THE VILLAGE THAT PRAYED WITH ITS HANDS

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By Benjamin Munyao David
benmunyacom.wordpress.com

The village of Kitala rested in a shallow valley where the land curved inward like a listening ear. It was the kind of place that did not announce itself to travelers, a place one arrived at only if one meant to. The dust roads that led there were narrow and patient, shaped by feet rather than machines, and the air carried the scent of soil, smoke, and memory. To the people who lived there, Kitala was not merely a settlement but a covenant between land, labor, and God. They believed the earth responded to how it was treated, and that heaven paid close attention to villages that remembered gratitude.

For generations, Kitala’s life had revolved around the river called Mwitasyano, a name meaning the one who returns. It was a modest river, never boastful, never violent, but faithful in its quiet way. It fed the crops, cooled the cattle, and taught children their first lessons about continuity. The elders often said that as long as the river flowed, the village would endure. Faith and water, they believed, were alike—both unseen in their origins, yet essential to survival.

The people prayed as naturally as they breathed. Prayer was not reserved for Sundays or ceremonies; it lived in the rhythm of daily work. Women sang hymns as they planted seeds. Men murmured blessings as they sharpened tools. Children learned scripture before they learned sums, reciting verses under the watchful shade of the great baobab tree that stood at the heart of the village. That tree, older than any living memory, bore scars from carved names, dates, and prayers. It had listened to confessions, celebrations, and farewells. It was said that if God had a seat in Kitala, it was beneath that tree.

When the rains delayed one season, the people were not alarmed. Weather had its moods, and patience was part of faith. They prayed and waited. When the delay stretched into weeks, they prayed longer. When the soil cracked and the river thinned, they fasted and prayed harder. Yet something subtle shifted during that time. Prayer began to replace action rather than inspire it. The people waited for heaven to intervene while their hands remained still, and without realizing it, faith began to shrink into habit.

By the time the drought tightened its grip, hunger had learned the paths between houses. Crops withered. Livestock weakened. Mothers measured meals carefully, and fathers stared at land that no longer answered effort with reward. Some of the younger men left in search of work, promising to return, though many never did. The village gathered more often beneath the baobab, but their prayers grew heavy with desperation rather than trust.

It was during this season that Mosi Mutua returned home.

Mosi had left Kitala years earlier with a small bag and a large sense of calling. Sponsored by a church that believed education was a form of service, he studied community development in the city. There, he learned theories and strategies, but more importantly, he witnessed the consequences of forgotten communities. He saw how aid without dignity bred dependence, and how faith detached from action became decoration. He worked with pastors who fed people before preaching to them, and with volunteers who built schools using little more than commitment and prayer.

When his father died, Mosi felt a pull that no opportunity could compete with. He returned to Kitala not as a savior, but as a son who understood that knowledge was meaningless if it did not serve love.

The village welcomed him warmly. Elders embraced him with pride, and children followed him with curiosity. They noticed how he listened more than he spoke, how he knelt to greet the old and spoke gently to the young. He prayed without performance and worked without complaint. Slowly, people began to look at him with expectation, as if his education had somehow packaged solutions they desperately needed.

Mosi felt that expectation most acutely when he stood at the riverbed. Where water once flowed, dust now lay exposed, scattered with stones like broken promises. He knelt there often, pressing his hand into the dry soil, praying not for miracles but for wisdom. He knew faith could not be shouted into existence; it had to be lived into being.

Among those who watched him closely was a young girl named Amani. She was nine years old, thin from hunger but rich in spirit. Her mother suffered from a lingering illness, and her father had disappeared years before. Yet Amani smiled with a resilience that seemed defiant. She followed Mosi as he inspected abandoned wells and measured land for possible rain catchments. She asked questions that revealed both innocence and depth.

One afternoon, as they sat beneath the baobab, Amani asked why God allowed the river to dry. Mosi paused, choosing honesty over comfort. He told her that sometimes God waited for people to remember their responsibility to one another, that prayer was not meant to replace obedience. Amani considered this carefully, then said she wanted to help God by helping people. In that moment, Mosi understood that leadership was already growing in the village, quietly and humbly.

As conditions worsened, the village council met again. Aid had not arrived. Promises from distant offices dissolved into silence. Fear pressed heavily on every decision. Some elders argued that waiting was the only faithful response, that God would act in His time. Others, wearied by hunger, questioned whether faith had abandoned them.

It was Mama Nyawira, the oldest among them, who broke the tension. Leaning on her walking stick, her voice thin but unwavering, she reminded them of seasons when survival had depended not on waiting, but on unity. She spoke of scripture that demanded action, of faith that required obedience. Her words were not loud, but they carried authority born of endurance.

Mosi spoke next, not as a teacher but as a fellow servant. He said they could continue praying for help, or they could become the answer to their own prayers. He proposed digging a new well, building rain catchments, sharing resources, and teaching children even without classrooms. He did not promise success. He promised faithfulness.

The decision was made slowly, with trembling resolve rather than confidence. They would act.

Work began before sunrise. Men dug until their hands blistered. Women carried stones, cooked communal meals, and encouraged one another. Children fetched tools, learned by watching sacrifice, and sang hymns that lightened heavy days. Arguments erupted, exhaustion threatened resolve, and some mocked the effort quietly before leaving altogether.

Mosi worked alongside everyone. When his hands bled, he wrapped them and continued. When food ran low, he ate last. At night, he prayed beneath the baobab, not for escape, but for endurance. Gradually, something shifted. Laughter returned. Trust deepened. Faith became visible.

The rain came without warning. It began as a whisper, then poured with a generosity that soaked the land until it sighed with relief. Children danced. Elders wept openly. The well filled. The river stirred. But more important than the water was what had already been restored—the people’s belief that God worked through willing hands.

Years passed, and Kitala transformed. The well became a system. A small clinic rose from stone and hope. A school followed. Visitors came to learn how a forgotten village rebuilt itself without waiting to be rescued. Mosi refused offers to leave. He said his calling had roots.

Amani grew into a teacher, then a leader, teaching children that prayer was not escape but engagement. Beneath the baobab, new names were carved, new prayers whispered. The village gathered there often—not to beg, but to remember.

They remembered hunger and fear, unity and courage, and the truth written into their history: that faith without work is empty, and work without faith is hollow. Kitala endured not because hardship vanished, but because the people learned who they were—a village that prayed with its hands.

END

WHEN THE RAIN REMEMBERS OUR NAMES

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A Tragic Love Story

DEDICATION

To all people who love their partners across the world—
those who held on, those who let go,
and those whose love survived only in memory.

