Tie the bulls by the gate

Village boys have a particular strength woven into their sinews that no amount of years in the gym can replicate. Sure, you can deadlift iron plates in an urban gym, but try pushing a wheelbarrow stacked with water jerrycans up a hill, and your lower back will wave the white flag by the first thrust. But these boys? They might grunt through a bench press or skip the gym altogether—dismissing it as a vain exhibition of modern masculinity. As long as they’ve got their nduthi, a humble keja stocked with curious odds and ends, a few flashy chains hanging from their necks and wrists, and their family plot tilled and ready for planting—they’re content. Keep your gym videos and your Ashton Hall routines. There’s a girl in the village who likes how his motorbike roars, and that’s more than enough for them. That’s why they till the land shirtless under a punishing sun: to put food on the table, and to protect the ones they love. And, yes, to keep that nduthi running.

Sam and his friends are the boys I speak of—the ones who don’t need gym subscriptions. No nduthi yet for him, but he’s already got a makeshift keja, a ready smile, and fields under his watch. I met Sam and his friends outside our gate as they came from the farm. Bare-chested, drenched in sweat, as they laughed and ribbed one another. You’d never guess they’d been working since dawn, except for the soil-stained evidence clinging to their trousers, their legs caked in fresh mud, and the hoes slung across their shoulders.

Sam studies at Otaro High School, just a heartbeat away from our home. He’s the guardian of the homestead when we’re all away. Had my father not left Karachuonyo for broader horizons and in search of my mother, I’d have walked the dusty corridors of Otaro High School too. I might have been an Otaro alumnus by now, tempered by scarcity, and bronzed by Karachuonyo’s relentless sun. But he left, and I’m grateful. I had a good childhood of relative ease, and a memorable high school experience.
Some people wear struggle like a badge. They’ll say things like, “You’ve never suffered—you don’t know real life.” Or “You should have grown up in the village, toughened up a bit.” I always stop listening after they say ‘you should have..’ As if I handpicked my birthplace from a catalogue. Trust me, if I had the power to choose, I wouldn’t have ticked the box labeled “sugarcane settlement scheme.” I’d be in Hawaii right now—a rich-kid surfer in Honolulu or a firefighter in Oahu, ocean-salted and sun-splashed, thank you very much.

Yes, suffering teaches. It sharpens the senses, stretches limits, and molds resilience like fire does steel. It pushes your body to limits both you and your mind didn’t know your body could bear. But if you can afford to gift your children a gentler life—as my parents did—why wouldn’t you? Life’s lessons and hardship will find us regardless. Hardship is a resourceful teacher; it always finds a way.

Hours before I had welcomed the day, Sam and his friends were well in the rhythm of kudoyo—the first wave of weeding after the seedlings breach the earth. By the time the first rays of light spilled over Karachuonyo’s ochre soil, they’d conquered three-quarters of the field. Different dawns bring different duties to people. Sam’s first task of the day was to join his friends in the field and start the work in his mother’s farm at around 6am, when they could barely see their way. My first thought was to get my clothes, because dala is unforgivingly hot, even at night.

By the time I stirred from sleep at around 7:30am, the world around me was already spinning with motion. Though I’d fallen asleep on the living room floor due to many guests, I awoke in one of the bedrooms, surrounded by an avalanche of guests’ clothes waiting their turn at the iron. My body was slick with sweat, peppered with tiny bumps—evidence of the invisible insects that crawl in dala homesteads. The spots weren’t itchy, just... present. Unwelcome, but familiar.

After enquiring from Sam’s friends how the morning in the farm was, Sam and I returned to the compound to prepare for the day’s festivities. Sam bathed quickly and joined us for a solid breakfast—fuel for a body that had already labored.

The ceremony was slow to start; the guests had taken longer to trace their path from Kendu Bay through Karachuonyo’s arid veins. I had to pick them from the main road to escort them. When they finally arrived, a pickup truck stacked with bullocks led the way, trailed by a sleek convoy carrying the soon-to-be groom’s sharply dressed entourage. The blare of music and the vibrance of the bridesmaids pirouetting in their kitenges left no doubt that something grand was happening. I ushered them into our compound, but they must have already known where it was from the music and the marching procession of bridesmaids who came to welcome them in dance and flurry.

