Chapter One

Mwabili Kofia rode his beloved bicycle, a rusted relic that was very dear to him. He strapped his trusty radio firmly to his handlebars and pedalled away to tour the vast expanse of land as wives bid him farewell with laughter and choruses of encouragement.

Riding through a field, he found a perfect spot under a baobab tree, got off his bike and carefully placed an empty soda bottle in the ground, special custom of Mwabili was his way of marking his land. It was his own way of making his point and a tradition he maintained for many years.

Mwabili had however never tasted the contents of these soda bottles. He had a knack for getting them at nearby market but only empty ones. He had never been curious enough to indulge in the soda it contained. To him, they were just tools to mark his territory.

Above him, his antics had attracted the attention of a group of mischievous monkeys who were watching his bike with interest. They took the opportunity to descend from the upper branches. They quickly manipulated the radio with their nimble fingers. When Mwabili turned around to get back on his bike and continue his round, he encountered the startling sight. The leader of the monkey gang was sitting in his bicycle, carrying his radio like a crown, and squeaking as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Kunde village, located near Tsavo National Park, had daily encounters with wild animals, but for Mzee Mwabili, such annoyance was inevitable.

Despite his reputation as the most feared man in the village, the monkeys seemed unfazed by his presence.

His name "Kofia" not derived from the hat he wore every day but from his leadership role in the community, was respected because he proved his courage by single-handedly killing a notorious lion that was terrorizing the villagers.

But these monkeys tested even his patience with their cunning antics. With a roar echoing through the trees, Mzee Mwabili charged toward them, swinging a stick.

But the monkeys just shrieked and wouldn't stop holding the radio. It was a battle of willpower against experienced man and agile primates.

Despite his attempts to intimidate the monkeys, they held firm and clung to the radio as if it were their treasure. With a glint of determination in his eyes, Mzee Mwabili devised a new strategy, determined to recover his valuable property, and restore order to the village.

He started whistling and one by one the notorious monkeys left and dropped his radio on the ground.

In the golden haze of the afternoon sun, Mzee Mwabili reached for his well-worn cigarette pouch and moved his fingers with the practiced precision of a man who had performed this ritual many times before.

He carefully picked the tobacco stick, feeling the rough texture of his calloused fingertips.

He held it against his weathered cheek, enjoying the scent wafting from the leaves. A scent filled with memories and nostalgia.

With a flick of his wrist, he pushed the cigarette under his bottom lip, feeling the familiar burn and rush of energy that followed.

His teeth, once as white as seafoam, were now stained a deep brown from the effects of tobacco.

But for Mzee Mwabili, they were badges of honour, evidence of a life well lived and an experience he enjoyed to the end.

As he settled on the ground, his joints protesting the passage of time, Mzee Mwabili let his mind wander, remembering the path he had taken and the distance he had walked.

From the harsh landscape of Taita to the busy streets of Mombasa, every step was a testament to his resilience and determination.

It is said that wherever Mzee Mwabili set foot, the land stood in awe and prosperity followed him. Villages extended their arms to him, attracted by the charm of his presence and the wisdom that flowed like honey from his lips. Along the way, he has amassed a treasure of women, each one a testament to his magnetic charm and unwavering charisma.

He left seed in every village he passed through, as his promise of return. For Mzee Mwabili, love was not limited by geographical boundaries. Like the horizon, it was infinite in its power, stretching across mountains and valleys, binding souls together in a tapestry of destiny.

As the sun sank below the horizon, casting a long shadow over the earth, Mzee Mwabili stood up, his heart heavy with the weight of memories and the promise of tomorrow.

Every step he took echoed the journey, a testament to the legacy he had created with every heartbeat and breath.

Mzee Mwabili was more than just a human being. He was a legend, a living witness to the indomitable spirit of humanity and the everlasting power of love. And wherever he went, the earth witnessed his presence and silently testified to the greatness of his soul.

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The life healing sun appeared on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and tangerine, casting its warm light over the savannah. A gentle breeze found its way into the compound, carrying the earthly scent of the earth.

The morning chorus began as birds welcomed the new day with a symphony of chirps and melodies. As the sun rose high, its golden light illuminated and filled the kitchen as I sat next to my mother watching her do her morning rituals.

My stomach rumbled with anticipation as I watched my mother's make breakfast of ugali and mtungo. My mother, a culinary wizard herself, confidently stood in front of the jiko(made of the traditional three stones), twirling her way through bubbling sufuria.

The sufuria sat on the Tri stone Blaze like a hesitant astronaut on a makeshift rocket, seemingly contemplating her life choices. As the flames danced below, the sweet aroma from the sufuria wafted, intoxicating my senses.

The wooden spoon in my mother's hands danced through the air like a baton, orchestrating a symphony of flavors that tantalized my taste buds. My mouth drooled with anticipation as I watched my mother stir the mtungo. Mtungo is a wild but sweet vegetable that grows deep in the woods and is full of flavour and character.

With a wink and a flick of her wrist, my mother transformed the humble mtungo into a masterpiece, sauteed with onions, garlics, and a secret spice.

She gathered twigs arranged them in a delicate dance of balance and precision. Like a skilled dancer, she moved with grace and purpose, breathing life into the flames with each carefully placed piece of wood.

As the flames jumped and danced and shadows flickered on the kitchen wall, she reached for a blowing pipe and breathed life into the fire, satisfying its hunger with a steady stream of oxygen.

