands to the sky. But the heavens remained silent.

Naomi’s youngest child, Mutheu, fell ill. His lips cracked, and his small body burned with fever. The clinic, ten kilometers away, had no medicine. The nurse, weary and unpaid, shook her head.

Naomi carried her son back home, his body limp in her arms. Under the dying moon, she wept. Her tears mixed with the dust, forming small circles of mud that quickly dried away — like hope itself.

Chapter Five: The Cry

When Mutheu’s breath grew faint, Naomi sang to him — the lullaby her mother once sang when the world still felt safe.

“Sleep, my child, the stars will guard you.
The night is kind, though the day was cruel.”

Mutheu smiled weakly, his eyes reflecting the small flame of their kerosene lamp.
“Will we have rain tomorrow, Mama?” he whispered.
“Yes, my son,” she said. “Rain and maize and laughter.”

He closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Naomi’s wail that followed pierced the silence of the valley. Dogs barked. The night froze. The villagers heard her cry and knew another soul had been claimed by poverty — that unspoken monster that fed on their dreams.

Chapter Six: Rising from the Ashes

For days, Naomi stayed in her hut, refusing food, refusing words. Then one dawn, she woke to the sound of feet outside — children’s feet. The village children stood there, holding empty jerricans, their eyes full of trust.

“Teach us, Mama Mutheu,” they said. “Tell us stories, like Muli used to. Tell us how we can fight the hunger.”

Naomi looked at them — faces thin but burning with life. And in that moment, something inside her shifted. The world had taken everything, but it could not take her voice.

She began teaching under the old baobab tree, using sticks to draw letters on the earth. She told them of heroes who rose from nothing, of women who changed nations, of hope that grows even in barren soil.

Her voice carried through the village, rising above despair like a song. And when she looked to the horizon, she swore she saw Muli — not as a ghost, but as memory and strength.

Chapter Seven: The Rain Returns

Months passed. Naomi’s small school grew. NGOs visited. A well was dug. The children drank, laughed, and sang songs about tomorrow.

The rains came at last — slow at first, then in torrents. The earth drank greedily. Crops sprouted where graves once marked hunger’s victims. The people danced in the rain, their faces turned upward, their cries mixing joy and sorrow.

Naomi stood alone under the baobab, tears mingling with rain.
She whispered, “Mutheu, you were the seed. Your cry reached the heavens.”

Chapter Eight: Beyond the Horizon

Years later, journalists came to Kiumoni to film a story called The Cry of the Poor. They found a thriving school named Mutheu Academy. Children with bright uniforms recited poems about freedom and faith. Naomi, now gray-haired and dignified, spoke to them.

“We are not poor because we have nothing,” she said softly. “We are poor when we stop believing that we can rise.”

She looked beyond the camera to the horizon — toward the hills that once mocked her. The wind blew gently, carrying with it voices of the past — of Muli, of Mutheu, of countless mothers who had cried into the dust but refused to be silenced.

And somewhere in that wind, the world finally heard the cry of the poor — not as a wail of despair, but as a call to action.

Epilogue: The Song of Tomorrow

Now, when the rains fall on Kiumoni, the children run through the puddles, singing songs Naomi taught them:

“We were dust, but we rose.
We were hungry, but we dreamed.
We cried, but our tears became rivers.”

Naomi watches from her doorway, the sky glowing orange as the sun sets behind the green hills. She smiles, knowing the story of her people will live on — carried by the wind, whispered through generations.

Because in every corner of Africa where hunger still bites, where hope still flickers, someone remembers Kiumoni.
Someone remembers the woman who refused to stop believing.

And so the cry of the poor becomes the song of the strong.

~ End ~

BORN IN THE HUSTLE: Based on a True Story By Benjamin Munyao David

Chapter One: The City That Never Sleeps

The sun rose over Nairobi like a promise it never kept.
Its light fell on the iron sheets of Kibera, on the matatus screeching past, on the hawkers already shouting their prices before dawn. In those narrow streets filled with smoke, sweat, and dreams, Munyao stood with a bundle of mitumba shirts on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the city skyline — a horizon made of glass towers and broken hopes.

“Bro, leo lazima tuuze,” said Kevo, tightening the rope around his bale. “No eating before selling.”

Munyao nodded. Hunger was no longer new; it was part of the hustle. He’d left his rural home in Kitui five years ago, chasing the Nairobi dream. He thought the city would open its arms, but it had only opened its teeth. Every day, he and his crew — Kevo, Bena, Shiku, Njoro, Sam, and Johny — ran through the same rhythm: sell, hide, run from the city council askaris, and sell again.

The streets were their battlefield; mitumba their weapon.

Chapter Two: The Streets Teach

Tom Mboya Street was alive that morning — matatus painted with faces of dancehall stars, loud music from speakers tied with wires, and the smell of roasted maize mixing with diesel.

Shiku, the only woman in their crew, spread her clothes neatly on a sack. “Presentation is key,” she said with pride. “People buy with their eyes first.”

“Ati presentation?” laughed Njoro, tossing a shirt at a passing customer. “Hii ni hustle, not fashion week.”

But deep down, they all admired her courage. While they hid behind words, she faced every challenge with fire.

The city council truck appeared suddenly, the white one with the faded blue stripe — the same one that had chased them yesterday.

“Kanjo! Kanjo!” someone shouted.

In seconds, the street exploded. Clothes flew into the air, people scattered, and the truck screeched to a stop. Munyao grabbed his sack and ran, his slippers slapping the tarmac. He darted through alleys, past kiosks, into a side street near River Road. His heart raced — not from fear, but from the thrill.

They hid behind a broken billboard until the truck was gone. Kevo laughed first. “Eeeh, my guy, you run faster than Harambee Stars!”

Bena panted. “If only running could pay rent.”

They all laughed, even as they wiped sweat from their faces. That’s how they survived — laughter in the middle of chaos.

Chapter Three: Dreams in Dust

That night, the crew gathered around a small fire outside Munyao’s room. The single bulb hanging from a wire blinked weakly. They passed a jug of porridge, their dinner for the night.

“Me, I want to open a shop one day,” said Johny, his voice calm. “A real shop with hangers and customers who don’t run away.”

Kevo grinned. “And you’ll sell what? Dreams?”

“No, bro. Dignity,” Johny said. “Because that’s the one thing we lose every time we run.”

His words silenced them. Even the fire seemed to listen.

Munyao looked into the flames. He saw more than fire — he saw his mother’s face, the dry land back home, the promise he made to send money. Nairobi had made him harder, yes, but not heartless. He had a purpose — to rise, no matter how many times the city pushed him down.

Chapter Four: The Fall

Weeks later, during the festive rush, business boomed. Customers filled the streets, buying everything from shoes to second-hand jackets. Munyao’s stall overflowed with clothes. He could almost smell success.

Then it happened.

The askaris struck again — this time with brutality. They confiscated bales, overturned stalls, and beat anyone who resisted. Munyao tried to grab his stock, but one of them shoved him hard. He fell, watching as his shirts scattered like leaves in the wind.

When it was over, he had nothing.

The crew regrouped at their hideout, bruised and silent. The silence was heavy — like defeat.

Shiku broke it first. “We can’t keep living like this.”

Bena kicked a stone. “Then what do we do?”

“Fight,” said Munyao quietly.

They turned to him.

“Not with fists,” he continued, “but with unity. Let’s form our own group — a mitumba association. Let’s rent one space, share it, and pay together. That way, they can’t scatter us like dirt.”

It was a wild idea — but in that moment, it felt like light.

