- Kamomonti wa Kiambati reflects on ageing through memories of rural Kenya, showing how time shapes both the body and the soul.
- The poem portrays every stage of life as a port of learning, gratitude and growing wisdom rather than merely physical decline.
- It ultimately points readers towards faith, reminding them that life’s final port is an eternal home prepared beyond this world.
Do you remember
when the cock crowed before dawn
and smoke curled slowly
through the grass-thatched roof
of the mud-walled kitchen?
When Mother stirred uji
in a blackened sufuria,
and Father wrapped his old coat tightly
before stepping into the cold
with a jembe across his shoulder?
When fresh milk came warm
from the cowshed in a metal pail,
its foam trembling at the brim,
while the calves pulled at their ropes
and the cream gathered thickly
inside the wooden gourd?
I do.
When the shamba followed the seasons,
and the seasons could be trusted.
When the long rains arrived,
we pushed maize seeds
into soft brown soil,
dropped beans into the same holes,
and watched the clouds gather
above the ridges
as though they carried
the future of the family.
When ripe mangoes thudded
onto the grass behind the house,
and children ran barefoot
with their shirts held out like baskets
before the goats reached them.
When avocados bent old branches,
and neighbours walked home
with woven baskets
balanced on their heads.
When the harvest was so generous
that sweet potatoes filled the kitchen,
maize packed the granary,
and we groaned
at the sight of another plate of boiled ngwaci.
I remember.
When we walked to school
along narrow red-earth paths,
our feet coated with dust,
our exercise books wrapped
in old plastic bags
when the clouds turned dark.
When we carried cold githeri
in small tins,
shared roasted maize at break time,
and drank water
cupped in our hands.
When teachers carried canes,
elders were greeted from a distance,
and every neighbour
could stop you on the road
and ask,
“Whose child are you?”
When evening came,
with the bells of cattle
returning from the grazing fields,
and children hurried home
before darkness covered the footpaths.
When the family gathered
around the three-stone fire,
warming our hands
as stories filled the room—
stories of the clever hare,
the greedy hyena,
warriors who crossed rivers,
and spirits said to live
deep inside the forest.
I remember.
When one shilling mattered.
When five cents bought sweets,
and a few coins
could buy a pencil
or a small paper cone
of roasted groundnuts.
When a ten-shilling note
was folded into four
and hidden inside the family Bible.
When a hundred shillings
could pay school fees,
and a thousand-shilling note
made the whole household
speak of better days.
Nowadays,
my memory is not so sharp.
I search for my spectacles
while they sit on my head.
I check my pockets
for the house keys,
then find them
beside the radio.
I cannot remember
whether I paid the electricity bill
or switched off
the charcoal jiko.
Sometimes I enter the bedroom
and stand quietly,
trying to remember
what brought me there.
Names slip away
like goats through a broken fence,
then return at night
when I no longer need them.
Appointments are written
in a small notebook,
circled twice
and underlined three times.
Reminders are tucked
inside the Bible,
beside the sugar tin,
under the television remote,
and beneath the calendar.
But there is another kind of ageing.
It is called maturing.
It is the season
when compassion comes
before judgement.
When we learn
that anger tightens the chest
and forgiveness
allows the heart to rest.
When wisdom no longer
raises its voice
or struggles to sit
at the head of the table.
When a neighbour’s grief
brings us to their door,
carrying tea leaves, sugar, flour,
or whatever we can afford.
When no visitor
leaves the homestead
without a cup of hot tea,
a piece of bread,
or a plate of food.
It is the season
when we understand
that the title on the office door,
the money in the bank,
the land marked by boundary stones,
and the cattle in the shed
are only ours for a while.
That one day
the house we built
will open its doors
without us.
The chair we occupied
will belong to another.
The praise we once received
will grow quiet.
But someone may still remember
the school fees we paid,
the hungry child we fed,
the hand we held
at a graveside,
or the forgiveness
we offered
when revenge was easier.
Love will remain
in the people we touched.
And the good we planted
will rise again
like green maize
after the first rains.
It is the season
when Kenya looks different—
not merely as counties,
highways and growing towns,
but as one home:
from the cold slopes
of Mount Kenya,
to the tea fields
rolling across Kericho;
from the dry plains
of Turkana,
to the fishing boats
on Lake Victoria;
from Nairobi’s crowded streets
to the quiet villages
where evening smoke
still rises above banana trees.
And beyond all this,
the earth becomes
a small blue home,
turning silently
in the hands of God.
We begin to understand
that every seed
has its purpose.
The maize grows tall
beside the beans.
The coffee tree
flowers in its season.
The mango takes years
before it gives shade.
And every person
walks a different path
toward the same horizon.
The body becomes weathered.
The hands that once held
a jembe from sunrise to sunset
begin to tremble.
The knees that climbed hills
and crossed swollen rivers
ask for a walking stick.
The eyes that watched
children grow
move closer to the page.
The feet that walked
many kilometres to school
now pause often
along the road.
But the soul’s song
can remain strong.
And as evening settles
over the hills,
the heart listens
for another sound—
the sound of home.
Not the old homestead
where we were born.
Not the house
where our children grew.
But the eternal home
prepared beyond
the last ridge.
We look back
with gratitude.
We remember
the years of good rain
and the years
when the maize dried
before it ripened.
The full granaries
and the empty stores.
The weddings
with singing and dancing.
The funerals
where neighbours gathered
beneath tents
and shared tears.
The laughter around the fire.
The graves we still visit.
The sorrows we believed
would never leave us.
Then we look ahead—
not with fear,
but with faith.
For the God
who watched over us
when we walked barefoot
along dusty village paths,
who sent rain
to our shambas,
who gave us strength
during drought,
who carried us
through hunger, loss
and seasons of plenty,
will also walk beside us
through the final valley.
And so we grow older—
not merely in years,
but in patience;
not merely in frailty,
but in wisdom;
not merely toward an ending,
but toward home.
READ ALSO: Recorder opens the door to music skills for Grade Four learners under CBE
Fearing little
except the uncertainty
that sometimes follows
the fading light—
yet trusting
that the One
who placed the seed
in the soil,
watched it break
through the earth,
and carried it
through sun and rain,
will gather us home
when the harvest comes.
By Kamomonti wa Kiambati
Kamomonti is a published poet.
0722901710
You can also follow our social media pages on Twitter: Education News KE and Facebook: Education News Newspaper for timely updates.
>>> Click here to stay up-to-date with trending regional stories
>>> Click here to read more informed opinions on the country’s education landscape
>>> Click here to stay ahead with the latest national news.
