In a small village tucked away among the hills of Murang'a, where dusty paths crisscross through maize fields and the scent of firewood smoke clings to the air, two families lived as neighbors. They shared fences, seasons, and Sunday church gatherings. But while they lived side by side, their stories could not have been more different. As fate would have it, these two families, the ones from which my parents came, shaped me in ways Iām only beginning to understand.
My mother's side of the family was blessed with stability at least on the surface. My grandfather was a man of deep principle, a police officer by duty and a pastor by calling. He wore his uniform with pride during the week, and on Sundays, he stood behind the pulpit, Bible in hand, preaching with a voice that carried the weight of conviction. He was a devoted husband, a present father, and to many in the village, the embodiment of what a man should be.
My grandmother, a gentle woman with a quiet strength, had chosen well. Her husband loved her deeply, respected her fully, and shouldered the burdens of the home without ever complaining. Together they raised a growing brood of children. My grandfather believed in education and was more than willing to take his children to school. But therein lay the irony. Because he carried so much, the children never quite learned how to carry themselves. The older ones skipped school, certain that their father would always be there to catch them. And so, they grew up half-prepared for a world that demanded full responsibility.
When my grandfather fell ill, everything fell apart. The pillar that held the house up began to crumble. The older children, now adults with families of their own, were ill-equipped to step in. They hadn't pursued meaningful education, hadn't built careers strong enough to support others and the ones still at home were left stranded, dreams deferred. My grandmother, devoted and tender as she was, couldn't rise to the demands left in her husband's absence. Sheād never needed to lead the charge, that had always been his role. And so, the family stumbled.
Just next door, a different story was unfolding.
My father's family had none of the visible harmony that marked my motherās. My paternal grandfather was a drunkard, irresponsible, wild, and openly disrespectful to his family. He'd spend nights in the village pubs, stumbling home in the early hours, sometimes dragging along a girlfriend and asking my grandmother to make them tea. The stories go that my grandmother, tired of being humiliated, would sometimes chase them out, machete in hand, dignity in tatters.
But if my grandfather was the storm, my grandmother was the anchor. A fiercely hardworking woman, she raised her children with grit and an iron will. She tilled land, reared animals, and fought for every inch of progress her family made. Even when her husband would come and sell her pigs for drinking money, she would simply start over. Her work ethic was unmatched. In time, she bought several plots of land all in her name. She became a respected woman in the village, sitting on school and church boards, a beacon of hope wrapped in a rosary and calloused hands. A true heroine.
Perhaps it was the dysfunction that sparked a fire in her children. Perhaps it was her example. Or maybe it was the quiet rage of watching their mother do it all alone. Whatever it was, most of her children fought to be different from their father. They chased education like it was their only salvation, because it was. They got degrees, jobs, and some built families on the opposite values of the home they were raised in. Not all of them turned out perfect but many of them turned the page.
And thatās the paradox that has haunted and guided me.
One home had love, order, faith but that same security may have dulled the urgency for growth. The other had chaos, brokenness, pain but from that pain, something powerful was born.
So what does that say about success? What does that say about how we grow?
Itās strange, isnāt it? That sometimes a good man can unknowingly clip the wings of his children with comfort. And sometimes, it is suffering that sharpens the hunger for greatness.
From both sides, I inherited something unique. From my maternal grandfather: compassion, faith, devotion. From my paternal grandmother: grit, resilience, and fire. I have learned that balance is a gift and that hardship, while painful, can be the most fertile ground for transformation.
In the quiet moments, when I reflect on where I come from, I realize that I am not just one or the other. I am the tension between the two, the child of peace and struggle, of Sunday sermons and machete-wielding defiance. And I carry both stories with pride.
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