Chapter Five: The Rise

Three months later, the group pooled their savings. It wasn’t much — just enough to rent a small corner stall in Gikomba. They called it “The Hustlers’ Base.”

Every morning, they opened together. Every night, they shared tea and counted coins. Slowly, word spread — their stall had the best deals and the most honest sellers.

Customers came back.

Hope came back too.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the skyline, Munyao stood outside the stall, watching the crowd. He smiled. They had built something out of nothing.

Johny joined him. “Bro, remember when we used to run every day?”

Munyao laughed softly. “Now we run the business.”

Chapter Six: The True Hustle

Months turned into years. The stall grew, became two, then three. They hired other young hawkers who had once lived on the streets.

Still, Munyao never forgot the chase, the fear, or the laughter under broken billboards. The streets had raised him — rough, but real.

One day, a journalist visited, drawn by their story. She asked Munyao, “What does hustle mean to you?”

He looked around — at the crowd, the noise, the life.

“Hustle,” he said slowly, “isn’t just selling clothes. It’s selling hope — every single day you wake up with nothing, and still believe you can make something.”

Chapter Seven: Born in the Hustle

Years later, when the city finally granted hawkers official spaces, the Hustlers’ Base became a model.
Kevo handled supplies, Shiku ran accounting, Bena did marketing on social media, and Johny became the stall manager.

And Munyao — the boy who once ran barefoot from askaris — became a mentor to new traders.

He often told them, “Don’t fear the streets. Fear giving up.”

Sometimes he’d walk alone through the old alleys, now paved and cleaner. He’d see young hawkers shouting prices just as he once did, and he’d smile. The city had not changed much — but he had.

He was no longer just surviving. He was living proof that hustle could build something beautiful.

Chapter Eight: The Promise

At night, Munyao wrote in a worn notebook — his story, their story.
He titled it Born in the Hustle.

Not for fame, not for money, but to remind every dreamer that Nairobi doesn’t belong only to the rich and powerful. It belongs to those who wake before dawn, to those who fall and rise again, to those whose hands carry the scent of work and hope.

He wrote of Kevo’s laughter, of Shiku’s wisdom, of Njoro’s stubborn courage, of Sam’s quiet loyalty, of Bena’s jokes that carried through the toughest days, and of Johny’s unbreakable belief that dignity can’t be sold or stolen.

He ended the story with a single line:

“We were born in the hustle — but we were never meant to die there.”

THE END

Chapter One: The Dawn of Tomorrow

BLACK CHILD

The first light over the new Nairobi was not sunlight. It was a pulse of silver radiance rippling through the glass veins of the city — towers that reached toward the blue horizon, their sides shimmering with data streams and solar energy. The year was 2089, and Kenya had become one of Earth’s luminous hearts — a beacon of renewal after decades of climate struggles and global division.

In the midst of the glimmering skyline, Amani Njeri, a twelve-year-old girl from Kibera’s renewal district, woke to the hum of solar drones. Her name meant peace, a name her mother often said was both a blessing and a burden.

The air smelled faintly of metal and wet soil. The rains had just stopped. Through the window of their small but bright apartment — built on the old foundations of Nairobi’s once-forgotten neighborhoods — Amani could see the Pan-African Unity Spire, piercing the sky like a promise.

It was Unity Day — a global celebration when every nation connected through holographic networks to share stories of their children, the leaders of tomorrow. And Amani had been chosen to speak for Kenya.

Her hands trembled as she adjusted the small chip at her wrist — her translator, communicator, and learning link. One voice, one child, one world, the invitation had said. But how could her small voice reach the world?

Chapter Two: The Girl Who Dreamed in Two Worlds

Amani’s mother, Mwikali, brewed chai while listening to the morning news flicker through the wall-screen. “Leaders from across the globe will gather virtually under the Nairobi Charter to renew the Peace Accord—”

“Do you think they’ll listen to me?” Amani asked softly.

Mwikali smiled, her eyes tired but bright. “They will, my child. Because you will not speak for Kenya alone — you will speak for the forgotten children who carried the future on their backs.”

Amani remembered the old days her mother spoke of — when floods devoured villages, when nations closed their borders, when fear replaced friendship. But those days were said to be gone. Humanity had rebuilt itself through cooperation, not conquest. Nairobi had become a capital of unity technology — innovation meant for global healing.

Still, Amani felt the weight of something older than machines — something that could not be programmed. She had dreams, strange ones, where she saw two worlds: one bathed in harmony, another in ruin. Both seemed to depend on her voice.

Chapter Three: Echoes of the Earth

By noon, the city shimmered with color. Flags of every nation flapped along the floating boulevards. Holographic lights projected messages of peace onto clouds drifting over the Nairobi skyline.

Amani walked through the Unity Gardens, where digital trees glowed with memories of the planet — every leaf coded with the DNA of extinct species. Children played beneath them, laughing, learning from projections of history.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said her friend Tobias, a boy from the solar colonies in Garissa. “We built this world together.”

“Maybe,” Amani said. “But sometimes I feel like the Earth still cries beneath us.”

Tobias frowned. “You sound like the elders. Always worrying about ghosts.”

But Amani knew what she felt wasn’t superstition. It was truth. In her dreams, she heard whispers — the voices of ancestors, of children who never got the chance to see this shining world.

That evening, as the sun dipped and drones lit the city in gold, Amani stood before the Great Amphitheatre of Humanity, where millions of virtual faces waited to hear her words. Her pulse throbbed with fear and purpose.

Chapter Four: The Speech

The world watched.

“Hello,” Amani began, her voice trembling through the infinite network. “My name is Amani Njeri, from the Republic of Kenya — from the land of light and storms.”

She paused, breathing in. “I was told that we live in a world without borders now. That humanity is one. But when I look deeper, I still see walls — not of concrete, but of heart. We say we are united, yet some still suffer silently. The Earth heals, but slowly. And so must we.”

The holographic ocean rippled with applause. But Amani continued, voice growing stronger.

“When my mother was my age, she walked through floods to find clean water. When my grandmother was my age, she walked through fear to find freedom. And now I walk through a world built from their hope. But hope must be tended like a garden. If we forget where we came from, the flowers of tomorrow will wither.”

Her eyes gleamed as she raised her wrist chip. The city lights dimmed. Above her, a vast hologram of the Earth rotated, glowing softly.

“I don’t dream of Kenya or Africa alone,” she said. “I dream of Earth — one home, one heartbeat.”

Her words echoed across continents, translated into every tongue. Some cried. Some smiled. All listened.

Chapter Five: The Night of Light

After her speech, Amani walked through the silent streets of Nairobi. The towers hummed gently, like old lullabies. The moon — no longer white, but tinted blue by atmospheric tech — hung above her like an ancient guardian.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was her mother.

“You did well, mwanangu,” Mwikali whispered. “Your voice traveled farther than you know.”

“But will they change?” Amani asked.

Her mother smiled. “Change is a seed, not a storm. You’ve planted it.”

That night, the world pulsed with messages of unity. From Rio to Seoul, from Lagos to Toronto, children shared their visions for peace. A movement began — not led by politicians or scientists, but by young hearts who refused to forget compassion.

And deep within the Earth’s networks, algorithms designed to predict humanity’s future began to shift, subtly altering their forecasts. The probability of global peace rose — by 0.07%. It was small, but it was real.

Chapter Six: Tomorrow’s Voice

Years later, the story of Amani Njeri became legend. She became an ambassador for the Global Harmony Initiative, traveling across nations to rebuild empathy in the age of machines.

But even as technology reached new heights — cities on Mars, oceans turned to energy — she remained grounded in one truth: the greatest innovation was love.