But firewood isn't the only thing my mother breathed life into. She was the heart and soul of our home. Every flicker of the flame brought back memories, swirling and dancing in the warm embrace of the fireplace.

It reminded me of stories, laughter and the love and connection that bound us all. And as I watched my mother tend the firewood with practiced ease, I couldn't help but marvel at the magic she conjured with each flicker of flame.

In her hands, wood becomes more than just fuel for the fire, it become a spark that ignites our spirits, warms us from within and lights the way even on the darkest of nights.

I laughed out loud as I read out the writing on her leso, "Ushimwingilie aliyepewa kapewa," it boldly declared, as if to warn anyone who dared cross paths with her, Prijitah Wakesho.

Oh, Prijitah Wakesho, what a woman! With a name as elegant as her demeanour and a beauty that turned heads, she was a force to be reckoned with. Her brown skin colour and curves that would make even the juiciest mango jealous tripped the men of the village and made the women look on with envy.

But it wasn't just her beautiful looks that made her a legend in our home. It was her faithful leso which was her constant companion. I can't remember a time when she didn't wear it. Its bright colours, which and now turned dull, testified to her unwavering loyalty.

Whether it was navigating market turmoil, digging in the shamba, or adding colour to the church with her surprising and rare presence, Prijitah Wakesho and her leso were an inseparable couple.

It was as if the fabric took on a life of its own, hugging her every curve and swaying with her every step like a faithful companion.

I couldn't help but smile as I watched her, because at that moment, she wasn't just Prijitah Wakesho, a beautiful woman who could stop traffic, she was rather the culinary queen who ruled the kitchen with grace, wit and a healthy dose of humour.

"Mwakoma, stop spacing out and come help me to serve," she said as I jumped up, almost tripping from the long pants I had inherited from my brother.

I lightly tugged on the waistband, which was held in place by a thick thread and headed to where she was standing.

I helped my mother serve the then ran to call my brother.

``Well, it's time to eat,'' I reminded him, and we rushed back to the kitchen. Our family didn't have the luxury of a separate kitchen. Instead, we improvised by cooking in one of the rooms inside our house.

With no tools in sight, I stared at the plate in front of me and then with my fingers happily jumped in. My fingers danced a messy tango with the food. Each bite was a daring adventure as I conquered hunger with each bite.

Today, was an important day for me. I had planned to meet up with my friends for an eventful challenge of sliding on the rocks! I set out on the lean and bush-lined way towards the rocks, As I walked, I felt the expectation building in my chest. Today was the day we were reaching to prevail those smooth pieces of stone with the artfulness of gymnastic performance and the beauty of... well, clumsy young boys.

But as luckiness would have it, when I at long last arrived at the rocks, my companions were no place to be seen. In despair, I begun chucking rocks into the adjacent stream, while murmuring a tune that was likely off-key sufficient to startle a passer by.

Fair as I was getting into my one-man rock-throwing concert, like a band of evil spirits, my companions materialized out of lean discuss. I jumped and we all stood in a line over a heap of sand and unleashed our "internal tools" and began modelling with pee.

We decided that the sandy shores by the rocks were the idealize canvas for our creative endeavours. With an awesome bargain of exactness (or as much accuracy as one can gather whereas snickering wildly), we started to make modest pots out of our substantial liquids.

Our shorts, once perfect, were now perplexed with openings within the buttock locale, much appreciated to our visit experiences with the dangerous rocks. It was a mold explanation, really—shorts with built-in ventilation, cardinality of Mother Nature's deterrent course.

And speaking of moms, mine had a talent for attempting to rescue those destitute shorts. She'd carefully sew patches over the gaps, trusting to amplify their life expectancy by fair a couple of more slides. But oh, it was a futile endeavour. Those patches never stood a chance against the sheer drive of our courageous spirits and, well, our bums.

We were just but a bunch of kids, wearing shorts that had taken after two big torches, using modest pee pots like models, and planning to overcome the elusive rocks once once more. It was a scene straight out of a droll comedy—a cacophony the unmistakable scent of enterprise within the air.

And as we charged towards those rocks, our buttocks bursting like reference points of evil, we knew one thing for certain:

no sum of patches could ever contain the sheer silliness of our adventures. So, with hearts beating and giggling reverberating off the rocks, we dove headfirst into another exceptional day of childhood shenanigans.

As I were sliding over the rock, I accidentally pushed Mwadime, causing him to tumble. He cried out in pain as he hit the ground. Concerned, I hurried to their side and apologized profusely. Seeing the scrape on their knee, I quickly scanned the surrounding bushes for some herbs to help treat the wound.

With a handful of leaves and a bit of saliva, I gently applied the makeshift poultice to his injury, hoping to alleviate the pain and prevent infection. I helped him cool down by finding a shaded spot.

Mwadime was however, the eternal cry-baby of our group. He was the kind of kid who could shed tears faster than water could run from a pipe. He was truly a master of melodrama. Mwadime had a special talent for crying over trivial things, such as eating. Mwadime's mother would serve him a large plate of rice and beans, but my brother Mwabili and I often had to wrestle with the meagre amount that barely covered the bottom of the plate.

As Mwadime lay nursing his injured knee, howling like a brat, Mwangala and I sprang into action, we devised a plan to appease Mwadime's tears and ensure his silence.

We promised Mwadime to share with him the gifts our mothers would bring from he markets. Mwadime slowly stopped crying and smiled at us. He promised us that he would not report us to his mother on the grounds that we kept our part of the bargain. We were doomed!