WHEN THE RAIN REMEMBERS OUR NAMES

I. The Day Love Learned to Breathe

The first time John saw Juliet, the city was breaking apart in rain.

Nairobi had always known how to cry, but that afternoon the sky collapsed without apology. Water flooded the streets, carrying dust, plastic dreams, and forgotten promises into the gutters. People ran for shelter. Matatus honked angrily. Shopkeepers cursed the heavens.

John did none of that.

He stood under the leaking awning of a closed bookstore on Tom Mboya Street, watching her struggle with a broken umbrella, her dress clinging to her legs, her hair refusing to obey gravity. She laughed—laughed—as the rain defeated her, as if the storm were a joke told only to her.

That laugh changed something inside him.

She looked up then, as if summoned by instinct, and their eyes met. The city faded. The rain softened. Something ancient and quiet passed between them—an unspoken agreement that life, no matter how cruel, could still be kind.

She ran toward the awning, breathless.
“Seems the sky has chosen violence today,” she said.

John smiled, surprised at how natural it felt.
“Or maybe it’s washing the world for new beginnings.”

She studied him, rain dripping from her eyelashes.
“I like that,” she said. “I’m Juliet.”

“John,” he replied. “It means God is gracious.”

She nodded thoughtfully.
“Then maybe today needed grace.”

They shared the narrow shelter, shoulders nearly touching, listening to the rain drum a rhythm neither of them would ever forget.

That was the day love learned to breathe.

II. Two Souls Learning Each Other

Juliet lived in a modest apartment in South B. John rented a single room in Kayole, its walls thin enough to hear neighbors argue, pray, and dream. They came from different worlds, yet somehow spoke the same language.

They walked the city together—through Uhuru Park at sunset, through dusty rural roads when John took her to his grandmother’s village in Machakos. Juliet loved the red soil, how it stained her shoes and refused to be forgotten.

“This land remembers people,” she said one evening as they watched stars emerge.
“So do I,” John replied.

Love grew quietly between them, not in grand gestures, but in shared chapatis, late-night conversations, and the way Juliet rested her head on John’s chest as if she had always belonged there.

She wanted to be a writer.
He wanted to build something that would outlive him.

They promised each other nothing—but hoped for everything.

III. The Weight of Tomorrow

Reality, however, has sharp teeth.

John’s job at a construction site barely paid enough. Juliet’s freelance writing brought more rejection letters than money. Love did not ask for much, but life demanded everything.

Then Juliet fell sick.

At first it was small—fatigue, headaches, a cough that refused to leave. Doctors spoke in careful tones. Tests were ordered. Silence followed.

The diagnosis came like a thief in the night.

A rare heart condition. Treatment possible. Surgery expensive.

Too expensive.

John sold what little he had. Juliet pretended not to notice. She smiled through pain. He held her through nights where hope felt like a rumor.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered once.
“I am,” he confessed. “Of a world without you.”

She touched his face gently.
“Then remember me in every sunrise.”

IV. Love Learns to Let Go

When the surgery date came, the money was still not enough.

Juliet made a decision John never agreed with.

She left.

A letter. Simple. Gentle. Cruel.

My love,
If love means freedom, then let me free you from watching me fade.
Remember me as laughter in rain, not silence in hospitals.
Live. For both of us.

John searched for her. Hospitals. Villages. Friends.

Nothing.

Weeks turned into months. The city continued breathing. John did not.

V. The Rain Keeps Its Promises

Years later, John stood beneath the same bookstore awning.

Older. Quieter.

The rain returned—soft, respectful.

A woman approached, carrying flowers. She stopped beside him.

“She loved the rain,” the woman said.

John’s breath caught.
“Juliet?”

The woman smiled sadly.
“I’m her sister.”

Juliet had passed quietly. Peacefully. Loving until the end.

“She asked me to give you this,” her sister said, handing him a notebook.

Inside were stories. Their story. Love written in ink and pain and beauty.

The last line read:

If the rain remembers our names, then we are never truly gone.

John looked up as the rain fell gently on his face.

And for the first time in years, he smiled.

EPILOGUE

Love does not always win.

But it always means something.

THE LAST RESORT

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Nairobi never truly slept. Even in the deepest hours of the night, the city breathed—through the hum of distant engines on Thika Road, the echo of matatus rattling along Ngong Road, and the whisper of wind brushing against the glass towers of Upper Hill. From above, the city looked alive, restless, as though it carried too many secrets to ever fully rest.

For Daniel Mwendwa, Nairobi had become his last resort.

He stood on the balcony of a modest apartment in South B, staring at the city lights that flickered like uncertain stars. The smell of rain-soaked tarmac rose from the streets below, mixing with the distant aroma of roasted maize from a roadside vendor who refused to close shop, no matter the hour. Daniel wrapped his jacket tighter around himself. He had come to Nairobi with hope. Now, hope felt like a fragile thing—easily broken, easily lost.

Two years earlier, Daniel had arrived from Kitui with a single suitcase and a heart full of ambition. He had imagined Nairobi as a city of opportunity, a place where effort was rewarded and dreams were realized. The billboards promised success. The skyline whispered possibility. But reality had been harsher than he expected.

Jobs were scarce. Rent was unforgiving. And failure was silent but heavy.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. A message from his landlord.

Rent reminder. Three days overdue.

Daniel sighed and slipped the phone back. He had heard those words too many times. He had tried everything—casual construction work in Eastlands, night shifts as a security guard in Industrial Area, even hawking phone accessories along Tom Mboya Street. Nothing lasted. Nairobi took more than it gave.

Inside the apartment, a single bulb flickered weakly. The room was sparsely furnished: a thin mattress on the floor, a plastic table, two chairs—one broken. On the wall hung a faded newspaper clipping of Nairobi’s skyline, something he had pinned there on his first day in the city as a reminder of why he came.

Now it felt like mockery.

The next morning, Daniel walked toward the city center, blending into the river of people flowing through the streets. Office workers in sharp suits hurried past boda boda riders weaving dangerously through traffic. Hawkers shouted over each other, selling everything from socks to chargers. The city was loud, impatient, alive.

Daniel stopped outside a café near Kenyatta Avenue. The smell of fresh coffee drifted toward him, awakening memories of mornings back home when life was simpler. He shook his head and kept walking. Nairobi had taught him discipline—the discipline of wanting without touching.