Standing once more on the same balcony overlooking Nairobi’s glowing horizon, Amani whispered to the wind:

“We were not made to conquer the stars, but to understand each other beneath them.”

And in that whisper, the world remembered.

Epilogue: The Child and the Earth

In the far future, long after Amani’s time, a young girl found an ancient recording buried in the archives of Old Nairobi. It was Amani’s speech.

The hologram flickered to life — a small Black child standing against the skyline, eyes full of fire.

The girl listened, tears glimmering in her eyes. Outside, cities still gleamed with steel and light, but something changed in the air — a reminder of the heartbeat beneath the circuits.

The world had survived wars, plagues, and storms. But it was a child’s voice that had once rekindled its soul.

BLACK CHILD is not just a story — it is a song for tomorrow.
A reminder that even in the most advanced future, humanity’s truest power lies not in machines, but in memory, mercy, and love.

“The Sun Spoke in Ukambani: Chronicle of the Red Earth Prophet”

(A Poetic Narrative of Land, Spirit, and the Voice of Kenya)

Scene I — The Birth of Dust and Dawn

In the beginning, before the footstep of man pressed its remembrance upon the clay, the hills of Ukambani breathed in silence. They rose like sleeping lions under the breath of God, red-soiled and endless, their flanks brushed by acacia and the patient wind. Then came the dawn — a low, golden whisper spilling over the ridges — and from that whisper, a cry.

The cry belonged to the Poet-Prophet, a child of dust and dream. No one knew his name, for names were given by those who remembered history, and he was born from prophecy. His mother said the stars knelt low the night he came, and his father, a herder of the plains, claimed that the soil turned warm where the boy took his first breath.

They called him simply Mumo, which in the tongue of his people meant one born of peace, yet sent to stir the winds.

Scene II — The Calling of the Wind

When Mumo grew, he walked barefoot upon the glowing dust. He loved how the soil whispered stories into his skin — stories of rivers that once ran full, of drums that once spoke to the moon, of kingdoms that rose and folded like songs.

One evening, as the crimson sun bled upon the far horizon, Mumo heard the wind murmur his destiny.

“Child of the red earth,” it said, “the land remembers, but men forget. Speak, that they may listen. Dream, that they may awaken.”

So he began to write upon the air. Not with ink, but with breath. He carved poems into the silence between cicadas, and sang verses to the cattle that grazed in the dying light. Villagers said that when he spoke, even the stones leaned closer to listen.

He did not seek fame, for fame was a feather in the whirlwind — easily lost, easily replaced. What he sought was remembrance — that his people might once more see the sacred beneath the ordinary, that they might know the soil not as earth, but as ancestor.

Scene III — The Journey to Kilungu Hills

When the dry season lengthened, Mumo left his village and journeyed toward the Kilungu Hills, where it was said the sky touched the earth and dreams could find their echo.

The path was red and wide, dotted with thorn trees that bore the marks of time — twisted roots like veins of memory. Along the way, he met the women who sang as they fetched water from deep wells. Their laughter was a prayer, their endurance a hymn.

He asked them,

“Why do you sing when the wells grow dry?”

One woman, old as the hills, smiled.

“Because, son, songs draw rain. And even if it does not fall from the clouds, it falls within us — and that keeps the land alive.”

He bowed before her wisdom. The poet-prophet walked on, carrying her words like seeds within his chest.

Scene IV — The Spirit of Nairobi

When Mumo reached the great city — Nairobi, the mirror of modernity — he felt the heartbeat of Kenya pulsing in every street. Towers gleamed like spears turned upward; cars roared like restless rivers. Yet beneath the noise, he sensed an ache.

He stood upon Uhuru Park’s hill and whispered,

“Have we traded our roots for reflections?”

A child selling roasted maize looked at him curiously. “Baba, why do you talk to the wind?”

Mumo smiled, handing the boy a coin. “Because the wind remembers everything, even what people forget.”

At night he walked through the city’s veins — River Road, Tom Mboya, Haile Selassie — and he saw faces illuminated by ambition and exhaustion alike. He realized then that Kenya’s greatness was not in her buildings, but in her people: the dreamers, the strugglers, the believers.

So he lifted his eyes to the city lights and prayed:

“May these stars of man never outshine the stars of heaven. Let progress walk beside compassion, not ahead of it.”

Scene V — The Valley of Echoes

Returning southward, Mumo reached a valley known in legend as Nzia ya Mavinda — the Path of Echoes. There, ancient griots said the spirits of ancestors still lingered, listening for voices worthy to continue their song.

He knelt upon the earth and pressed his ear to the ground. Beneath him, he heard the hum of time — the voices of warriors who had guarded the land, of women who had tilled and sung, of children whose laughter had once called the rain.

“Mumo,” the earth spoke, “your people have become wanderers in their own inheritance. Speak to them of the tree that does not forget its roots.”

So he rose, his heart burning with revelation. He began to write verses upon banana leaves, upon old newspapers, upon anything that could bear witness. The words were both lament and resurrection:

We are the sons of red dust and dawn,
We are the breath of the hill and the horn.
When we forget the song of soil,
The rivers close their eyes.

Scene VI — The Return and the Flame

Years passed. His hair greyed, his sandals wore thin, but his spirit remained luminous. When he returned to his home village, children ran to greet him, their laughter ringing like bells.

He gathered them beneath the acacia tree and began to tell them the story of Kenya — not the one written in books, but the one written in hearts. He told of courage that built nations, of unity stronger than tribes, of the sun that rose for all without choosing sides.

“My children,” he said, “the soil beneath your feet does not ask your language or your clan. It only asks — do you love it enough to protect it?”

The children nodded, their eyes wide and bright. One girl asked,

“And when we grow old, what shall we tell our children?”

He smiled, looking toward the horizon where the red earth met the sky.

“Tell them this: that we once lived as dust, but the dust remembered it was divine.”

Scene VII — The Prophecy of the Land

That night, Mumo dreamt of Kenya as a great tree. Its roots sank deep into Ukambani, its trunk rose through the Rift Valley, and its branches reached the coasts and mountains, holding within them every dialect, every drumbeat, every prayer.

But the tree trembled — for storms were gathering: greed, forgetfulness, division. Then a voice thundered from the sky,

“Let the poets rise again, for only they can remind kings of silence, and teach warriors the rhythm of mercy.”

When he awoke, dawn had already painted the hills with gold. He took his walking stick and carved into it these words:

“ The Land is Alive.”

And wherever he walked, he spoke that truth until the people began to believe again.

Scene VIII — The Great Gathering

Word spread of the poet-prophet who spoke to wind and earth alike. From Makueni to Machakos, from Kitui to Nairobi, people gathered to hear him. Farmers came with calloused hands, teachers with chalk-stained fingers, mothers with babies tied to their backs, and youth with eyes full of searching.

He stood upon a flat rock beneath a vast sky and began:

“Kenya, oh mother of many tongues,
remember your first language — love.
Ukambani, cradle of the red dust,
remember your covenant with rain.
Let every tribe be a color in the same rainbow,
let every heart be a drum in the same rhythm.”

When he finished, silence fell — not empty, but sacred. The wind moved through the crowd like a soft tide, and somewhere far away, thunder answered.

Scene IX — The Passing of the Poet

Years later, when Mumo’s time came to return to the dust he had worshipped, he did not fear. He lay beneath the same acacia tree where his songs had once begun, and the earth itself seemed to sigh.

Children and elders gathered. They asked,

“What shall we do when your voice is gone?”

He whispered, his breath fading like a sunset,

“Listen not for my voice — listen for the wind, the rain, the soil. My song is there. It always will be.”

