06/09/2025
My Aunt Annita Ngaramu ,
My aunt was a force of nature - a no-nonsense woman who ruled with an iron fist wrapped in love. If there was one thing I never liked as a child, it was being wrong around her. When I made a mistake, she would look at me with those stern eyes and say, "Go look for a cane."
I'd trudge off toward the railway area where some bushes grew, searching for the instrument of my own punishment. If I returned empty-handed, thinking I could escape my fate, the consequences were doubled. My aunt had the body weight to back up her authority - holding me was like nothing to her. I greatly feared her discipline, but I also knew something else: when it came to spoiling us children, she did her best. She made sure we were balanced, ensuring no one child was treated better than another.
The Covenant
It was around 2010, and the Kenyan economy was different then. In our area, next to the building where we lived, there was a fuel pump owned by Baba Shiru. Beside it stood a small hotel where you could get andazi for 5 shillings and tea for another 5. Life was simpler, money stretched further.
One evening around 8:30 PM, my aunt sent me on an errand that would change my understanding of faith forever. She handed me 200 Kenyan shillings and asked me to buy wheat flour. I made my way down to the basement shops on the back wing of Gitaru Market, feeling responsible and grown-up.
But somewhere between leaving the house and reaching the shop, disaster struck - I had lost the money.
Standing there in the gathering darkness, panic washed over me. I knew exactly who my aunt was, what kind of discipline awaited me. The strokes I would receive for losing that money made my blood run cold. But then, in that moment of desperation, something shifted inside me.
I looked up toward the sky and spoke to God like I never had before: "If you live on high and you are alive, help me see this money. You know who my aunt is, and if you help me find it, I will never leave your house and I will serve you."
After I said those words, an incredible calmness came over my being. I was just a small boy, afraid and alone, but suddenly I felt peace.
Then it happened - a small boy appeared and tapped me gently. "Uncle," he said, "that money on the sewage line is yours."
"Hallelujah!" I jumped up, my heart soaring. I rushed to where he pointed and there it was - my 200 shillings, lying right there on the sewage line. I grabbed the money, my hands shaking with relief and joy.
When I turned to thank the boy, to ask his name, to understand how he knew - he was gone. Completely vanished. I looked everywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. I had never seen him before, and I never saw him again.
I bought the wheat flour as instructed and returned home, my secret safe. To this day, I have never told my aunt about losing that money or about the mysterious boy who appeared when I needed help most.
The Accident
By 2011, I had grown familiar with our neighborhood. On this particular day, my aunt sent me and my cousin Amani to the nearby chemist to collect her phone charger. When we arrived, we found a man being treated for a deep cut on his forehead, blood everywhere. The doctor wasn't available, so we decided to head back home.
Walking back, the competitive spirit that lives in every child sparked between us. "Let's race," one of us suggested. "Let's see who can reach home fastest."
I chose to run along the main road while Amani decided to take the path behind the vibanda - the small shops and stalls. We took off, our young legs pumping with the pure joy of competition.
I was running at full speed, completely absorbed in the race, when I reached my climax - that moment when you're running so fast it feels like flying. Then I saw them: yellow lights, bright and getting bigger.
The next sounds I remember were screams - "Scrreeeewwwwwwtrrrrrr!!" - the horrible screech of brakes and metal and chaos.
What had happened was this: a car was rushing to help the man with the injured forehead, driving at high speed. I was running at my own high speed in the opposite direction. We met in a head-on collision.
When I came to consciousness, I could hear an engine running and voices of people trying to pull me from under the center of the car wheels. Miraculously, impossibly, I was only scratched on my knees. That was it - just scratched knees.
But the neighbors didn't know that. People began throwing stones and shouting at my aunt's door, their voices filled with panic and grief. "Come out! Your son is dead!" they screamed.
Meanwhile, I was talking like a typewriter - chattering away, very much alive, with nothing more than those scratched knees.
My aunt burst from the house expecting to find a tragedy and instead found a miracle: her nephew, alive and well, protected by something greater than chance or luck.
God's presence was with me.
Meru Shifting.... Coming up
