MY GUKA

The Man who went ahead of me

I grew up in a small village in central Kenya, where life was simple, joyful, and deeply communal. Childhood felt endless, those days spent running barefoot with my cousins and neighbors, laughter echoing across the homestead. Like many African families, we lived in a shared compound. At the entrance stood my great-grandfather’s house, then my grandfather’s, followed by ours and those of my cousins. It was more than a place; it was a world of belonging.

Every Saturday morning, we woke up with excitement, not because of games or adventures, but because of stories. We would rush to my great-grandfather’s house to sit at his feet and listen. He told us about his childhood, life before colonization, and the Mau Mau, the freedom fighters of Kenya who battled for our land and dignity. To us, those stories sounded like something out of a film. Yet they were real, and they were his. We never grew tired of hearing them, again and again.

We all called him Guka. Guka was a tall man, about six feet, with light skin and a full head of white hair. But what stood out most was not his appearance; it was his presence. He had a way with children: kind, gentle, and generous. His farm was our playground and our workplace. Our favorite chores were picking coffee and macadamia nuts. For every bucket we filled, Guka would reward us with a few coins, enough to buy sweets and doughnuts. It felt like riches.

He was a man of quiet dignity, always neat, always composed. The whole community respected him. When disputes arose, he was called alongside the Village elders to help restore peace. He was soft-spoken, but his words carried weight.

At home, he quietly defied expectations. Unlike many men of his generation, he did not leave all domestic work to his wife, our shushu, he even helped do the laundry, not with the washing machine, but with his bare hands. On Sundays, he would wake up early, prepare his charcoal iron, and carefully press his clothes. Then he would walk with us to church.

This, too, set him apart. Many men of his age distrusted Christianity, seeing it as the religion of colonizers. But not Guka. He believed deeply and walked faithfully. After church, he would gather us outside his house and ask what we had learned in Sunday school. Only after satisfying himself with our answers would he release us to play, while he sat with his small black radio, always within reach, listening to Radio Citizen and Mzee Mambo Mbotela. He also enjoyed listening to local Kikuyu stations. Nothing would separate this man from his radio

Guka shaped my childhood in ways I only now fully understand. He taught us discipline. He taught us to work. He taught us God’s Word. But above all, he taught us how to live in unity, in peace, in love for family and neighbor. He hated conflict and worked tirelessly to keep harmony among his children, our parents, and the wider family.

Then there was Christmas. That was my favorite time of the year. Relatives from the city would return home, and our quiet village would come alive. Guka would host everyone. Goats were slaughtered, chapatis were made in abundance, and laughter filled the air. No one went hungry, not even passers-by. His generosity knew no boundaries.

He was my Guka, my old man with a heart of gold. The one who protected us, guided us, and showed us that life without Jesus is no life at all. The man who stood firm in his convictions, even when they went against cultural norms.

Sadly, in 2010, everything changed. One morning, he slipped on a wet floor, hit his head, and was rushed to the hospital. A week later, he died from a blood clot. He was 100 years old when he died, yet he was stronger than a 50-year-old.

I was only ten years old then. I did not mourn him. I did not know how. But grief has a way of finding its voice over time. As the years passed, my heart began to feel what it could not express as a child. It ached during the Christmas season when the gate stayed quiet. It ached in the absence of his laughter, in the silence of Sundays without him. It ached for the warmth of his embrace and even the faint memory of his soft, floral scent.

Only now do I realize: I have been mourning him for sixteen years. I may have been too young to understand it then, but I have always felt his absence. I have always carried him with me. Yet today, as I reflect on his life, his love, and his faith, I find comfort in something deeper. Guka is not gone forever. He has simply gone ahead to a home where there is no pain, no sorrow, no death.

He introduced us to Jesus, so that one day, we might join him there.

Huruka uhoro, Guka ❤️