And as his eyes closed, the first drops of rain began to fall, darkening the red soil, sealing his words into eternity.

Scene X — The Inheritance

Generations passed. Roads cut through the valleys, cities grew taller, and time marched onward. Yet in the hills of Ukambani, when the sun sets and the dust turns to fire, people still tell of the Poet-Prophet of the Red Earth.

They say that when the wind passes through the acacia trees, you can hear him still — not as a ghost, but as a memory alive.

“The land is alive,” they whisper, “and those who love it never die.”

And so Kenya endures — not as a map, but as a heartbeat.
A rhythm sung by farmers, builders, dreamers, and children —
A song older than politics, louder than sorrow,
A song called home.

END

Chapter One: The City of Rhythms

Title: A Love Letter
By Benjamin Munyao David

Nairobi woke up like a restless lover—loud, alive, and unrelenting. The streets hummed with the sound of matatus honking their way through Kenyatta Avenue, each graffiti-covered vehicle carrying a mix of dreams, laughter, and heartbreak. The city was a pulse, a living organism breathing the stories of millions.

Munyao stood by the open window of his small apartment in South B, watching the sunrise spill gold across the skyline. The faint sound of a rooster from a nearby compound blended with the morning call of a mosque and the ringing bells of St. Catherine’s church. It was a harmony only Nairobi could produce.

He had lived in the city for eight years—long enough to understand its charm and cruelty. By day, he worked as a junior architect at a firm near Westlands. By night, he wrote—stories, letters, and sometimes, regrets.

This morning, though, his mind was far from blueprints or deadlines. It was consumed by one thing—Mbula.

Chapter Two: The Circle

Mbula had eyes that carried the peace of the countryside and the mystery of the city. She was studying at the University of Nairobi when they met—an unplanned encounter at a poetry night in Kilimani.

That night, the microphone had passed from one nervous poet to another, until she stood up. Her voice was soft, almost trembling, but every word hit like rain on dry earth.

“Love,” she had said, “is not a song—it’s a storm.”

Munyao remembered how his heart had stilled.

In the weeks that followed, they spoke often. He would walk her to her hostel gate, then linger by the roadside just to watch her disappear into the courtyard lights. They were not yet lovers, but the silence between them was full of possibilities.

Then came Mueni—the beautiful chaos.

Mueni worked in the same office as Munyao. She was bold, unfiltered, with laughter that could silence a room. She loved life fiercely, and she loved Munyao even more fiercely. But unlike Mbula, Mueni’s love was not gentle—it demanded, it consumed, it broke rules.

Between them stood Franciscar, Mueni’s best friend, the wise observer who often warned, “Mueni, love that burns too hot leaves ashes.”

But Mueni didn’t listen.

Chapter Three: The Rivalry

One evening, as the city sank into twilight, Munyao found himself at Java Kimathi Street—the neutral ground where friendships were tested and hearts broke quietly over cappuccinos.

Mueni had called him there, her tone too calm to be casual. When he arrived, he found James, his childhood friend, already seated.

James had once dated Mbula, years before she met Munyao. It was one of those coincidences life throws at you when it wants to test your resolve.

The conversation was civil at first, until Mueni’s voice cut through:

“So, Munyao, who is she to you now—friend or forever?”

Munyao froze.

James looked at him, half-smiling. “You still writing letters to her?”

Silence.

The truth was that he had written dozens—but never sent them. One lay unfinished on his desk that very morning, starting with, “My dearest Mbula, I hope the sun still finds your face first each day.”

Chapter Four: The Letter

That night, rain fell hard on Nairobi. Munyao sat by his desk, pen trembling, and began to write—the letter that would change everything.

My dearest Mbula,

The city hasn’t changed much, though I have. I see you in every sunrise, in the laughter of strangers, in the smell of roasted maize along Moi Avenue. I tried to forget you, but how does one forget a heartbeat?

Do you remember that evening in Karura, when we got lost on the trail and ended up sitting under the giant fig tree? You said every tree remembers the hands that planted it. I wonder if you ever think of me the same way—rooted in your memory.

I thought I could build walls with my work, but love keeps seeping through the cracks. Mueni is kind, yes—but she is not you. She loves me loudly. You loved me quietly. And sometimes, silence speaks louder.

If this letter reaches you, it means I’ve found the courage to let the truth breathe. If it doesn’t, then perhaps I’ve finally learned that love, like Nairobi, doesn’t always give closure—it only gives lessons.

Always,
Munyao.

He sealed it and placed it in his drawer, uncertain if he’d ever send it.

Chapter Five: The Collision

Fate, however, is never patient.

Two days later, Mueni found the letter. She had come by his apartment unannounced, holding a pack of samosas and that radiant smile that made everything seem normal. But as he showered, she wandered to the desk, opened the drawer—and found the envelope marked “Mbula.”

When he came out, towel draped over his shoulders, he saw her holding it.

Her eyes were glassy.

“So it’s true,” she whispered. “All this time, I’ve been loving a man chasing a ghost.”

He tried to explain, but the truth was louder than words. She walked out, leaving behind the smell of heartbreak and cardamom.

Chapter Six: The Turning

Days passed. Work became noise. Friends became strangers. Even Franciscar, ever the mediator, avoided the tension.

It was John, Munyao’s colleague and quiet confidant, who finally spoke to him.

“You can’t heal what you hide, bro. Send the letter—or burn it.”

Munyao nodded. That night, he walked through Uhuru Park, the letter clutched in his hand. The city was asleep, save for the distant hum of matatus on Haile Selassie Avenue.

He stood by the lake, took a breath, and whispered,

“If love is meant, it will find its way.”

He dropped the letter into the postbox the next morning.

Chapter Seven: The Return

Three weeks later, an envelope arrived.
The handwriting was familiar—slanted, graceful, like a memory in ink.

My dear Munyao,

I read your words beneath the jacaranda trees at campus. I smiled, I cried, I remembered. You once told me that Nairobi hides love stories in its traffic jams and street corners. Maybe ours was just one of them.

James and I are friends now—nothing more. Life has taught me that some loves are meant to be lived, not kept. But you… you have a heart that builds more than houses. You build feelings.

Don’t chase me, Munyao. Build your world. Let your heart rest. And if we ever meet again, may it be as two souls who learned to love the world first, then each other.

—Mbula.

Chapter Eight: The Awakening

He folded the letter and looked out his window. Nairobi stretched before him, endless and alive. Mueni had moved on—Franciscar said she’d taken a job in Mombasa.

He missed her laughter, her chaos. He missed Mbula’s calm. But most of all, he missed the version of himself who believed love was simple.

Munyao smiled softly. Maybe simplicity wasn’t the goal. Maybe love was meant to shape you, like the city shaped its skyline—through time, storms, and stubbornness.

He picked up his pen and began again.

“To the city that taught me how to love and let go…”

Epilogue: Nairobi at Dusk

The sun dipped behind the towers, turning the city gold. Somewhere near Kenyatta Avenue, lovers argued, friends laughed, and new hearts began their own stories.

In one small apartment in South B, Munyao sealed another envelope—this one not addressed to anyone. He placed it in a box marked “Letters Never Sent.”

Because sometimes, the truest form of love is not in being chosen, but in learning to choose peace.

And so, in the city that never sleeps, Munyao finally rested.

THE END
Written by Benjamin Munyao David

The Road Beyond the Hills

Chapter One: The Red Soil Road

The sun had barely risen above the acacia trees when Mutiso stepped out of his mother’s mud-walled house, his schoolbag slung over his shoulder. The red dust of Kitui’s dry roads clung to his worn shoes. Each morning, he walked five kilometers to school — a journey that felt longer during the drought season, when even the wind seemed tired.

