Chapter Four: Kibogoji Life

The journey to Kibogoji was not easy.

We slept that night knowing the hardest part still lay ahead.

The next morning, we met Mr. Salim—the man who would take us the rest of the way to Kibogoji. He was quiet, steady, and prepared. His most prized possession was a Phoenix bicycle, strong and worn, built to survive long distances and rough ground.

Our belongings were tied carefully to the back of it, balanced and secure.

There were four of us: my mother, my younger brother, myself, and Mr. Salim. The bicycle was not for riding. It was for carrying what little we owned.

So we walked.

We left Turiani early in the morning and walked from dawn until dusk on the first day. The path cut through forests and open land, through silence broken only by insects, birds, and the sound of our own breathing. My legs burned. My feet protested with every step. By nightfall, we had covered three-quarters of the journey. We slept where we could, tired enough that sleep came despite discomfort.

At first light the next morning, we began again. By midafternoon, we arrived.

Kibogoji did not announce itself.

We stepped into the middle of a forest. There was no village center. No rows of houses. No signs of arrival. Just trees, tall grass, and a single grass-thatched hut standing alone. No toilet. No fence. No sense of safety as I understood it then.

That first night in Kibogoji was one of the scariest nights of my life.

As darkness settled, the forest came alive. We heard lions roaring close—too close. Their voices rolled through the night, deep and commanding. We could hear them chasing warthogs, the sudden chaos of movement, the sharp end of life happening just outside our thin shelter. It was terrifying. The walls of grass felt useless against the sounds of power moving freely around us.

Morning brought light, but not comfort.

My stepfather took us around the farm. We saw the footprints clearly pressed into the soft earth. Large. Fresh. We were shown where the lions had killed a warthog during the night. Evidence that what we heard was real, that danger was not imagined.

Later that day, the neighbors began to arrive.

The elders came openly, greeting my mother respectfully, welcoming her into a place that demanded strength. Their words were calm, measured, curious. The children came differently. They hid in the forest and tall grass, watching from a distance. Curious. Cautious.

They were staring at us.

Children with shoes. Children wearing decent clothes. Children from somewhere else.

We were no longer waiting.

We had arrived.

And Kibogoji—wild, demanding, and unforgiving—had opened its arms.
Learning to Live

Daily life in Kibogoji announced itself before sunrise.

The morning did not begin with clocks or bells. It began with sound—the crowing of roosters, the lowing of cattle somewhere far off, the rustle of trees waking with the wind. Smoke rose early from cooking fires, thin and blue, carrying the smell of burning wood and boiled maize. That was breakfast most days. Ugali when there was enough flour. Thin porridge when there was not.
Water was not nearby. We walked for it. Long walks with yellow containers, following narrow paths pressed into the earth by many feet before ours. I learned quickly how to balance weight on my head, how to walk without spilling, how not to complain.

Children did not complain in Kibogoji. Complaining wasted energy.

The days were ruled by work. Clearing land. Gathering firewood. Watching younger children. Following instructions without explanation. I learned how to use a small hoe before I learned how to write my name properly. My hands grew hard. My feet tougher. The forest became familiar, no longer just a place of fear but a provider—fruits, roots, firewood, medicine.

The people of Kibogoji were Nguu.

They spoke Kinguu, a language that rolled and clicked in ways Kiswahili did not. At first, it sounded like singing to me—soft, fast, full of emotion. I understood nothing. But children learn fast when survival depends on it. Words came slowly. Names for food. Names for tools. Names for warnings.

I learned that greetings mattered. You did not rush past elders. You stopped. You bent slightly. You spoke with care. Respect was not optional—it was the foundation of belonging.

The elders wore wisdom quietly. Meetings happened under trees. Decisions were discussed slowly. Silence was allowed to sit between words. As a child, I learned that listening was valued more than speaking.

Customs were woven into ordinary moments.

Food was shared, even when scarce. A visitor never left hungry if anything could be spared. Children belonged not just to their parents, but to the village. Discipline came from any adult who saw the need. You did not argue. You absorbed.
At night, stories replaced electricity. We sat close to the fire while elders spoke of ancestors, of land, of spirits that guarded hills and punished arrogance. The forest, I learned, was not empty. It was alive, watching, remembering.

I learned fear differently in Kibogoji.

Not the sharp fear of lions alone, but the steady respect for nature. You learned where not to walk. When not to speak loudly. How to read signs in the soil, the wind, the behavior of animals. Survival was knowledge passed hand to hand, mouth to ear.
Slowly, almost without noticing, Kibogoji stopped being foreign.

I began to understand jokes in Kinguu. I learned the rules of games played without words. I learned when to run and when to stay still.

The children who once hid in tall grass now ran beside me.
We were still different. But difference no longer meant distance.
Kibogoji was teaching me its language—not just Kinguu, but the deeper one.
How to live with less. How to belong without owning. How to listen before speaking.
And without realizing it, I was no longer just passing through.
I was becoming part of the mountains.