At Uhuru Park, he sat on a bench, watching as the city unfolded around him. Lovers laughed, street preachers shouted warnings of judgment, and pigeons fought over crumbs. For a moment, he felt invisible, like a forgotten chapter in a book no one cared to finish.

That was when he met Aisha.

She was seated a few benches away, sketching the skyline with quick, confident strokes. Her hair was tied back loosely, and her eyes carried a calm focus that felt rare in a city always in a rush. Daniel noticed her because she seemed unaffected by the chaos around her.

When their eyes met, she smiled.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, gesturing toward the city.

Daniel hesitated, then nodded. “Depends on where you’re standing.”

She laughed softly. “True. I’m Aisha.”

“Daniel.”

They talked. About Nairobi. About disappointment. About survival. Aisha was a freelance photographer and graphic designer, living in Westlands but often wandering the city for inspiration. She spoke of Nairobi as a paradox—cruel and kind, broken and beautiful.

“People think this city owes them something,” she said. “It doesn’t. But sometimes, if you stay long enough, it gives you just enough to keep going.”

Daniel didn’t know why, but those words stayed with him.

Over the next few days, they met often—at Java House in town when she could afford it, or on park benches when she couldn’t. Aisha listened without judgment. She didn’t promise miracles. She simply reminded him that he was not alone.

One evening, as rain poured heavily over the city, Daniel received a call that changed everything.

It was his mother.

“Daniel,” she said, her voice strained. “Your father is sick. We need help.”

The world seemed to pause.

He had no money. No savings. No plan. Nairobi had taken everything he had to offer, and now it demanded more.

That night, Daniel walked through the rain-soaked streets of Nairobi, past glowing bars and shuttered shops, past dreams and despair. He found himself standing outside a high-end hotel in Westlands—a place of luxury and comfort far removed from his reality.

An idea formed. Dangerous. Desperate.

Inside, he saw wealthy guests laughing, oblivious to the struggles beyond the glass doors. For a moment, anger burned in his chest. But desperation won.

Before he could act, a familiar voice stopped him.

“Daniel?”

It was Aisha.

She looked at him—wet, shaken, defeated—and understood immediately.

“Come with me,” she said.

They sat in her small studio apartment, surrounded by cameras, laptops, and unfinished projects. Daniel told her everything. The sickness. The money. The fear.

Aisha was silent for a long moment.

“I have a job,” she finally said. “A corporate shoot tomorrow. I need an assistant. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

Something.

That word had never meant so much.

Daniel worked harder than he ever had. He carried equipment, followed instructions, learned quickly. The client noticed. By the end of the day, Daniel had earned more than he had in weeks.

It wasn’t a miracle. But it was a beginning.

Weeks passed. More jobs came. Small, then bigger. Daniel learned photography, editing, design. Nairobi didn’t suddenly become kind—but it became fair.

When his father recovered, Daniel sent money home. When rent was due, he paid on time. Slowly, the weight on his chest lifted.

One evening, standing once again on a balcony—this time in a better apartment—Daniel looked out over Nairobi’s glowing skyline. The city was still restless, still demanding. But it was no longer his enemy.

Nairobi had been his last resort.

And somehow, it had become his second chance.

To My Readers,

~ benmunya12 ~ Leave a comment

As we come to the end of 2025, I find myself looking back not only at the year that was, but at the quiet journey we have shared through stories. This is not a farewell to the year alone—it is a pause, a breath between chapters, a moment to acknowledge how far we have come together on this blog and within these pages of imagination.

Writing short stories has always felt like sending small messages into the world, never fully knowing where they will land or who will receive them. Yet, as 2025 draws to a close, I am reminded that these messages did not disappear into silence. They found you. And in finding you, they found meaning.

This year, like many before it, carried its own weight. There were days marked by uncertainty, change, fatigue, and hope in equal measure. The world moved quickly, sometimes painfully so, and yet you continued to return here—to read, to reflect, to feel. That choice matters more than I can fully express. In a time when attention is constantly pulled in a thousand directions, you chose stillness. You chose story. You chose connection.

Writing is often a lonely act. It happens in fragments of time—late nights, early mornings, moments stolen from rest or routine. But reading transforms that solitude into community. When you read my work, you become part of the process. You bring your own experiences, your own year, your own version of 2025 into each story. The characters may be fictional, but the emotions are shared, and that shared space is sacred.

As we end 2025, I want you to know how deeply grateful I am for every single reader—those who comment, those who share, and those who simply read quietly and move on. Every form of engagement is a form of trust. You trusted me with your time, your attention, and sometimes your vulnerability. That is not something I take lightly.

Many of the stories published this year were shaped by the atmosphere of the times. Some were born from moments of uncertainty, others from small joys, unanswered questions, or quiet resilience. Short stories allow us to capture fleeting truths—things that might otherwise slip past unnoticed. That you were willing to sit with those moments, especially as the year unfolded with all its complexities, gave me the courage to keep writing honestly.

Your feedback throughout 2025 has been a guiding light. A single sentence from a reader—“This felt familiar,” or “This stayed with me”—can carry a writer through weeks of doubt. Your thoughts, interpretations, and even disagreements reminded me that stories are not meant to be consumed passively. They are meant to be engaged with, questioned, and felt differently by each reader.

To those who never leave a comment but return faithfully, I see you too. Reading is its own quiet conversation. If a story lingered with you after you closed the page, if it echoed in your thoughts during a long day or a quiet night, then it has already fulfilled its purpose. That invisible connection is powerful, and it has sustained this blog more than numbers ever could.

As 2025 comes to an end, I am especially aware of how stories serve as markers of time. They capture who we were when we read them. A story read in January may feel different when revisited in December, because we have changed. Life has happened. Growth has occurred. Losses and lessons have shaped us. Knowing that my stories may be part of those personal timelines is both humbling and profound.

This blog exists because we share a belief—that stories still matter. That even in a fast, noisy world, there is room for reflection, imagination, and emotional honesty. By being here at the end of this year, you affirm that belief. You help keep the art of short storytelling alive, not as a trend, but as a human need.

I also want to thank you for your patience throughout the year. Creativity does not always move in straight lines. There were moments in 2025 when words came easily, and others when silence took over. Your continued presence, even during quiet stretches, reminded me that the work is bigger than momentary doubt. Your support gave me permission to grow at my own pace.

As we step out of 2025 and toward a new year, I carry your readership with me. I carry your encouragement, your honesty, and your shared love for stories. I promise to continue writing with care, curiosity, and respect for the trust you place in my words. I promise to keep exploring new ideas, new voices, and new ways of telling the truths that matter.

