Salute My G, Pizzy
They say the world is a playground — free, open, full of wonder —
until responsibilities creep in, and suddenly the rules change.
Days become shorter, the pressure to “be somebody” gets louder,
and before you know it, you’re in a race against time.
A race you never signed up for.
A race you don’t even remember starting.
Now I’m 37.
And lately, I’ve been simplifying things — stripping life down to what truly matters.
And as I sit here, I find myself drifting back.
Back to 1988.
Born in July, wintertime in Kenya.
Long before technology swallowed our days,
before screens replaced stories,
before silence replaced family.
We were in Vipingo, Kilifi — quiet, dusty, pure.
Tell a Gen Z that… they’ll swear it was the Stone Age.
But to me?
It was the golden age.
Going to Taita—ocha, ushago—to see my grandparents Somo and Mao
was all I ever wanted during school holidays.
Maybe it was feeding Skukuu, my grandfather’s beloved cow.
Maybe it was the laughter — the kind that bounced off the walls,
full of cousins, aunties, uncles (daddy mdogo),
everyone still young, unbothered, and unbroken.
There were no beefs.
No distance.
No silence pretending to be peace.
Just love… loud and ordinary.
We’d ask every day:
“Akina Mshila wanakuja lini?”
“Wambugha wa Aalughu wanakuja?”
Because family meant children in one big, chaotic crowd.
We’d head to the shallow rivers, catching tiny fish to keep as pets,
then to Ilole, climbing hills we had no business climbing—
all for sugarcane and macadamia.
Akina Makoko loved taking us,
just to laugh at us “town kids” struggling up the slopes.
We slid in mud.
We chased each other through farms.
We attended church with dancers, joy, and familiar faces asking:
“Mlikuja lini?”
Akina Janet would treat us like tourists,
taking us to Igo zha Ngwaruse,
where God Himself had carved the valleys with His own hands.
And those long walks to Mgange —
feet tired, spirits high, hearts full —
bonding with family one dusty step at a time.
The journey back to town was its own ceremony.
Waiting under the Mfenesi tree for “Njulu” Mfenesinyi —
the only matatu that left Taita early enough.
And we all knew what waited at home:
Mao’s tea, sweetened in the sufuria —
no measuring, just generosity.
Sometimes we’d pass by to greet Me’Flora,
our other grandmother — 90 years strong —
just so we could proudly say we’d seen her.
Back then, our family was enough.
It felt like we could survive with just each other.
Now I’m grown.
The world feels heavier, louder, more chaotic.
God knows I miss every bit of it.
Everyone is busy now.
Getting the whole family in one place feels impossible.
And as the Swahili saying goes:
“Mti mkubwa ukianguka, ndege huangaika.”
When the great tree falls, the birds scatter.
With the passing of our grandparents — both sides —
I feel that truth every single day.
If you still enjoy family gatherings,
not just funerals and weddings,
hold them close.
Take photos.
Record the laughter.
Keep the memories.
One day, you’ll need them more than you know.
Now when I visit Taita, it feels quieter.
The grounds we dag still whisper our childhood.
The rivers we swam in… now dry.
I carry roses to the graves,
and I look up wondering if they see us now,
their descendants still walking the land they blessed.
I believe Somo and Mao still smile down,
saying, “Look at ours… look at how they’ve grown.”
And as I walk around their resting place,
I hum a small prayer:
“God, give me a love like the one I was born into.
Give me peace like the hills of Taita.
Give me a family that stays connected…
and give me the wisdom to hold tight
to the people who made me who I am.”