“Walk fast, Mutiso,” his mother called from behind, adjusting her leso. “If you get to school early, you might fetch water before class.”

“Yes, Mama,” Mutiso replied, smiling faintly.

His mother was his greatest strength. She tilled other people’s land to pay for his school fees. His father had left when he was six, chasing work in Mombasa and never returning. It was his mother who kept the dream alive — the dream that one day, Mutiso would become an engineer and build boreholes so no child in their village would ever have to walk for hours in search of water.

The road beyond their homestead curved gently toward the hills, shimmering with morning heat. Mutiso’s feet were cracked from walking barefoot for years, but he never complained. He had dreams bigger than blisters.

Chapter Two: The School Without Chalk

Kavuko Secondary School was small — just three classrooms and a broken blackboard. The roof leaked during the rainy season, and during the dry months, the heat turned the rooms into ovens. Still, it was a place of hope.

That morning, the students sat quietly, waiting for Mr. Kilonzo, their mathematics teacher. Mutiso’s friend Mwende, who sat beside him, leaned over.

“You heard?” she whispered. “The County Governor’s scholarship list is out. They’ll choose the top students for high school.”

Mutiso’s heart raced. He’d been working for this chance — the one ticket out of poverty. “Do you think they’ll pick anyone from here?”

Mwende sighed. “They always forget us. But maybe this year…”

Mr. Kilonzo walked in, his shirt untucked and sweat on his brow. “Class, the exam results are ready,” he said, waving a stack of papers. “And I’m proud of some of you.”

The classroom buzzed. When the marks were read, Mutiso had topped the class — 389 marks out of 500. Mwende clapped quietly. But when the scholarship list arrived the next week, his name wasn’t there.

His mother wept that evening by the hearth. “Maybe God has another road for you, my son,” she said softly.

Mutiso stared out at the hills, his heart burning. “Then I’ll walk that road myself, Mama. Even if it takes all my strength.”

Chapter Three: The Hammer and the Dream

Without school fees, Mutiso began working at a roadside workshop. The clang of metal filled his days. He helped a mechanic named Baba Ndunda, who taught him how to fix bicycles and weld broken jikos.

“You’re quick to learn,” the old man said one afternoon. “You remind me of myself when I was your age.”

Mutiso smiled, though his mind wandered to the school he could no longer attend. He saved every coin he earned, hiding them in a small tin under his bed. His mother often said, “Little drops fill the pot.”

At night, he studied old textbooks by candlelight. Mwende visited sometimes, bringing notes from class. “Don’t give up, Mutiso,” she told him. “Your dream is still alive.”

One evening, a pickup truck pulled up at the workshop. A white-haired engineer from Nairobi stepped out. “I need a helper,” he said. “Someone who can read measurements and weld clean lines.”

Mutiso’s heart leapt. “I can do it, sir,” he said quickly.

The man looked doubtful, then handed him a ruler and metal pipe. “Show me.”

Mutiso’s hands worked with precision. When he was done, the pipe fit perfectly into its socket. The engineer smiled. “You start tomorrow.”

That night, Mutiso told his mother. She cried again — but this time with pride. “You see, my son? God’s roads twist, but they never end.”

Chapter Four: The City of Lights

Nairobi was louder than Mutiso had ever imagined — matatus honking, lights flashing, buildings touching the clouds. He felt both thrilled and terrified.

The engineer, Mr. Patel, treated him kindly and taught him to draw simple building plans. “If you learn geometry,” Patel said, “you can learn to design.”

Mutiso worked hard. He earned just enough to send money home and still save for evening classes. Every night, he read technical manuals by the dim bulb in his shared hostel room. His Swahili notes from Kavuko now shared space with engineering blueprints.

Months turned to years. When Patel retired, he gave Mutiso his old drafting set and said, “You have hands of skill — but more importantly, a heart of purpose. Don’t stop.”

Mutiso applied for a vocational college scholarship — and this time, his application was accepted.

Chapter Five: The Hills Remember

Years later, Mutiso returned home. The road was still red and dusty, but something had changed — he had changed. His mother’s hair had turned silver, but her smile remained the same.

He stood before the old school with a small group of villagers. Behind him was a shiny new water tank and borehole system — his first completed engineering project.

When the water began to flow, children screamed with joy. Mwende, now a teacher, laughed and wiped her eyes.

Mutiso turned to his mother. “You see, Mama? The road beyond the hills… it leads home.”

She held his hand tightly. “I always knew you’d find it, my son.”

As the sun dipped behind the hills, painting the sky gold, Mutiso looked down the same path he had walked as a boy — the same one that had tested his resolve, shaped his courage, and led him here.

He realized then that the road was never just about distance. It was about faith — the belief that even in the hardest times, hope walks beside you.

Epilogue:

Mutiso’s borehole project transformed Kavuko. Fields turned green, and children spent less time fetching water and more time learning.

In the evenings, Mutiso often sat outside with his mother, watching the hills glow under the fading sun. He’d tell her about the roads yet to be built, the lives yet to be changed.

And sometimes, he’d whisper quietly to himself —

“Dreams are not found at the end of the road.
They are built one dusty step at a time.”

MONSTER OF A NATION

By Benjamin Munyao David
(benmunya12-benmunyacom.wordpress.com)

Prologue – The Roar Beneath the Silence

Kenya slept, but not peacefully.
In the dim hours before dawn, when even the stray dogs of Nairobi stopped barking, the wind carried whispers — stories of missing money, missing people, and missing hope. Beneath the glittering skyline of glass towers and foreign investors’ dreams, the ordinary Kenyan carried the weight of an invisible monster: a nation devouring itself from within.

No one knew the monster’s name. Some called it corruption, others tribalism, a few dared to call it power. But to those who felt its claws daily — in the price of unga, the unpaid hospital bills, and the crumbling schools — it was simply the thing that never died.

And somewhere in that darkness, one man began to listen to the roar beneath the silence.

Chapter 1 – Son of the Soil

Kioni Mwasya was born in a small village outside Machakos, where red earth stained every footstep and the sun never apologized. His father, a schoolteacher, believed words could build nations. His mother, a nurse, believed kindness could heal them.

But even as a boy, Kioni saw the cracks — teachers striking for pay, clinics running out of medicine, politicians visiting only in election years with promises that smelled like dust.

He studied hard, won scholarships, and eventually worked his way to the University of Nairobi. By the time he graduated with a degree in political science, the dream of fixing the system had already begun to haunt him.

“Kenya doesn’t need heroes,” his father told him once, “it needs honest men who refuse to eat when others starve.”

Those words burned into his chest like firebrands.

Chapter 2 – The Monster Revealed

Years later, Kioni found himself working as a junior analyst in the Ministry of Finance. It was there, buried in spreadsheets and invoices, that he first saw the monster’s true shape.

Ghost projects.
Phantom roads.
Millions transferred to companies that did not exist.

He reported it to his supervisor. The next day, his access was revoked. The day after that, his car tires were slashed.

By week’s end, a soft-spoken man in sunglasses visited his office.

“Mr. Mwasya,” he said, smiling without warmth, “you have a bright future. Don’t lose it chasing ghosts.”

That night, Kioni couldn’t sleep. The city lights outside his apartment looked like a thousand unblinking eyes. He realized the truth — Kenya’s monster wasn’t hidden in the shadows. It ruled in daylight, wearing designer suits and speaking in perfect English.

Chapter 3 – Voices of the Hungry

Kioni quit his job quietly and returned to his village. But silence followed him. People whispered: “He’s mad. You can’t fight the government.”

