We Still Dream
By Benjamin Munyao David (Benmunya12)
We Still Dream
Chapter One: The Dust Road
The morning sun crept slowly over the hills of Mwala, spilling gold over the dusty paths that wound through the dry land. A cock crowed in the distance, breaking the silence that always came before the village woke. The air smelled of red soil, sweat, and maize flour — the scent of a land that had seen too much work and too little reward.
Mutua tightened the straps of his worn-out backpack and stepped out of the small mud house he called home. The walls still held the chill of dawn. He paused at the door, looking back at his mother. She was already up, bent over the jiko, boiling the morning’s tea — watery, but sweet enough to start another hard day.
“Go with God, my son,” she said softly.
Mutua nodded. “Asante, Mama.”
He took the road that curved past acacia trees and tired goats. His shoes — one lace missing, one sole half gone — sank slightly into the dust. This road had taken him to school for twelve years. Now, it led him nowhere.
He had passed his exams, graduated with hope, and written application letters until his fingers cramped. Every envelope, every email, every trip to town ended with the same silence.
Still, he walked.
For Mutua, walking was a way of fighting despair — a way of saying I am still here. Because in Mwala, dreams didn’t die easily. They faded, they bent, they suffered — but they didn’t die.
At the small shopping centre, he met Wanza, his former classmate. She was sitting behind a kiosk, counting coins.
“Mutua,” she smiled faintly, “umepata kazi?”
He laughed quietly. “Kazi? If dreams paid, we’d all be rich.”
She laughed too, but her eyes were tired. Behind her, a poster flapped on a wooden pole — “Government Youth Empowerment Program: Apply Now.” The edges were already curling, eaten by wind and time.
Mutua stared at it for a moment, then looked at the horizon. The sun was higher now, hot and merciless.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he said.
“Maybe,” Wanza replied.
And they both turned back to their battles — she to her kiosk, he to his long road — holding tight to the only thing they still owned: the stubborn belief that somehow, some day, life would change.
Because even here, in the dust of Mwala — we still dream.
Chapter Two: The Long Heat
By noon, the air shimmered with heat. The sky was the pale blue of old fabric, and the land stretched endlessly — broken only by termite mounds and scattered shrubs. Mutua walked toward the centre of Mwala town, where a few shops, a boda boda stage, and a small cyber café stood like survivors.
Inside the café, a faded sign read “We Offer Printing, CVs, and Job Applications.” The computers hummed weakly, powered by a solar battery that often gave up before evening.
Mutua greeted the owner, an older man everyone called Mzee Kyalo.
“Karibu, Mutua,” Kyalo said, adjusting his glasses. “You have another application today?”
“Yes, Mzee. Maybe the county office this time. They said they need assistants.”
Kyalo smiled sadly. “You are young and full of hope. Don’t lose that, my boy. It’s the only thing they cannot take.”
Mutua sat at the corner computer and typed, carefully editing his CV for the hundredth time. He listed his education, his volunteer work at the primary school, his computer certificate from a two-month course.
When he was done, he stared at the screen. His name glowed at the top — Mutua Nzioki Mwanzia — a name that carried his father’s ghost. His father had believed that education was the bridge out of poverty. He died still believing it.
Mutua paid ten shillings for printing and walked out, the paper already curling from the heat.
At the post office, the clerk stamped his envelope lazily.
“Good luck,” she said without looking up.
He wanted to believe her, but luck had become a foreign word — something that belonged to people in Nairobi, people whose fathers had names that opened doors.
Still, he smiled.
“Thank you.”
That evening, he sat outside his house, watching the sky turn orange and purple. The wind smelled faintly of rain — a promise that rarely came true. His mother sat beside him, shelling maize.
“Mutua,” she said, “you know I’m proud of you.”
He looked at her. Her face was lined but calm, her eyes still bright with a faith that outlived hardship.
“I’ve sent more applications,” he said softly.
She nodded. “God’s time, my son. God’s time.”
He didn’t answer. Sometimes God’s time felt too long.
Chapter Three: Sparks in the Dust
Days passed, then weeks. Mutua kept walking to town, checking notice boards, reading newspapers that were two days old. One afternoon, while passing the old chief’s camp, he saw a small group gathered around a man speaking passionately under a mango tree.
The man wore a clean shirt, a badge pinned to his chest: Youth Empowerment Officer, Machakos County.
Mutua slowed down to listen.
“We have funds for small business ideas,” the officer said. “Youths can apply — no connections needed, only a proposal.”
The crowd murmured. Mutua felt something stir inside him — a flicker, small but real.
After the talk, he approached the officer.