Thank you for walking with me through this year. Thank you for making these stories more than words on a screen. As 2025 ends, know that this space exists because of you—and that every story yet to come already carries your presence within it.

With gratitude,
Your Writer

WHEN THE BAOBAB BLEEDS

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A Tragedy of Love, Betrayal, Enmity, and Death

Author & Narrator: Benjamin Munyao David
benmunyacom.wordpress.com | medium.com

The Story

The elders of Kivala say the baobab does not cry unless the land itself is wounded. On the night it bled, its sap ran dark as sorrow, and the wind carried a name that would soon be spoken only in whispers—Amara.

Kivala lay between river and red earth, a village held together by millet songs, goat bells, and the memory of wars long buried. At its heart stood the ancient baobab, older than the oldest ancestor, its roots coiling like serpents beneath the soil. Under its shade, children learned proverbs, lovers exchanged vows, and judgments were passed with words heavier than stones.

Amara grew beneath that tree. She was born during the season of thunder, when lightning split the sky like a calabash. Her mother died bringing her into the world, and the midwives said the child did not cry at first—she stared, solemn and bright-eyed, as if listening to a voice only she could hear. Her father, Mzee Sefu, named her Amara, meaning grace that survives fire.

From the time she could walk, Amara ran barefoot with Kato, the son of a blacksmith whose hands were scarred by iron and whose laughter rang louder than the anvil. They were opposites bound by a single cord—Amara, thoughtful and observant; Kato, fearless and quick to smile. They fished in the river, stole mangoes, and swore childish oaths under the baobab to never leave each other.

But oaths spoken by children are the first offerings to fate.

Kivala was ruled by Chief Baraka, a man whose shadow arrived before he did. His authority came not from wisdom but from blood—his father had seized the chieftaincy during a famine, and Baraka inherited power like a blade passed down, still sharp, still thirsty. He had one son, Jabari, raised on privilege and praise, taught that wanting was the same as deserving.

The day Jabari first saw Amara, she was dancing at the harvest festival, her feet stamping the dust into clouds that glowed gold in the sunset. The drums spoke to her bones; her arms cut the air with ancestral certainty. Jabari’s gaze hardened into possession. He did not clap. He did not smile. He decided.

From that moment, the village began to tilt.

Kato noticed first. He saw Jabari’s messengers circling Amara’s compound like vultures that had learned patience. He saw the gifts—beads from the coast, a mirror that fractured the face into shining pieces, cloth dyed the color of ripe plums. Amara refused them all.

“I am not a goat to be traded,” she told her father.

Mzee Sefu sighed the sigh of men who know how small they are. “A chief’s desire is a drought,” he said. “It dries everything.”

Kato and Amara confessed their love on a night when the moon was thin as a blade. They stood beneath the baobab, hands trembling, the tree’s hollow trunk breathing with insects and secrets.

“If we run,” Kato said, “we can reach the hills.”

“And leave my father?” Amara asked. “Leave Kivala?”

Kato had no answer. Love, when young, believes courage can feed everyone. Love, when tested, learns the price of choosing.

The chief’s council convened at dawn. Baraka’s voice rolled like distant thunder as he announced his son’s intention to marry Amara. No bride price was discussed. None was needed. Silence fell—thick, suffocating.

Mzee Sefu stood. His knees shook. “My daughter chooses her own path.”

Baraka’s smile was slow and thin. “Paths are made by those who rule.”

That night, Kato was taken.

They beat him behind the granaries where the ground drank blood without complaint. Jabari watched, his face empty, as if observing the weather. When Kato awoke, he was bound and broken, a warning wrapped in flesh.

“Leave,” Jabari told him. “Or learn how men disappear.”

Kato did not leave.

He crawled back to the blacksmith’s forge, where his father wept without tears and hammered iron until sparks blinded the night. Kato healed in silence, each breath a promise sharpened by pain.

Amara was summoned to the chief’s compound. Baraka spoke of unity, of tradition, of how a woman’s refusal could fracture a village. Jabari stood beside him, hands folded, eyes burning.

“I will not be your peace offering,” Amara said.

The slap echoed. The baobab shuddered.

Word spread like fire through dry grass. Some said Amara was cursed. Others said she was brave. The women sang mourning songs while pounding grain, as if someone had already died.

Kato met Amara one last time by the river. They did not touch. Touch would have undone them.

“I will fight,” Kato said.

“And die,” Amara replied softly. “They will kill you and call it order.”

“Then I will die knowing who I am.”

Amara closed her eyes. “If you die, I will become a ghost while living.”

Fate listened. Fate smiled.

The day of the forced betrothal arrived with a sun too bright to trust. The village gathered under the baobab, where the elders sat like carved masks. Amara wore white, not for purity but for mourning. Jabari approached, perfumed and proud.

As the elder raised his staff to speak, a shout split the air.

Kato emerged from the crowd, carrying a spear fashioned from his father’s iron. His steps were steady, his eyes clear.

“I challenge Jabari,” he said. “By the old laws.”

Murmurs rippled. The old laws were dangerous things—half remembered, fully lethal.

Baraka rose. “There will be no—”

But the elders, eager to remember a time when power had rules, allowed it.

They fought in the dust. Jabari was stronger, trained by soldiers. Kato was fueled by something older than training. The spear struck. Blood bloomed. Jabari fell.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then Baraka screamed.

The chief’s guards surged forward. In the chaos, Amara ran to Kato. He smiled—just once—before a blade found his back. He collapsed into her arms, his blood soaking the white cloth.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I could not leave.”

Amara’s scream tore the sky.

Baraka ordered Kato’s body dragged away and declared him a traitor. Jabari died before sunset, his death unwept by those who feared the chief’s wrath more than the gods’.

Three nights later, Amara was found beneath the baobab, a rope woven from funeral cloth in her hands. The tree’s sap oozed dark where she leaned her forehead against the bark.

They say she did not hang herself. They say she pressed her chest to the tree and asked it to remember her, and the baobab took her gently, as it takes rain.

By morning, she was gone.

Kivala did not recover. Baraka ruled, but his dreams filled with roots tightening around his bones. Crops failed. Children were born silent. Travelers avoided the village.

Years later, when Baraka died alone, the baobab cracked in two.

From its hollow center grew two saplings, their roots entwined beneath the soil.

And the elders, who had learned too late, named the place The Bleeding Ground, where love was betrayed, enmity crowned itself king, and tragedy taught death to speak.

