Safiri Salama, Shosh Sarah — The Woman Who Raised a Village Idiot Into a Storyteller
My dearest readers, today I take a short commercial break from my usual storytelling chaos to pay tribute to a very special woman — my grandmother, the legendary Shosh Sarah Mpinda Nkubitu.
This week, I received the heartbreaking news of her passing. For days, I disappeared indoors like a politician after losing elections — no calls, no jokes, no social life, just me, memories, and occasional dramatic sighs while staring at the ceiling. But now that I’ve slowly accepted the reality, I feel compelled to tell you about the Shosh I knew.
You see, I spent most of my infancy with my grandmother from the age of zero to almost six years old. In fact, at that tender age, I genuinely believed I was Shosh’s lastborn child. Why? Because she was all I knew. The woman practically raised me with one hand while carrying firewood with the other.
And from her, I learned the purest form of love — unconditional love. The kind of love where someone feeds you, protects you, forgives you… even after you commit crimes against humanity such as finishing all the household sugar.
Ah yes, let us talk about honesty.
My grandmother loved sugar the way Nairobi landlords love increasing rent — passionately and without apology. Everyone in the family knows this. One day, she left for kibarua and, perhaps because she was in a hurry, forgot to lock her famous cupboard — the Fort Knox of sugar, milk, and important things.
Now, dear readers, leaving a small boy alone with an unlocked sugar cupboard is like leaving a goat in charge of a vegetable farm. Disaster was inevitable.
I attacked that sugar like a hungry politician attacks campaign promises. To make matters worse, I swallowed the remaining milk she had carefully reserved for evening tea after work. Complete destruction. Zero survivors.
When Shosh returned, she immediately launched investigations worthy of the FBI.
“Who drank the milk?”
Without blinking, I blamed the cat.
Now, the problem with lying is that it requires intelligence and preparation — two things I clearly lacked at that age. Because while I explained how the cat knocked over the milk, I could not explain how the same cat opened the sugar container, ate sugar, and then generously sprinkled evidence around my mouth.
Ladies and gentlemen… the beating that followed was enough to reset my future generations.
And thus, I learned my first major life lesson:
Honesty is the best policy — especially when sugar particles are still decorating your lips.
Shosh also taught me hard work and self-reliance. In her home, everyone had responsibilities. Nobody was allowed to sit around looking decorative like throw pillows in rich people’s houses.
As the youngest, my duties included fetching water and collecting firewood. And because she was a strict Christian, she strongly believed in the scripture that says:
> “He who does not work shall not eat.”
In modern terms, Shosh invented “No work, no WiFi” before WiFi even existed.
Disobedience was punished thoroughly — but always with love. The kind of love that arrives holding a slipper.
She also trusted me with responsibilities. Back then, before WhatsApp groups and missed calls, I was the official village messenger. I delivered messages to neighbours, ran errands to the shopping centre, carried items between homes, and walked around like a tiny government chief.
I looked like a responsible adult while still struggling to pronounce certain words correctly.
But perhaps the greatest gift Shosh gave me was storytelling.
Good Lord, that woman could tell stories.
Every evening, my cousins and I gathered around the fireplace as she narrated tales so captivating that sleep itself feared interrupting her. She told us stories of giants that roamed the earth, Bible stories, Mau Mau struggle stories, village legends, mysteries, and cautionary tales that made us fear darkness for at least three business days.
Looking back now, I realize that maybe — just maybe — that is where I inherited this storytelling gift. Shosh was a walking library long before Google arrived.
And so today, as I bid farewell to my beloved grandmother, I choose not only to mourn her but also to celebrate the lessons she planted in me at such a tender age — lessons of honesty, hard work, responsibility, obedience, love, and the power of stories.
Safari salama, Shosh Sarah Mpinda Nkubitu.
Your stories still live in me. And through me, they will continue to live forever.
About the Author
Felix Kinyua is a Meru-based humor columnist, satirist, and storyteller whose writing blends comedy, village nostalgia, and everyday African experiences into unforgettable narratives. Through humour and satire, he captures the beauty, struggles, and absurdities of ordinary life.
📖 Read more of his stories at:
www.merudailies.blogspot.co.ke
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