“Sir,” he said, “I have a proposal in mind — but I don’t know how to write it well.”
The man smiled. “Come to my office next week in Machakos. Bring your idea.”
That night, Mutua couldn’t sleep. He lay awake listening to crickets, the air heavy with hope and fear. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind — what could he start? Farming? Poultry? A small printing shop like Mzee Kyalo’s?
By dawn, he had decided. He would start a small solar-powered printing and online service for his village — a place where young people could type CVs, access the internet, and apply for jobs without walking miles.
He wrote down his plan on an old notebook cover. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something — his own dream, born from the dust.
Chapter Four: The Journey
The trip to Machakos was long and bumpy. The matatu rattled down the Mwala road, dust pouring in through open windows. Mutua clutched his notebook, praying he wouldn’t lose courage.
When he reached the county offices, the guard at the gate eyed him suspiciously.
“Appointment?”
“Yes,” Mutua said quickly. “With the Youth Officer.”
After a few minutes of waiting, the officer emerged — the same man from the mango tree.
“Ah, Mutua from Mwala!” he said warmly. “You came.”
They sat in a small office that smelled of dust and paper. Mutua handed over his handwritten proposal.
The officer read it slowly, nodding. “You have passion, young man. The English isn’t perfect, but the idea — it’s solid.”
Mutua smiled for the first time in weeks.
“We’ll review it,” the officer continued. “If approved, you might get a small grant — maybe fifty thousand shillings. Not much, but enough to start.”
“Thank you, sir. That would change everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the officer said, signing a paper. “Thank yourself for trying. Many don’t.”
Chapter Five: Waiting
Back in Mwala, Mutua waited. Days turned into weeks. Every morning he checked his phone, his heart jumping at every message. But they were always from friends, or Safaricom promotions.
Wanza still ran her kiosk. Sometimes he’d stop by, helping her count stock.
“Did they reply?” she’d ask.
“Not yet.”
“They will,” she’d say, though her voice carried more kindness than belief.
Life in the village went on — slow, uncertain. The rains failed again that season. The maize wilted before it could grow. Water became scarce. But even in hunger, people laughed, shared stories, helped each other fix roofs or fetch water.
That was Mwala — poor, but proud.
Chapter Six: The Letter
It came on a Thursday afternoon. The postman, sweating under the sun, called out Mutua’s name.
“Letter from Machakos!”
Mutua’s hands trembled as he tore it open. The words blurred before his eyes — “Congratulations! Your proposal has been accepted for the Youth Development Grant Program.”
He dropped to his knees in the dust, laughter and tears mixing. His mother ran from the house, alarmed.
“Mutua! What is it?”
He handed her the letter. She read slowly, her lips moving over each word, and then — she smiled.
“My son… God has remembered us.”
Chapter Seven: The First Light
With the small grant, Mutua rented a tin-walled room at the market centre. Mzee Kyalo helped him buy a second-hand computer and a solar panel. Together they painted the walls blue and hung a hand-written sign:
“Mwala Digital Centre — Printing, CVs, Internet Services.”
The first day, only a few curious children peered inside. But soon word spread — students came to print notes, farmers came to photocopy forms, and job seekers came to send applications.
Mutua worked from sunrise to sunset, charging phones when there was no electricity, helping people fill online forms, even teaching basic computer lessons for free.
Wanza joined him to manage the front desk. They worked side by side, laughing through exhaustion.
One evening, as the sun sank over the hills, she looked at him and said, “You see, Mutua? Dreams don’t die — they wait.”
He smiled. “Yes. They wait for people stubborn enough to keep walking.”
Chapter Eight: The Dream Spreads
Months passed. The small business grew. Mutua trained two younger boys to handle printing. He saved enough to buy another computer. The youth from surrounding villages came to learn — not just computers, but hope.
He began visiting schools, telling students, “Don’t stop dreaming. Even when it hurts. Even when the world laughs.”
People started calling him Teacher Mutua, though he had no classroom.
And one day, standing before a group of young people gathered under the same mango tree where he had once listened, he realized something profound:
He hadn’t escaped poverty. He hadn’t become rich.
But he had become useful.
He had become hope itself.
Epilogue: We Still Dream
Years later, when the first rain finally fell on Mwala after a long drought, Mutua stood outside his shop watching the drops dance on the dust. The smell of wet earth filled the air, thick and sweet.
Children ran barefoot in the rain, laughing — their laughter echoing through the hills.
Behind him, the hum of the computers blended with the rhythm of life — the sound of a community learning to dream again.