Yet everywhere he went, he heard the same cry — farmers unpaid for maize, youth with degrees but no jobs, mothers walking ten kilometers for water.

He began to speak at local gatherings. First under acacia trees, then in small halls. He called it The People’s Awakening.

“We are not poor,” he told the crowds. “We are being looted. Our suffering is organized — and so must our resistance be.”

His words spread faster than the government expected. Videos of his speeches went viral. Within months, radio stations debated him, and newspapers called him “Kenya’s New Voice of Conscience.”

But the monster does not sleep when challenged — it evolves.

Chapter 4 – Fire and Fear

One night, his mother’s clinic was burned. The police called it an “accident.”
Two days later, a journalist investigating his story disappeared.

Kioni stood before his father’s grave and felt the weight of history pressing down. The soil beneath his feet seemed to whisper: They will try to silence you, but your words have already escaped.

He made a decision that night — he would form a movement, not a party. No colors, no tribes, just one flag: Truth.

And the symbol would be a broken chain.

Chapter 5 – The March

In August, the movement planned a peaceful march to Parliament. Thousands gathered — students, boda-boda riders, farmers, and teachers. Nairobi’s streets pulsed with chants:

“Tumechoka! Enough!”
“Haki yetu! Our right!”

But when they reached Uhuru Park, riot police waited. Tear gas filled the air. Batons rained. Cameras rolled.

Amid the chaos, Kioni climbed onto a burned police truck, raised his fist, and shouted:

“You can gas our lungs but not our dreams! You can break our bones but not our courage!”

The image of that moment — a man standing in smoke, fist raised — spread worldwide. It appeared on CNN, BBC, and Al Jazeera. For the first time, the monster’s face twitched.

But victory came at a price. Hundreds were arrested. Kioni vanished that night.

Chapter 6 – The Cell

He woke in darkness. The room smelled of blood and mildew.

“Do you know why you’re here?” a voice asked.

“Because I told the truth.”

“No,” the man replied. “Because you made people believe it.”

They beat him for days. Between the blows, he remembered his mother’s words: “Kindness can heal a nation.” He wondered if the monster could ever be healed.

When they finally released him, broken and bruised, he expected to find silence outside. Instead, he found songs.

People had marched again — this time without him. The movement had become larger than its founder.

Chapter 7 – Rise of the Red Earth

Kioni returned to Machakos. Every road was painted with slogans of hope. Graffiti on walls read: “We are the fire they tried to drown.”

International media descended. The government, under pressure, announced a commission on corruption. Old officials resigned. Others fled.

And Kioni — scarred, limping, but unbroken — was invited to speak at the University of Nairobi where it all began.

He walked to the podium, the hall packed, and said softly:

“I am no hero. Heroes die young in this country. But maybe that’s what we need — people willing to die a little, every day, for truth.”

He paused. “The monster of our nation is not one man, not one government. It lives in every lie we tell, every bribe we take, every silence we keep. But if we face it — together — it can bleed.”

The hall erupted.

That night, as he walked home, rain began to fall — washing the dust, cooling the fire, cleansing the streets. For the first time in years, the air smelled like new beginnings.

Epilogue – The Roar Transformed

Years later, historians would say that the movement didn’t topple the system overnight. But it changed something deeper — the people’s hearts.

Citizens began demanding receipts for every shilling, electing leaders with integrity, teaching their children that greatness meant service, not greed.

Kioni never ran for office. Instead, he built schools and trained young activists. His face, once bruised and hunted, appeared on murals across Kenya with the words: “One voice can awaken a million.”

And though the monster still lurked in corners — in whispers, in contracts, in the corridors of power — it no longer roared unchecked. The nation had found its roar, too.

Closing Lines

When the story of Kenya is told, it will not be about presidents or palaces.
It will be about farmers, teachers, mothers, and dreamers — people who dared to love their country enough to fight for its soul.

Because sometimes, the monster of a nation is not there to destroy us.
It is there to remind us what we must become to defeat it.

Author: Benjamin Munyao David
(benmunya12-benmunyacom.wordpress.com)

Title: The River of Endless Love By Benjamin Munyao David [benmunya12-benmunyacom.wordpress.com]

Chapter One: The Whispering Plains of Musoka

The sun rose lazily over the plains of Musoka village, casting long golden fingers across the acacia trees and dry fields. The morning wind carried the sweet scent of ripening mangoes and the distant laughter of children fetching water from Ivia ya Mwania, the old river that wound its way like a silver snake through the heart of Yathui.

It was at this river that Nduku, the daughter of Mzee Muia, often came to fetch water, her clay pot balanced gracefully on her head. She was known for her quiet grace, the kind that turned heads without effort. Her laughter had a melody to it, her steps a rhythm that made even the breeze pause to listen.

Mutuku, on the other hand, was the son of a humble carpenter from the neighboring ridge. He had returned from Machakos town, where he worked as a mason, his hands roughened by labor but his eyes softened by dreams.

Theirs was not the kind of love that began with words. It began with glances — shy, lingering glances over rippling water, the sound of clay pots clinking, and the fluttering of hearts that knew something forbidden was blossoming.

Chapter Two: The Riverbank Meetings

Every evening, when the red sun began to dip behind the Yathui plains, Nduku would find her way to the river. Sometimes, she came under the pretense of washing clothes, other times to fetch water for the family goats.

Mutuku was always there — pretending to mend his fishing net or carve wooden spoons. But both knew they were there for something far more precious.

“Mutuku,” she whispered one evening, her voice barely rising above the croak of frogs, “people will talk if they see us here.”

“Let them talk,” he replied, his smile soft yet certain. “I will never tire of seeing you, Nduku. Even if the river dries, I will find another just to see your reflection in it.”

Nduku blushed, dipping her fingers into the cool water to hide her smile. She didn’t know how to respond. Words were too small for what she felt.

Every evening, they talked about their dreams — of building a home near the mango grove, of raising children who would laugh by the same river, of growing old together under the Machakos sky.

But love, in the village of Musoka, was rarely left to bloom without storms.

Chapter Three: Shadows of Tradition

When whispers reached Mzee Muia, Nduku’s father, he was furious.
“That boy, Mutuku, is not from our clan!” he roared, pounding his walking stick on the earthen floor. “He has no cattle, no land. How can he claim to love my daughter?”

Her mother, Mama Mwende, tried to calm him, but the traditions of the Kamba were heavy like the stones in Ivia ya Mwania.
“No daughter of mine will bring shame upon this house,” he decreed.

Nduku’s heart ached. The next day, she went to the river, tears blurring her sight.
Mutuku saw her and knew even before she spoke.

“They will not allow it,” she said, her voice trembling. “My father says you are not worthy.”

Mutuku took her hand gently. “And what do you say?”

She looked up, eyes shining with tears and courage. “I say I will love you, even if the hills fall into the river.”

That night, they carved a secret vow beneath the large mukuyu tree by the riverbank.
“Even if time forgets us, the river will remember,” they wrote.

Chapter Four: Separation

The following week, Mzee Muia sent Nduku to stay with her aunt in Mwala, far from Musoka and the temptations of young love.

Mutuku came to the river each evening, waiting. Days turned into weeks. The wind grew colder, the trees shed their leaves, but Nduku did not come.

He poured his sorrow into work, building houses for others while his own heart remained without shelter. Yet every evening, he visited the river, whispering her name into the current.

Back in Mwala, Nduku’s heart withered like a flower cut from its root. Her aunt tried to introduce her to another suitor — a teacher from Katheka Kai — but her heart refused to bloom again.

