My Two Grey Beards
I woke up this morning, splashed cold water on my face, and as I leaned closer to the mirror… there they were.
Two strands of grey beard on my chin.
Small. Quiet. Almost shy.
Trying to blend in like they didn’t want to cause a scene.
But they did.
Because in that tiny moment — those two stubborn grey strands hit me harder than any birthday, heartbreak, or bill ever has. They were like little messengers whispering, “Life is moving. You are becoming.”
I touched them gently, half amused, half humbled.
It wasn’t fear I felt.
It wasn’t sadness.
It was something softer… something honest.
A reminder that time is not just passing — it is shaping me.
Those two grey beards carried stories:
Nights I didn’t sleep because I was chasing dreams too big for the room I was in.
Years I carried responsibility on a back that wasn’t fully grown yet.
Lessons life taught me without warning, without kindness, without pause.
Love I gave, love I lost, love I’m still learning how to hold.
They told me I’ve made it this far — even on days I wasn’t sure I would.
And as I looked at them, blending quietly into the rest of my beard, I felt a strange sense of pride. Because aging is not the enemy. Growth is not something to run from. These two strands were proof that I have lived — not just existed.
They were proof that the boy I was is slowly stepping aside, making room for the man I’m becoming.
Maybe this is what maturity really looks like — not loud, not dramatic, not marked by a big event. Just two grey strands appearing one morning, reminding you that evolution happens quietly.
And I smiled.
Because if two small hairs can hold this much truth,
then maybe the rest of my journey will be just as meaningful —
slow, steady, and full of unexpected beauty.
So here’s to my two grey beards.
To the stories they carry.
To the man they are shaping.
And to the gentle reminder that time, when embraced, is not something to fear —
but something to honor.
der —
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.”