He thought of his father, of all the youths still walking those dusty roads, and he whispered to the wind,
“We still dream, Baba. Even now. Especially now.”
And as the rain fell harder, washing the dust from the land, Mwala seemed to breathe again — a small, tired place that refused to die, because its people refused to stop believing.
~ End of Part One ~
We Still Dream – Part Two
By Benjamin Munyao David (Benmunya12)
Chapter Nine: The Promise and the Price
The Mwala Digital Centre had become more than a shop — it was a symbol. Every day, young people crowded around its doorway, clutching flash disks, job letters, or just hope. Mutua had given them something no one else could: access, belief, and a small chance to stand tall in a world that forgot them.
But success comes quietly, then brings noise.
One morning, as he was sweeping the floor, a sleek car pulled up outside. Dust swirled around its wheels. A tall man in sunglasses stepped out — confident, smiling, smelling of city cologne and power.
“Are you Mutua Mwanzia?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Councillor Muli,” the man said, shaking his hand firmly. “I’ve heard of your work here. The county government might want to partner with you for a youth tech initiative. You could receive more funding, equipment, even recognition.”
Mutua blinked. Recognition. More funding. It sounded like everything he’d prayed for.
“That would be… an honour, sir.”
“Good. Let’s talk,” Muli said, stepping inside.
They sat down as the hum of computers filled the air. The councillor’s words flowed smoothly — too smoothly. He talked about opportunities, partnerships, visibility. But halfway through, his tone changed.
“Of course, you know how these things work,” he said. “You’ll need to show appreciation — maybe ten percent of your current grant. A small token to keep the wheels turning.”
Mutua froze. “Ten percent?”
“Yes,” Muli said casually. “Nothing personal, just procedure. You know how the system is.”
Mutua stared at the man — the sunglasses, the polished shoes, the easy smile. A familiar bitterness rose in his chest. This was the system that had broken so many dreams — the silent tax on hope.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly. “I can’t do that. The money isn’t mine to waste. It’s for the people who come here.”
Muli’s smile vanished. “You’re young,” he said coldly. “Too young to understand how things work. Don’t be foolish, Mutua. Think about your future.”
Then he left — the engine roaring, the dust settling.
Mutua stood in silence, heart pounding. For the first time since his success began, he felt afraid.
Chapter Ten: Shadows in the Sun
Days passed. Then strange things started happening.
The next week, his business license renewal was delayed. A file went missing at the county office. A tax officer arrived suddenly, claiming the centre hadn’t paid full dues.
Wanza looked worried. “Mutua, do you think it’s because you refused that man?”
He didn’t answer. Deep down, he knew.
Still, he kept working — fixing computers, helping students apply for bursaries, guiding job seekers. But inside, doubt grew. How long could he survive without bending?
One evening, he visited Mzee Kyalo for advice.
“Mzee,” he said, “what do you do when doing right starts to cost too much?”
Kyalo smiled sadly. “My son, doing wrong also costs. But it costs your soul. Choose the price you can live with.”
Mutua nodded slowly. The old man’s words sank deep.
That night, he wrote in his notebook:
“If our dreams must die to survive, then maybe they were never dreams at all.”
Chapter Eleven: The Crack
The following month, an audit team came to inspect youth projects in the region. Three men and one woman arrived in official jackets, asking questions and taking notes.
When they reached the Mwala Digital Centre, the lead auditor frowned. “Your receipts are incomplete.”
Mutua pulled out every record. “They’re all here, sir. Maybe a few faded, but everything’s documented.”
The man looked at him long, then whispered, “You should have played along with the councillor. Now you’ll see how hard it is to survive clean.”
Mutua’s stomach turned. The report they filed later claimed “mismanagement of funds.” His small grant was frozen.
Business slowed. Customers hesitated. Whispers spread.
Wanza stayed loyal, but Mutua could see the exhaustion in her eyes.
“Mutua,” she said gently, “maybe go talk to them again. Not to bribe — just to make peace.”
He looked at her. “Peace built on silence is surrender.”
She sighed. “You and your principles. One day, they’ll crush you.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But they’ll never own me.”
Chapter Twelve: The Fall
By December, things were bad. The solar battery broke. The roof leaked. Customers went elsewhere.
Mutua tried everything — repairing machines, borrowing small loans, even teaching computer classes in nearby schools to raise money. But the debts grew.
One night, after locking up, he sat outside under the stars, staring at the empty road. The sky above Mwala was wide and cruelly beautiful.
He whispered, “God, did I dream too big?”
There was no answer, only the wind brushing through the dry grass.
His mother found him there and sat beside him.
“You did not fail, my son,” she said softly. “You just scared them. People fear those who dream without permission.”
