Life. Seasoned with perspective.
“Andro… Andro” (Andrew)… “Oveye hai?”
Where are you? “Ye Guku, mbeye muhilu.”
Yes Grandma, I am in the living room.
It was around 6.45 in the evening. She stood there holding a flask of tea, steady as ever. Without much ceremony, she handed it to me together with a cup.
“Vugula ichai iyi.”
Take this tea.
I remember being surprised by how full the flask was. Before I could even say thank you, she added, “Umanya unywiku galaha galaha nolola i-TV.”
You will take it slowly as you watch television until you finish.
And just like that, she turned and walked to her bedroom, where she would listen to Taarifa on KBC Radio. The next time I would see her was the following morning.
That was classic Guku. Rhodah Minayo Kagasi. Calm. Intentional. Loving in quiet, practical ways.
I stayed in her house often when I was younger, during a complicated period of my upbringing. She insisted on calling me by a name that never made it to my identity card, but somehow always felt more real when it came from her.
That was a typical evening in her home in Kidundu village, Vihiga County.
This past week, I made a solemn journey from Nairobi to upcountry. My grandmother is no more.
She was one hundred and four years old. Her mind remained sharp, her memory clear, her presence firm. Were it not for years of diabetes, an accident that left her on crutches for a long while, high blood pressure, and a pacemaker supporting her heart, she was strength personified. Steel wrapped in grace.
My emotions were mixed. There was sadness, of course. Loss always hurts. But there was also peace. She had lived long. Fully. Purposefully. And towards the end, she seemed ready for rest.
This was evident even during prayers. Whenever someone prayed for her to live longer, she would softly interject, “Ooh!” A gentle but firm protest.
Her passing stirred something deeper in me. It made me pause and ask a question many of us avoid until moments like these force it upon us. What is my purpose here on earth?
This past Sunday, we laid Guku to rest. Surprisingly, there were no loud wails or uncontrollable tears. Not because the pain was absent, but because gratitude was louder. We were celebrating a life well lived. A woman whose footprints are impossible to ignore. Her story is woven deeply into family, community, and service.
A week earlier, I had been entrusted with drafting a tribute on behalf of her grandchildren. I reached out to my cousins, asking them to share their fondest memories of her. The responses came in waves. Funny. Warm. Honest.
One phrase kept coming up.
“Si gave ndio?”
That is how it is, right?
It was her signature line. She used it to seal conversations, to settle matters, to remind you that life moves forward whether you agree or not.
I was reminded of her prayers, delivered in pure Maragoli. I could write an entire essay on those alone. Her voice during prayer was steady and authoritative, as though she was speaking directly to God and expecting a response. They were long, too.
“Henza, avana yava vaziza kunina mu ikindu ekevoku.”
Look after these children, they are about to board a blind object.
That was her way of praying for our safety whenever we travelled back to the city. Cars, to her, were unpredictable beasts. God, however, was firmly in control.
Guku was also a woman of style. She loved vitenge and understood the power of looking good. One of my cousins who lives in DR Congo never visited without instructions to bring her new fabric. She received them with pride.
She loved all her grandchildren equally, but the boys enjoyed a special kind of affection. If she was pleased with you, she would call you “omusakulu wange.”
My husband.
It did not end there. She was especially delighted when any grandchild brought their spouse to meet her. She claimed them immediately.
“Asande kondetela ku omusakulu wange.”
Thank you for bringing me my husband.
One cousin recalls bringing his newly married wife to meet her. After the introductions, Guku gifted them a chicken and a bunch of bananas, then casually warned the bride that if she did not take good care of her husband, she would come and take him back herself. The room erupted in laughter.
I could go on and on about Guku.
But perhaps what stands out most is how she lived. Quietly faithful. Firmly loving. Rooted in prayer. Present in the small things. She did not chase attention, yet she commanded respect. She did not speak loudly, yet her words lingered.
As we lowered her into the earth, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. For her years. For her lessons. For her prayers that still feel active long after her voice has gone silent.
I will miss you, Guku.
You lived a long and meaningful life. You showed us how to love, how to serve, and how to finish strong.
Shine on in the world beyond.
Ogone vulahi.
Sleep well.
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years of experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth-focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication (KIMC). A certified SIYB trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact.
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