When the Red Earth Calls Me Home: A Christmas Journey of Grace

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Prologue: The Call of Home

Every December, when the city exhales and the year loosens its grip, a voice calls from the east—from the red soils of Kyamatula Sublocation, from Musoka Village, from the open palms of Mwala Subcounty in Machakos County. It is a voice carried by wind through acacia leaves, by memory through the heart. It says, Come home.

I am Benjamin Munyao David, son of the soil and citizen of the city, living in Nairobi City, Kenya, where roads are always busy and dreams walk fast. Yet when Christmas nears, the city becomes a station, not a destination. The true journey begins where my name is known not by papers, but by laughter, where my footsteps remember the paths even before my eyes do.

This is the story of going home for Christmas—of faith, family, friends, and the grace of God that lights the way.

Chapter One: Nairobi, the Leaving

Nairobi in December hums with urgency. Buses groan under the weight of suitcases and hope. Hawkers sing prices like carols. Offices dim their lights early, and the air smells of rain and roasted maize. I pack lightly, for the heaviest things—love, gratitude, longing—are already within me.

As the city recedes, I whisper a prayer. By God’s grace, let this journey be safe. Let it be joyful. Let it be a return not only to place, but to purpose.

The road east opens like a promise. Each mile loosens the city from my shoulders. Hills rise, skies widen, and the land begins to speak the language of home.

Chapter Two: The Road Remembers Me

The road to Machakos is a ribbon of memory. It knows my laughter from boyhood, my silence from seasons of learning. The earth changes color—grey to brown to red—like a story deepening its tone. Vendors wave. Children point. The sun leans closer, as if curious about my return.

I think of Musoka Village, where evenings are measured by birdsong and time rests on doorsteps. I think of Kyamatula, where names are spoken slowly and greetings are prayers. The road hums beneath the tires, and my heart hums with it.

Chapter Three: Arrival at Kyamatula

Home receives me the way only home can—with open hands and no questions. Dust rises in celebration. Laughter arrives before I do. The compound blooms with movement, and Christmas finds its place not in tinsel, but in togetherness.

My brothers are there—Charles, steady as sunrise; Kyalo, whose laughter lifts roofs; Mwendwa, thoughtful and bright like morning dew. We clasp hands, we embrace, and in that moment the year is forgiven.

Cousins arrive like verses completing a song. Martin, with stories that stretch the evening; Muli, whose quiet humor lands gently and stays. Friends gather too—old and new—forming a circle wide enough for everyone.

Chapter Four: Preparing the Feast

Christmas at home is a choreography of care. Fires are lit. Pots sing. Hands move with purpose learned from generations. The aroma of tradition rises—goat stew slow-cooked with patience, ugali shaped by shared rhythm, vegetables fresh from the soil.

Children weave through the adults like blessings on errands. Someone tunes a radio. Another strings simple decorations—paper stars, borrowed lights, hope made visible. The sun lowers itself respectfully, giving space to lanterns and stories.

We pray together. Not long prayers, but true ones. Gratitude thickens the air.

Chapter Five: Christmas Eve—Stories by Firelight

Night gathers us closer. Firelight paints our faces gold. Stories travel from mouth to ear, from past to present. We remember those who taught us how to stand, how to share, how to believe.

Laughter bursts, then softens. Silence arrives, not empty, but full. Somewhere, a guitar finds a hymn. Voices rise—uneven, earnest, beautiful. Christmas is no longer a date. It is a feeling that settles gently on the shoulders.

Chapter Six: Christmas Morning—Grace Wakes Early

Dawn in Musoka Village is a blessing that arrives without noise. Birds announce it. Light spills slowly, like mercy. We wake early, because joy does not like to wait.

We dress simply. Clean clothes, clean hearts. We gather for prayer, and the words feel close to the ground, where they belong. Thank You, God, for life. Thank You for family. Thank You for bringing us home.

Children run. Elders smile. The day opens wide.

Chapter Seven: The Table That Holds Us

The Christmas table is long, even when the wood is short. Plates pass. Hands meet. Food tastes better because it is shared. We eat slowly, as if to honor every moment.

Conversations cross generations. Advice is given freely. Forgiveness sneaks in quietly and takes a seat. Outside, the wind applauds the trees.

This is wealth. This is abundance.

Chapter Eight: Friends, Laughter, and the Afternoon Sun

Friends arrive with smiles and memories. We walk the paths we once ran. We greet neighbors. We stand under trees that have watched us grow.

The afternoon sun rests on our backs. Games begin. Stories continue. Phones are forgotten. Time stretches, generous and kind.

I look around and feel a deep knowing: this is what it means to belong.

Chapter Nine: Evening Reflections

As the day leans toward evening, gratitude becomes a quiet companion. I sit and watch shadows lengthen. I think of Nairobi waiting, of responsibilities and roads yet to travel.

But for now, I am here. Fully. Faith anchored. Love abundant.

Christmas has done its work.

Epilogue: Carrying Home Forward

When I return to the city, I will carry this with me—the red earth, the laughter of Charles, Kyalo, and Mwendwa; the warmth of Martin and Muli; the wide embrace of friends; the grace of God that made the journey possible.

Home is not left behind. It travels with me, a light in the chest, a compass for the days ahead.

And when December comes again, the road will remember my name.

© Benjamin Munyao David. All rights reserved.

The Lantern of Everpine

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By Benjamin Munyao David
[benmunyacom.wordpress.com]

Chapter One: Snow on the Silence

The first snow fell on Everpine like a held breath finally released. It came softly, as if the sky itself feared waking the town. Roofs turned white one sigh at a time, the pine trees bowed beneath their sudden crowns, and the old clock tower ticked louder than usual, its iron heart measuring the hush.

Mara Bell stood alone on the wooden bridge at the edge of town, her scarf wrapped twice around her neck and once around her courage. She had not planned to return for Christmas. Everpine was a place that remembered too well—every window a witness, every street a question she could never fully answer. Yet here she was, watching the river freeze in thin, glassy sheets, listening to the past creak beneath her boots.

She had come because of a letter written in a hand she thought she would never see again.

The lantern has been lit, it said. Come home.

No signature. None was needed.

The lantern.

Even now, the word stirred something old and bright inside her, a memory shaped like warmth. When she was a child, Everpine had been famous for its Christmas lantern—an enormous star-shaped light hung from the clock tower every December. It was said to burn with a glow that could not be extinguished by storm or sorrow. Families gathered beneath it on Christmas Eve, singing until their breath became clouds and their hearts remembered how to hope.