Her words lit something faint inside him again — a small, flickering flame.
Chapter Thirteen: The Letter That Changed Everything
Two months later, Mutua received an unexpected email from Nairobi. It was from a journalist who had heard about the youth projects in Mwala.
“We’d like to feature your story — your challenges, your refusal to pay bribes, and your work with the community. Could we visit next week?”
Mutua almost deleted it, thinking it was a prank. But he replied.
When the team arrived, cameras and notebooks in hand, they listened to him speak about dreams, corruption, and faith. They interviewed Wanza, Kyalo, and even his mother.
The story aired a week later on national TV.
Headline: “From Mwala With Hope: The Youth Who Refused to Give Up.”
The next morning, Mutua’s phone exploded with calls. Old friends, strangers, even leaders from Nairobi called to congratulate him. Donations came in through mobile money.
The frozen grant was quietly reinstated. The councillor — who had demanded a bribe — was suspended pending investigation.
For the first time in months, Mutua smiled freely.
When he returned to the market centre, people clapped. Someone shouted, “Mwala’s hero!”
He laughed. “No heroes here,” he said. “Just dreamers.”
Chapter Fourteen: The New Dawn
With the new support, Mutua expanded his centre. He added two more computers, a printer, and even began an online mentorship program for youth.
Wanza handled finances. Mzee Kyalo became an advisor. The place buzzed with energy — like a small engine of change.
But Mutua never forgot the struggle. When county officials came again, this time offering “partnership,” he told them, “Only if transparency is the foundation.”
They hesitated, then agreed. His integrity had become a shield.
At night, he would walk home through the quiet village, watching the stars. The same stars he’d once looked up to with despair now seemed like friends — silent witnesses of persistence.
Chapter Fifteen: The Return of Rain
A year later, the rains came again — hard and long, filling the rivers, turning the fields green. For the first time in years, Mwala looked alive.
The youth started planting trees around the market. Mutua’s centre became a meeting point for environmental groups, digital literacy classes, and even poetry sessions.
One day, a boy of fifteen came to him with shining eyes.
“Mutua,” he said, “I want to learn computers so I can be like you.”
Mutua smiled. “No, be better. Dream beyond me.”
The boy nodded, his grin wide and innocent.
That night, Mutua wrote again in his notebook:
“We don’t build dreams for ourselves — we build them for those who will carry them forward.”
Chapter Sixteen: The River and the Bridge
A national youth summit invited Mutua to speak in Nairobi. He had never been on a plane, but this time, he travelled proudly by bus — clean shirt, pressed trousers, hope in his pocket.
Standing on a big stage before hundreds, he said,
“I come from Mwala — a place where dreams walk barefoot. But even there, we dream. We don’t have much, but we have the courage to start. What Kenya needs is not saviors — it needs believers.”
When he finished, the hall erupted in applause.
Afterward, a government official approached him quietly. “We want you to head a pilot youth innovation program for rural areas. Are you ready?”
Mutua took a deep breath. The same system that once ignored him was now calling his name.
“Yes,” he said. “But only if we keep it honest. No shortcuts.”
The official smiled. “That’s why we want you.”
Chapter Seventeen: Mwala’s Song
Back home, the news spread fast. Mutua’s mother ululated. Wanza baked chapati for everyone. Children danced outside the digital centre, shouting, “Mutua! Mutua!”
But amid the celebration, Mutua stayed humble. He looked at the hills that had watched him struggle, the same dust that had swallowed his tears.
He whispered, “This is not my victory — it’s ours.”
Because every youth who still woke before dawn to hustle, every mother who prayed for her child’s future, every teacher who taught without pay — they were all part of this story.
Epilogue: The Seed and the Soil
Years later, when people spoke of change in Mwala, they didn’t talk about money. They talked about a shift — a belief that something small could grow if you watered it with hope.
Mutua still lived simply. His shop had grown, but he still swept the floor every morning, still greeted every child who peeked through the door.
On the wall hung a framed photo: his first business license — the one almost taken from him. Beneath it, he had written in bold letters:
“Integrity is the seed. Community is the soil. Hope is the rain.”
And every time the young came to him asking how he made it, he smiled and said:
“I didn’t make it alone. I just refused to stop dreaming.”
Final Lines
The sun sets slowly over Mwala, washing the land in gold. The wind carries the smell of new rain and warm soil. Somewhere, children laugh. Somewhere, a mother prays.
And in that soft, eternal rhythm of life, Mutua’s voice echoes through the valley — not loud, not proud, but steady:
“We still dream.
We always will.”