The letters they wrote never reached each other. Villagers intercepted them, burned them, and said it was for the best.

But love, true love, has a way of finding the smallest cracks through which to grow again.

Chapter Five: The Return

Years passed. The world changed. Roads came, markets expanded, and Machakos town grew with buses and shops.

Mutuku became a skilled builder, known for shaping stone like clay. He had built schools, churches, even homes for chiefs — yet his own heart remained half-built.

Then one day, as he worked on a new school in Yathui, he saw her.

Nduku, older but radiant, was walking from the market, her head high, a basket of vegetables on her arm. The years had deepened her beauty, not erased it.

Their eyes met, and in that moment, all the years of distance collapsed like dust before rain.

“Mutuku…” she whispered, unable to believe.
“Nduku,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “The river never forgot you.”

They met again by the same river that had witnessed their first love. The mukuyu tree was still there, its roots deep and old. Beneath it, the faint carving of their vow could still be seen — moss-covered but alive.

Chapter Six: Love Reborn

As they sat by the river, they spoke not as young lovers but as two souls who had walked through fire and found each other again.

“I thought of you every day,” Nduku confessed. “Even when they told me you were gone to Nairobi.”

“I went, but I returned,” Mutuku said. “Every path I took led back here — to you.”

They laughed and cried beneath the setting sun.

The villagers soon began to talk again, but this time, it was different. They spoke of destiny, of how the river had brought two hearts back together. Even Mzee Mutua, old and frail now, looked at his daughter and said quietly,
“Perhaps love is stronger than land and cattle.”

Chapter Seven: The River’s Blessing

In a small ceremony beneath the mukuyu tree, with the river murmuring like a witness, Nduku and Mutuku finally became one.

The village women ululated, the men clapped, and children danced in circles. It was not a grand wedding, but it was sacred — the joining of two who had waited through years of silence.

They built a small mud-walled home near the river. Each evening, Nduku sat at the doorway weaving mats while Mutuku whistled as he worked. Sometimes, they would walk hand in hand to the riverbank, watching the sunset paint the sky red and gold.

And when people asked them the secret of their happiness, Nduku would smile and say,
“The river kept our secret. It taught us patience.”

Chapter Eight: The Legend of Ivia ya Mwania

Long after their passing, villagers still spoke of Nduku and Mutuku — the lovers of Musoka village whose love defied time and tradition.

On quiet evenings, when the moon is full and the wind whispers through the reeds, some say you can still see their reflections by the riverbank — a man and a woman sitting hand in hand, smiling at each other as the waters flow between them.

Elders tell young lovers,
“If your heart is true, go to the river at dusk. Speak your vow there. The spirit of Nduku and Mutuku will bless your love.”

And so, the story of their love — born in secrecy, tested by time, and blessed by the river — became a legend that would never fade.

Epilogue: Love That Never Ended

Years turn to decades. Generations come and go.
But the River of Endless Love still flows through Musoka, shimmering beneath the sun, whispering songs only lovers understand.

For as long as the river flows, Nduku and Mutuku’s love will live — not in books or songs alone, but in the hearts of those who believe that true love, like a river, may bend and twist but never ends.

~ The End ~
Written by Benjamin Munyao David

A Letter to Lisa

The night in Mwala was quiet except for the distant hum of crickets and the rhythmic whisper of the wind as it brushed through the dry grass. The small oil lamp on Benjamin’s wooden table flickered softly, casting warm circles of light on the rough mud walls of his hut. Outside, the stars shimmered like silent watchers, filling the sky with peace.

Benjamin sat alone, pen in hand, staring at a blank sheet of paper. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and the lines on his face carried both the weight of years and the gentleness of a father’s heart. He was thinking of his daughter — Lisa Nyivu — the child who had changed his life forever.

He remembered the day she was born.

It was early morning, and the roosters had just begun to crow. The midwife had emerged from the small room, her hands trembling slightly. She smiled faintly and said, “She is here, Benjamin. Your daughter has arrived.”

He had rushed in to see her — small, fragile, yet radiant with life. But soon, whispers began. The baby didn’t move like others did. Her little arms were stiff, her legs curled tightly. The midwife avoided his eyes. He heard words like “delayed,” “weak,” “different.”

The doctor in Machakos later gave it a name — Cerebral Palsy.

Benjamin didn’t understand it fully then, but he knew one thing: she was his daughter, and he would love her fiercely.

CHAPTER ONE: A FATHER’S PROMISE

In the early years, the days were long and sometimes heavy. Lisa couldn’t sit up easily. Other children in the village learned to walk and run, while she remained on the mat, watching them with bright, curious eyes. But those eyes — oh, those eyes — they spoke a language deeper than words.

Neighbors whispered, some out of pity, others out of ignorance.
“Maybe it’s a curse,” one woman once said.
Benjamin had turned to her, steady but calm.
“No curse,” he replied. “Only a blessing not everyone can see.”

He would carry Lisa on his back to the clinic every month, walking the dusty paths from the village to Mwala town. People would look at him — some with respect, others with confusion — but he never bowed his head.

At night, he’d hold her small hand and whisper, “Lisa, one day you’ll speak. One day you’ll show the world what strength truly is.”

And even though she could not always form words, her smile answered for her — a smile that lit their home brighter than any lamp could.

CHAPTER TWO: LETTERS OF THE HEART

Years passed. Lisa grew. Though her body sometimes disobeyed her, her spirit never faltered. She learned to laugh, to communicate with her eyes, to love music, and to listen to her father read stories under the mango tree.

Benjamin began writing — notes, reflections, small letters — all addressed to her. He kept them in a small tin box under his bed, waiting for the day she would read them.

That night, as he sat by lamplight, he began to write the most important one of all.

THE LETTER

My Dearest Lisa,

When you were born, I did not know that love could come wrapped in both joy and pain. I did not know that the smallest hand could hold the biggest part of my heart. You came into this world quietly, yet you shook my soul awake.

They said you were different — and they were right. You are different in the most beautiful way. You are stronger than mountains, braver than I will ever be. I have watched you fight for every small victory — to move your hands, to sit up straight, to form a sound, to hold my finger. And each time you did, I felt God whisper, “See what love can do.”

Lisa, there were nights when I sat outside and asked God, “Why her? Why my little girl?” And then I would look at you — asleep, peaceful, full of grace — and I would find my answer. You were never a punishment; you were a purpose.

You have taught me patience. You have taught me joy that does not depend on ease. You have taught me faith that does not demand understanding. When people stare, I lift my head higher, because I know they are seeing a miracle and don’t even realize it.

I may not be able to give you everything, my daughter — not all the riches, not all the comforts. But I promise you this: my love will never run dry. I will walk with you, lift you, fight for you, and celebrate every step you take — even if it’s just one more inch than yesterday.

Lisa, never think you are less. You are more. You are light in a world that often forgets to see.

If one day you read this, and I am no longer by your side, remember: your father loved you beyond the limits of this world. Live proudly. Laugh loudly. And when you fall, rise again — because your spirit was made of fire and grace.

With all the love in my heart,
Your Father,
Benjamin Munyao David

CHAPTER THREE: THE WIND THROUGH THE MANGO TREES

When he finished writing, Benjamin wiped a tear from his cheek. He folded the letter carefully, slipped it into an envelope, and placed it inside the small tin box. Then he stepped outside.

The night air was cool. The moon hung low, painting the hills of Mwala in silver. He could hear the rustle of leaves from the mango tree — the one where he and Lisa often sat. He imagined her there now, smiling, her laughter floating through the air like a song.

He whispered softly, “Sleep well, my girl. Tomorrow we keep going.”