The lantern had gone dark the winter Mara left.

She crossed the bridge and entered town, her footsteps echoing along Main Street. The bakery windows glowed amber, and the bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside. The smell of cinnamon and yeast wrapped around her like a welcome she hadn’t earned.

“Close the door, you’ll let the cold in,” said a voice she knew.

Mrs. Calder stood behind the counter, older now but unchanged in the places that mattered. Her eyes widened, then softened.

“Mara Bell,” she said. “Christmas really does make miracles of us all.”

Chapter Two: The Letter’s Echo

The Bell house stood at the end of Pine Row, its windows dark but expectant. Mara unlocked the door with the same key she’d carried for ten years, though she had never once used it. The house smelled of dust and pine resin, of winter kept at bay by memory.

She lit the fireplace and sat on the floor, the letter unfolded in her hands. The words glowed in the firelight.

The lantern has been lit.

Her father had written those words every year on Christmas Eve, just before they climbed the hill to the clock tower. He had been the lantern keeper, chosen by the town to tend the light. When he died, the town said the lantern died with him.

Mara had left because grief had filled Everpine like fog. Every corner had reminded her of what was gone. She had chosen distance over healing, silence over song.

Outside, church bells rang the hour. She looked up, heart pounding. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

Chapter Three: Old Roads, New Footprints

Morning arrived bright and brittle. Snow creaked underfoot as Mara walked toward the square. People greeted her—some cautiously, some warmly, all with recognition.

At the base of the clock tower stood Eli Rowan.

He turned when he heard her footsteps, and the years folded in on themselves. His hair was dusted with snow, his smile careful but real.

“You came,” he said.

“You wrote the letter,” she replied.

“I lit the lantern,” he said. “Or tried to.”

The clock tower door groaned as he opened it. Inside, the spiral staircase wound upward like a question mark.

“The lantern’s been dark for ten years,” Eli said. “But the mechanism is still here. Your father taught me once, before…” He trailed off.

They climbed together, breath misting, hearts racing. At the top, the lantern waited—tarnished but intact.

“It won’t light,” Eli said quietly. “Not fully.”

Mara stepped forward, placing her hand on the cold metal. She closed her eyes, remembering her father’s voice.

Light is not something you force, he had said. It’s something you invite.

Chapter Four: The Shape of Forgiveness

The town gathered that evening, bundled in coats and faith. Children clutched mugs of cocoa, elders leaned on canes polished by time.

Mara stood beside Eli beneath the tower. The lantern hung above them, dark and waiting.

“I left because I was afraid,” she said to the crowd, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Afraid that staying would break me. But I see now that leaving broke something too.”

She looked up at the lantern.

“This town taught me how to love. How to sing. How to hope. If the lantern is to shine again, it must belong to all of us.”

Eli turned the key.

At first, nothing happened.

Then—a spark. A glow. The lantern bloomed with light, brighter than memory, warmer than regret. Gasps rippled through the crowd. Snowflakes caught the light and turned to stars.

Someone began to sing.

Chapter Five: Christmas Eve

The song spread, voices weaving together like garlands. Mara felt something loosen in her chest, a knot she hadn’t known she still carried.

Eli smiled at her. “It needed you,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “It needed us.”

The lantern shone through the night, and Everpine remembered itself. Doors opened. Laughter spilled into the streets. The river reflected the light, carrying it onward.

Later, as the crowd thinned, Mara stood alone beneath the tower. Snow fell gently, as if blessing the ground.

Her father’s voice echoed in her memory—not with sorrow, but with pride.

Welcome home.

Epilogue: The Light We Keep

Years later, travelers would say that Everpine glowed brighter at Christmas than any other town. They would speak of a lantern that never dimmed, of a woman who returned and a town that forgave.

Mara stayed.

Each Christmas Eve, she climbed the tower, not as a keeper alone but as part of a circle—Eli, the children, the elders, the singers.

Because light, she had learned, is not something we inherit.

It is something we choose to keep.

THE SLOPES OF TOMORROW

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How a Rural Kenyan Community Built Its Own Future

Author: Benjamin Munyao David
Website: benmunyacom.wordpress.com

PROLOGUE

Musoka Village does not appear on most maps of the world. Even within Kenya, many people pass near it without knowing its name. Yet on the gentle, endless slopes of Yathui Location in Mwala Subcounty, Machakos County—where the land rolls softly without hills and the horizon seems always within reach—a quiet revolution was born.

This is the story of how ordinary people in Musoka refused to wait for rescue, refused to be defined by neglect, and instead designed their own technology, education system, and economy—using what they had, where they were.

CHAPTER ONE: THE LAND THAT TAUGHT PATIENCE

The land of Musoka slopes gently like a held breath. It is neither flat nor dramatic, just steady—stretching from one homestead to another under the open Kenyan sky. The soil is red-brown, stubborn but honest. Rain comes when it chooses, and when it fails, the sun does not apologize.

For generations, this land taught the people patience.

Munyao learned this as a boy. He could tell the season by the smell of the wind and knew which birds signaled rain. But as he grew older, patience began to feel like punishment. Roads were dusty scars, electricity a rumor, and promises from leaders arrived only during elections.

Musoka’s children walked long distances to overcrowded schools. Farmers sold their produce cheaply to middlemen who arrived like vultures. Young people left for Nairobi, returning only for funerals.

“Are we cursed?” Ann once asked during a women’s meeting beneath an acacia tree.

“No,” Munyao replied quietly. “We are waiting for someone who is not coming.”

CHAPTER TWO: THE DAY THE WAITING ENDED

The meeting that changed Musoka began like many others—with complaints.

Raymond, recently returned from Nairobi after years of casual labor, stood up with dust still on his boots.

“In the city,” he said, “I saw people with nothing build something from nothing. Not because the government helped them, but because they helped themselves.”

The crowd murmured.

“What do we have?” Ann asked.

Raymond smiled. “We have sun. We have land. We have minds. And we have each other.”

That night, something shifted. Not in policy, not in funding—but in belief.

They decided Musoka would no longer wait.

CHAPTER THREE: TECHNOLOGY FROM THE SOIL

Technology did not arrive in Musoka wrapped in glass and steel. It arrived in scraps, wires, and curiosity.

Munyao gathered old solar panels from a scrapyard in Machakos town. Raymond learned wiring from YouTube videos watched in a cybercafé miles away. Young boys who once chased goats now chased ideas.

They built a small solar hub—just enough to power lights and charge phones.

Then came the water problem.