The bridesmaids swarmed the groom in a whirl of dance, ululations, and ecstasy, ushering him into the homestead. I stood a few steps back, guiding the bullocks toward a patch of green. My part was less ceremonial, more logistical.

After prayers and formalities, everyone moved to the reception tent, already decked and dazzling. I remained by the gate, chatting with Sam—partly because I had no formal role in the tent, and partly to avoid the speeches. Jodala love a captive audience, and will use any mic to trace genealogies no one asked for. I can’t bear such people. We both knew they’d come to eat, murmur gossipy side remarks, and subtly grade the ceremony between A and worst. I chose instead to talk with Sam about the real work: the technicalities of balancing school and being the man of their house.

Some guests and friends sought me out in the tent and found me chatting outside. “We kijana hupatikani! You’re hiding!” they joked. I just laughed. The day wasn’t about me—it was my sister’s moment.

Since late 2024, I’ve intentionally begun stepping back from the spotlight—be it in leadership, school events, or social groups. I make it deliberate that you don’t realize I am there. I realized I needed to refine my approach to leadership and to my personality. Often, my instinct to lead came across as overbearing. Controlling, is the word everyone used. The event has to go on exactly as I want it or it won’t be successful. So I began studying leaders who move gently, who influence without commanding. I now believe that a leader is only as effective as their ability to bring people along with them—not just barking orders from the front. If you cannot convince your people to your train of thought, it gets very hard to get them to follow you.

So during events like this, I take pride in being the invisible hand. The one fetching water from the tank. The one who knows where the guests’ slippers are. The one who guides guests through unfamiliar paths at night. And when I wasn’t helping my mother with food preparation, I stood outside, soaking in the view of those majestic mountains I told you about last week. 

And then she stepped out—my sister, radiant in a bubblegum-pink dress, dancing down the compound to the tent, enthroned by her bridesmaids. Her kitenge gown which hugged her frame just right made her look like a majestic peacock—prideful and beautiful. Her makeup and hair shimmered in the sunlight. ‘Lando Nyakobura’ by the legendary Tony Nyadundo filled the air of Rachuonyo, echoing across like a call to pause. Somewhere, I imagine, someone stopped crushing groundnuts to ask, “Whose homestead is that?” Having to crane their necks to catch the ululations and the music.

I didn’t need to crane my neck. I was there, soaking it in, smiling softly. Inside though, my thoughts wandered:

How will I do my nyombo ceremony? I hope the girl’s family won’t be deep into culture to the point of making me drink milk directly from a camel’s tits. Or forcing me to fight a Zebu bull in front of the love of my life. I definitely won’t be going to a river at 3am to wash myself—I’ve seen people do that. Is it really that serious?

Those thoughts were interrupted by a guest who found me staring at the bullocks grazing lazily by the fence, away from the ceremony now underway under the tents. We got into a conversation about cows, fumbling through bits of knowledge remembered from my high school Agriculture. Knowledge that would have been more elaborate had I studied at Otaro High School. Neither of us quite understood why bulls were the golden standard for dowry. Maybe it’s just a cultural thing. But then again, isn’t most of culture just ethnic peer pressure with ancestral backing?

As the evening waned, my mum called me aside to tie the bulls by the gate so guests could easily maneuver their cars out of the compound. By then I could already feel the weight of the day pulling on my shoulders. My limbs ached with a slow pull of fatigue. After receiving a modest token from the visitors, I posed for a few pictures with friends and family, and offered tailored goodbyes to different friend groups—some quick, some lingering, depending on how far back our stories go.

By the time the last vehicle crawled out onto the dusty road, I was spent. Karachuonyo’s electricity is a part-time employee, and it had decided not to report for the night shift that day. My phone was long dead. No lights. No screens. No distractions. Just the deep, humming silence of post-ceremony exhaustion. We had already eaten to our fill, so there was nothing left to do—just peel off the remainder of the day, bit by bit, and surrender to the night. Surrender into the thick, powerless darkness of Karachuonyo, with dead phones, tired bones, and quiet cows tied by the gate.

✍🏽Reagan.