CHAPTER FOUR: THE POWER OF ONE CHILD

Word of Lisa’s courage began to spread. Teachers from the nearby school visited. A physiotherapist from Machakos town came, offering to help her walk with special braces. Benjamin sold some of his goats to pay for them.

At first, it seemed impossible. But slowly, step by step, Lisa began to stand. The first time she took two shaky steps toward him, Benjamin dropped to his knees and cried — not out of sorrow, but overwhelming pride.

The neighbors gathered to watch. The same people who once whispered now clapped and cheered. One old man said, “Truly, this child carries the hand of God.”

Lisa began to attend a special needs class in Mwala. Her teachers said she had a gift — a sharp memory and a heart that lifted everyone around her. She would smile at other children who struggled, and they would find the strength to keep going.

Benjamin began to speak at church and community meetings, telling other parents not to hide their children with disabilities. “They are not a curse,” he would say firmly. “They are the strongest among us.”

And slowly, change began — small but real.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE LIGHT NEVER DIES

Years later, Lisa turned nine. The community gathered to celebrate her birthday — something they had never done before for a child with special needs. There was laughter, song, and the smell of chapati in the air.

Benjamin watched her sitting beneath the mango tree, her hands resting gently on her lap, her smile brighter than the sun.

He thought of all the days he had carried her, the nights of doubt, the prayers whispered into darkness — and he realized every moment had been worth it.

When the guests had gone, he brought out the letter. Lisa could not yet read all the words, but he read it aloud to her. As he spoke, she looked up at him with tears in her eyes, then reached out and touched his cheek.

That touch said everything.

EPILOGUE

The years rolled on. Benjamin grew older, and Lisa continued to bloom — not in the way the world expected, but in the way that truly mattered. Her courage inspired others, her smile healed hearts.

In Mwala, people began to speak differently about children like her. They began to see light where before there was pity.

And long after Benjamin’s hair had turned gray, that letter remained — folded carefully in its envelope — a testament of a father’s love that neither time nor hardship could fade.

For every child born with a difference, for every parent who chooses love over fear, and for every tear that becomes strength — this story lives on.

Because love, when written with faith, never ends.

The End

Chapter One: The Sound of an Ordinary Day

Title: Shadows Over Westgate: A Survivor’s Light

The morning sun over Nairobi had spilled its gold over Westlands, painting the sleek walls of Westgate Mall with warmth and familiarity. It was an ordinary Saturday — the kind that carried laughter, the smell of coffee, and the rhythmic murmur of weekend shoppers. I remember thinking how peaceful it all felt, how ordinary the sound of life was.

I was there for a meeting — nothing heroic, nothing special. I sat at the ArtCaffé terrace with my notebook open, writing fragments of a story I’d long promised myself to finish. Around me, families gathered for brunch, a couple argued softly over phone bills, and a child tugged at his mother’s hand, begging for ice cream.

Then came the sound.

Not thunder. Not a car backfiring. It was sharper — a sound that split air and thought alike. A gunshot. Then another.

The chatter around me twisted into screams. Coffee cups fell. The child’s laughter turned to terror. I froze — just for a heartbeat — before instinct took over. People ran toward the rear exits, some dove under tables. I remember the metallic smell of panic, how the world suddenly shrank to survival.

Chapter Two: Smoke and Stone

I followed a small group into Nakumatt’s storage corridor. We didn’t speak. The gunfire echoed like a storm rolling closer, breaking the walls between life and death. Dust fell from the ceiling. Somewhere behind us, the mall’s glass front shattered — a rain of shards marking the moment innocence ended.

A young woman beside me whispered, “What’s happening?”
I didn’t know what to say. The truth was, we were trapped inside a nightmare unfolding in daylight.

Through the thin slits of the service door, I saw shapes — shadows moving deliberately, methodically. The attackers. Their footsteps echoed on the tiles, punctuated by the slow rhythm of death.

A man in a security uniform, trembling but resolute, pressed his finger to his lips. “Stay down,” he whispered. “They’re near.”

Minutes stretched into hours. My phone buzzed with messages I couldn’t answer: Are you okay? — Where are you? — Benjamin, please say something.

I couldn’t. My voice was locked somewhere deep inside my chest, where fear and disbelief held it captive.

Chapter Three: Between Silence and Salvation

When the army arrived, we didn’t know it at first. The gunfire changed tempo — short, controlled bursts. Orders shouted in Kiswahili. The walls shook with explosions meant to breach and rescue.

Hope came in boots and helmets, in the fierce calm of soldiers who risked everything for strangers.

A soldier opened our hiding spot. “Toka hapa! Run outside!” he commanded.

We spilled out into smoke and sunlight, our faces streaked with dust and tears. Bodies lay on the floor — the cost of madness and courage intertwined. I tried not to look, but you can’t unsee what you’ve seen.

As we crossed the shattered atrium, I saw a woman cradling her husband, whispering his name again and again. A soldier knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he checked for a pulse that wasn’t there. He said nothing — just rested a hand on her shoulder before helping her to her feet.

And that’s when I realized something I’d never forget: heroism doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispers.

Chapter Four: The Long Night

Outside, the world tilted between chaos and relief. Sirens wailed, cameras flashed, and reporters pieced together fragments of horror into headlines.

I sat on the curb, wrapped in a blanket someone had handed me, staring at the mall’s smoking facade. My notebook was gone. My words — the ones I had written that morning — were now ash and memory.

A soldier approached me, his face streaked with soot. “You’re safe now,” he said.

Safe. The word felt heavy, almost undeserved.

Behind him, others carried the wounded to waiting ambulances. One soldier limped, supported by a comrade, but refused to leave until the last civilian was out. Their courage felt like light in a city dimmed by grief.

That night, I wrote in the only place I could — my mind. I replayed every sound, every act of kindness. I etched into memory the faces of those who stayed behind to save others.

Chapter Five: What Remains

Weeks later, the smell of smoke still clung to my clothes. Westgate reopened, polished and rebuilt, but the air there carried echoes. I walked its corridors again, tracing invisible scars with every step.

I thought of the strangers I’d met in the darkness — the mother who shielded her son, the guard who refused to abandon his post, the soldiers who turned fear into fortitude.

Sometimes, I still hear the echoes. Not just of gunfire, but of prayers whispered in trembling voices. Of names shouted into the void. Of the fragile promise that tomorrow might be kinder.

Writing became my refuge. I realized that stories are how we remember — how we honor those who didn’t make it out.

I wrote not to relive the horror, but to remind myself that even in the darkest smoke, there was light.

Chapter Six: The Light After Shadows

Years later, I still find myself at that same café, now rebuilt and full of laughter once more. I sit by the window with a cup of coffee, watching the ordinary beauty of a Saturday morning unfold.

People talk, children run, and sunlight spills freely — unafraid.

When I close my eyes, I can still see that day — not just the violence, but the humanity that fought back against it. I see the soldier’s steady hand, the trembling mother’s courage, and the shared will to live.

And I remember what one rescuer told me as I was led outside that day:

“You’ll write about this one day. Make sure you tell them we didn’t just run — we reached out.”

So I did.

Because Westgate was not just a place of loss. It became a symbol of endurance — a testament that even in the deepest shadow, humanity burns bright.

Epilogue: A Survivor’s Light

When the sun sets over Nairobi, it touches the rebuilt walls of Westgate, turning glass into gold. For a moment, the city holds its breath — silent, remembering.

And in that silence, I find my own peace.

I was there. I survived. I remember.
And I write — not for myself alone, but for every voice that was silenced too soon.

Because memory is light.
And light, even flickering, defeats the dark.