Using plastic tanks, gravity, and the gentle slopes of Musoka, they designed a rainwater harvesting system that fed communal tanks. No pumps. No fuel. Just intelligence guided by land.

“When the land slopes,” Munyao explained, “you let it work for you.”

Soon, drip irrigation followed—simple hoses, tiny holes, measured hope.

For the first time, crops survived dry weeks.

CHAPTER FOUR: THE SCHOOL WITHOUT WALLS

The government school was far and overcrowded. So Musoka built something different.

They called it Kya Musoka Learning Circle.

Classes were held in homes, under trees, in the church after prayers. Retired teachers taught literacy. Farmers taught soil science. Ann led sessions on health, dignity, and leadership for girls.

Raymond taught mathematics using farming examples.

“If you sell one basket at this price,” he asked, “who gains more—you or the buyer?”

Children learned not just to pass exams, but to understand systems.

They learned coding basics on donated tablets powered by the solar hub. They learned history from their grandparents. They learned that education was not escape—it was transformation.

CHAPTER FIVE: BUILDING AN ECONOMY OF THEIR OWN

Middlemen feared Musoka.

The community formed a cooperative. Prices were discussed openly. Produce was sold collectively.

Ann led the women’s savings group, turning small contributions into seed capital. They began processing products—drying mangoes, packaging vegetables, branding honey.

“Value,” Ann said, “is not added in cities alone.”

With mobile money and shared phones, Musoka traded beyond its borders.

Money stayed.

Dignity returned.

CHAPTER SIX: WHEN THE WORLD NOTICED

Visitors came—first curious neighbors, then NGOs, then journalists.

“What donor funded this?” one asked.

Raymond shook his head. “Belief funded this.”

Musoka did not reject partnerships—but it no longer begged.

It negotiated.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE COST OF CHANGE

Not everyone approved.

Some elders feared tradition was being erased. Some leaders felt threatened.

But Munyao stood firm. “Progress is not betrayal,” he said. “It is survival.”

CHAPTER EIGHT: A FUTURE ON GENTLE SLOPES

Today, Musoka glows softly at night. Children dream differently. Youth return.

The slopes remain—unchanged, patient—but now they carry possibility.

Musoka did not become rich.

It became capable.

EPILOGUE: A MESSAGE TO THE WORLD

The story of Musoka Village is not about Kenya alone.

It is about what happens when communities stop waiting to be saved—and start designing their own futures.

On gentle slopes, with no hills at all, Musoka climbed higher than anyone expected.

And it is still climbing.

THE PASSPORT THAT NEVER LEFT

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I had never touched another country’s soil, yet the world found its way into my small room in Makueni, Kenya. The walls were thin, but the silence was wide enough to hold oceans. My bed was a metal frame that creaked like an old ship, and every night I slept as if I were floating somewhere between continents.

The passport lay in my drawer, brand new and untouched.

It was a gift to myself — blank pages, heavy cover, my name stamped in gold. I bought it not because I was traveling, but because I wanted proof that I could. In my village, a passport was not a document. It was a prophecy.

I was twenty-three and invisible to the world.

Every day I walked to the market to help my mother sell tomatoes and onions under the hot African sun. The smell of dust, ripe fruit, and diesel hung in the air like a permanent fog. Tourists passed through sometimes — Germans with red faces, Japanese couples with quiet cameras, Americans with wide questions in their eyes.

“Where are you from?” they asked.

“Here,” I said, pointing down.

They smiled politely, but I could see it in their eyes: Here is not a place, it’s a pause.

One afternoon, as I helped an old man lift sacks of maize, a folded piece of paper fell from the crate. I picked it up, thinking it was a receipt. But it was a map.

Not a normal map. It was hand-drawn.

There were no country names. No borders. Only lines — curved, broken, some straight — crossing each other like threads of fate. On one corner, there was a small note written in blue ink:

“The world is not crossed by feet alone.”

I stared at the words for a long time.

That night, I traced the lines with my finger by the light of a smoky kerosene lamp. The lines reminded me of stories — how rivers drift through land without asking permission, how birds travel without passports, how music travels through radio waves and enters homes in languages no one understands yet everyone feels.

I folded the map and placed it inside my unused passport.

After that day, the world began to visit me.

It started with the internet café.

Ten shillings for ten minutes. The computer was old and slow, breathing like a tired animal. But once the screen lit up, I was no longer in Makueni. I was everywhere and nowhere.

I read news from Seoul about robots learning to feel. I watched videos of snowstorms in Canada. I listened to podcasts from Brazil where people laughed in a Portuguese that sounded like dancing.

I joined writing forums where my name appeared next to people from India, Nigeria, Iceland, and Chile.

They didn’t know where I was.

They only knew what I wrote.

That was enough.

One week, I posted a short story about a boy who plants a tree that grows into a bridge between two mountains. A girl from Norway commented:

“I felt this story.”

Not read it. Felt it.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I walked outside my house and looked at the dark sky crowded with stars. I realized something that shook me:

My stories were traveling before my body ever could.

The passport in the drawer remained untouched, but my words were already crossing borders.

The world was touching me back.

Months passed. My English sharpened. My imagination expanded. My confidence grew quietly — like a river carving stone without noise.

One day, I received an email.

From a digital magazine in Singapore.

We would like to publish your story.

I read the line again and again until it stopped looking like words and started looking like magic.

They didn’t ask for my visa.
They didn’t ask for my location.
They didn’t ask whether I had ever flown.

They only asked for my voice.

After that, my stories appeared in places I had never seen — in online journals from the UK, anthologies based in South Africa, blogs run by students in Canada.

My name lived in cities my body had never visited.

But life at home stayed the same.

The tomatoes still smelled ripe.
The dust still rose when wind passed.
The goats still cried like old radios.

And yet, inside me, something had shifted.

One evening, a man from Nairobi arrived in a dusty suit. He said he worked with a cultural exchange organization. Someone had sent him a link to my work.

“We’d like to invite you to a virtual storytelling festival,” he said, smiling carefully. “Writers from over twenty countries will be there.”

Virtual.

The word felt strange and modern in my mouth.

On the day of the event, I borrowed a jacket from a cousin and walked to the cyber café. The power went off twice. The internet froze. Fear tried to sit beside me.

But when the screen came alive, I saw faces from everywhere.

A woman from Japan bowed.
A man from Mexico waved.
A girl from Australia smiled with bright eyes.

And then it was my turn to read.

I told them a story about a boy who bought a passport but never left, because the world entered him instead. I told them about dust, stars, maps, and invisible bridges.

When I finished, no one spoke for a few seconds.

Then came clapping.

From everywhere.

In that moment, I understood something important:

Travel is not only about moving the body. It is about moving the soul beyond its fences.

Years later, I applied for a real opportunity — a global writing program in Europe. I filled forms slowly, carefully, like someone carving wood. When the email arrived, my hands shook.

Congratulations. You have been selected.

My mother cried silently.
My father stared at the ceiling like he was counting blessings.
The goats didn’t understand, but they bleated anyway.

At the airport in Nairobi, my passport was finally opened.

Stamped.

Not just by ink.

By destiny.

But even as the airplane lifted, I realized the truth:

I had already been traveling long before this plane existed in my life.

I had walked through London in my imagination.
I had felt snow without freezing.
I had heard prayers in languages I did not speak.

The world had already shaped my mind.

Years later, sitting by a wide European river, I pulled out that old hand-drawn map. The lines were fading. The message was still clear.

“The world is not crossed by feet alone.”

I smiled.

Because I finally knew:

I was never small.
My village was never forgotten.
My stories were never trapped.

And I — a boy from Kenya who had never travelled — had traveled the world without moving at all.

Rohitash: Where Friendship Learned to Outrun Time

~ benmunya12 ~ 1 Comment

Dedication

This story is dedicated to my brother in spirit, Rohitash —
the one who believed in my words before the world learned to hear them,
the one who loved my stories before I had the courage to love them myself.

And to you, my friend, I say:
This story breathes because you exist.

Part One: The Boy Who Listened to Silence

My name is Benjamin Munyao David, and I have lived most of my life inside words, much like a man who discovers that his home is not made of bricks, but of sentences.

The world first introduced me to Rohitash not through a grand ceremony or a dramatic event, but through something far more honest: a quiet conversation that felt like a beginning we did not know we were waiting for.

He was different.

Not loud. Not forceful. Not desperate to exist.
He existed as naturally as the sky holds clouds.

Rohitash had that rare gift of listening — not just to people, but to moments. While others chased noise, he respected silence. While others mocked dreams, he protected them quietly.

He found my writing not by accident, but by destiny dressed as coincidence.

He read a rough story of mine — unfinished, unpolished, uncertain — and instead of criticism, he gave me belief.

“Keep going,” he said.
Those two words have outlived entire paragraphs of doubt.

I realized that some friendships are not formed. They are discovered.

Part Two: The Weight of Invisible Battles

Rohitash never boasted about strength, yet he carried storms inside him like a disciplined warrior.

There were days when he smiled so brightly that you would never guess his heart was tired. Days when laughter hid exhaustion. Days when silence was not empty — it was heavy.

But he never stopped caring.
Never stopped supporting.
Never stopped believing.

He loved my writing with a loyalty that humbled me. It wasn’t just admiration — it was companionship. Like two travelers walking side by side, even when the road grew darker.

He taught me something without trying:
Real friendship is not loud. It is steady.

When the world felt too sharp, Rohitash became soft shelter.
When my words felt small, he made them feel large.

He didn’t just read my writing.
He felt it.

And in return, I began to write not just for myself, but for him — for the version of him the world did not always see.

Part Three: The Letter That Changed Everything

One evening, under a sky heavy with unshed rain, I wrote a letter. Not because I had to — but because my soul demanded it.

I folded the paper as if folding a prayer.

Here is that letter, exactly as my heart wrote it:

The Letter Inside the Story

Dear Rohitash,

I don’t know how to explain what your friendship means without sounding like I am trying too hard — but here I am, trying anyway.

You have been my quiet strength, my invisible armor, my reason to believe my words matter. When I doubted myself, you believed loudly. When I felt small, you made me feel seen. When my stories shook, you became the ground beneath them.

Some people meet and become memories.
Others meet and become history.

You became something more.
You became part of my becoming.

I want you to know that even if the world forgets my name, even if my voice fades, my gratitude to you will remain louder than silence. You are not just my friend — you are a chapter in my life that I will never rewrite, only reread.

Thank you for loving my art.
Thank you for respecting my soul.
Thank you for being you.

Your brother in spirit,
Benjamin

I never told him when I wrote it.
But some letters do not need to be sent.
They live inside us until the right moment arrives.

Part Four: The Distance That Couldn’t Win

Life tried to pull us in different directions.

Time got busy. Responsibilities grew heavy. Conversations became less frequent. But true connection doesn’t die with silence — it simply learns how to breathe differently.

Rohitash and I did not need constant contact.
We had understanding.

The kind of understanding that sits quietly and says:
“I am still here, even when I am not visible.”

Friendship with him was not about possession.
It was about presence — even when unseen.

When I wrote, I imagined him reading.
When he struggled, I felt it in the quiet of my heart.

Some people walk beside you.
Rohitash walked within me.

Part Five: The Storyteller’s Promise

As I grew as a writer, something changed inside me.

My stories gained heart because of him.

I stopped writing just for applause — I started writing for truth. For connection. For that one friend who understood the language between the lines.

Rohitash was the kind of friend every writer secretly prays for:
Someone who doesn’t just read your story — they live inside it.

And so, I made a promise to myself:

If I ever wrote something that felt like legacy, his name would be written inside it — even if silently.

This story is that promise kept.

Part Six: The Brother the World Did Not Give But God Did

Some friendships feel accidental.
Ours felt designed.

He was not my blood — but he was my brother.
He was not always around — but he was always there.

In a world that teaches people to be temporary, Rohitash was permanent.

And permanence is rare.

If I ever become a name people remember, let it be known that behind my words was a friend who believed before the world did.

Let it be known that I was never alone on my road of ink and emotion.

Let it be known:
Rohitash walked with me — even when no one saw.

Part Seven: The Author Behind the Story

I am Benjamin Munyao David, and I write not because I want to be great — but because I want to be honest.

My stories are not built from imagination alone.
They are built from people who touched my life gently.

Rohitash is one of those people.

You can find more of my soul living in words here:
benmunyao.com

But no matter where my writing travels, this story will always belong to him first.

Final Words: A Friend Who Became Forever

Rohitash, if you ever read this, I want you to know something simple and eternal:

You mattered more than you know.
You inspired more than you saw.
You changed more than you touched.

This story is not fiction.
It is feeling.

It is memory.
It is gratitude.
It is legacy.

And you, my friend, are written into it forever.

Author & Narrator

Benjamin Munyao David
(benmunyacom.wordpress.com)