The Professional RAKE

03/08/2025

The Backbone of the Sun

Michael often said that his mother, Ng’ayo, didn’t walk—she carried. Carried the family. Carried the village. Carried the weight of quiet sacrifices and silent prayers, all while looking like grace dressed in glowing dark skin.

Ng’ayo was tall, beautiful, and striking in the kind of way that didn’t need makeup or approval. She moved through life with intention—eyes sharp, hands busy, heart open. To Michael and his siblings, she wasn’t just "mama." She was a lighthouse in every storm, a friend when life was cruel, and a general when life required discipline.

By sunrise, she was a farmer—bare feet in dew-soaked grass, hands strong around a jembe. By mid-morning, she was an entrepreneur—selling eggs, vegetables, and handmade soap at the market, haggling like a seasoned economist. By afternoon, she was a teacher and counselor—ensuring that every child in her home, and half the village, had completed their homework and memorized more than just the textbooks. And by evening, she was a chef—cooking meals so rich in love that even the most stubborn child found comfort in every spoonful.

She was college-educated but never boastful. She didn’t see her learning as a badge—it was a tool. A means to build, to guide, to lift others. She used it in the shamba, in the kitchen, in her business, and most importantly, in her words.

Ng’ayo was known across the village not just for what she did, but how she did it—with dignity, softness, and an iron will. She believed that “it takes a village to raise a child,” but she became that village for many. She fed the hungry, counseled the confused, and scolded with love. Children who weren’t hers grew under her watchful eye, and she gave without expectation—even when thanks never came.

Now in her sixties, with wrinkles that only add to her beauty and strength that humbles the young, Ng’ayo remains a presence. She still checks in on her nieces and nephews, even though her phone rings more for airtime requests than greetings. She still cooks enough food "just in case someone stops by," and someone always does.

Michael, now in his thirties, knows the kind of woman she is. He carries her lessons in the way he walks, in the way he treats people, in the silent discipline with which he chases his dreams. Whenever he finds himself lost, he doesn’t search for direction in books or maps. He simply remembers his mother—Ng’ayo, the woman who carried.

Because if the sun had a backbone, it would look a lot like her.

If you mother is like Michael's, then don't forget to follow and leave a comment here please. God bless the mamas.

01/08/2025

Title: The Timeless Piece

Michael always knew his grandmother, Mama Lorna, was different. While other children’s grannies spent their days knitting or watching soap operas, his was more like an ancient book—worn but priceless, bursting with tales that didn’t seem possible.

She lived in a creaky, ivy-covered cottage perched on a hill where the wind whispered secrets through the chimney. The villagers called her “The Timeless Piece,” not out of mockery, but reverence. No one knew exactly how old she was. Some said she once outwitted colonial officers in the 1940s. Others swore she helped a lost Russian cosmonaut escape through the Congo. All Michael knew was that her stories left you breathless, as if the world she spoke of stretched far beyond imagination.

One August evening, while sipping hot uji by the fireplace, Michael asked, “Kukhu, did you really ride with the Tuareg in the Sahara?”

Her eyes, the color of wet earth, sparkled. “They called me ‘Muyeka,’ which means wind-dancer. I could hide in sandstorms and lead caravans by the stars.”

Michael chuckled. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it?” she whispered.

That night, she handed him an old leather satchel. Inside were odd trinkets: a compass that spun even without movement, a coin from a vanished empire, and a faded photograph—his grandmother, younger, standing between a robed nomad and a tiger with golden eyes.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll take you somewhere.”

The next morning, before dawn, they set off with only the satchel. They walked through the forest behind her home, past places Michael thought he knew—until the trees grew taller, the light changed, and the air shimmered with something... otherworldly.

She led him into forgotten places—abandoned temples guarded by monkeys who bowed to her, mountain paths where echoes spoke back in riddles, and rivers that whispered songs no one remembered. At every turn, Michael watched her become something more: not just old, but eternal. She didn’t walk; she glided. She didn’t speak; she summoned.

Finally, on the seventh day, they reached a clearing where a great stone stood. She placed her hand on it, and it opened—not like a door, but like memory.

“Michael,” she said, “you come from a line of guardians. We don’t just remember history—we carry it.”

He stepped forward, heart pounding. In that moment, he understood: Mama Lorna wasn’t just his grandmother. She was a keeper of the impossible.

And now, it was his turn.

From that day forward, Michael walked two worlds—his, and the one hidden beneath it. But every journey began where hers ended: in the stories of a woman too old to age, too full of life to fade.

A timeless piece.

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03/07/2025

IS TURNING 18 A BAD THING??

Like I always say, the minute you hit 18, you are no longer a child and never ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Eighteen is the legal age in Kenya and many countries around the world and that means that you are now old enough to be able to legally take responsibility for any and all actions that you engage in. What this means is that you can be sentenced to any period that a judge deems fit depending on the offence or offences you commit. Well, turning 18 is not all that bad as you might want to assume. In fact, it has many perks and it comes with a ton of freedoms.

For starters, the curfews that most parents often impose in most homes get to stop, or at least they get to be loosened a little bit. That means you can now stay out slightly late with your friends or even go back home the following morning if you are the bad type and your parents don't give two fs about it.

However, if you come from a military base and your parents are the chiefs of the armed forces in their self-proclaimed republic that you call home, then, well, I guess the age thing is just but a number, right? And by the way, this is usually the case in many African homes, mine included (when I was younger, I mean).

My point is, at this age, you become your own person legally and in many different areas of life. Whereas this is usually a chance for many people to go bad and grow overly unruly, I would like you to look at it in a different way. For instance, this is the age where you can make a decision about the kind of citizen you want to become. Do you want to be the next Nelson Mandela, Akon, Vusi Thembekwayo or do you want to be the loudest good-for-nothing villager with a huge drinking problem and zero contribution to the humble home you came from?

Eighteen my people, is the age where boys become men and girls become women. And what type of adult you become is the million-dollar question at this juncture in life. Ain't it? This is the time when simple habits become life-threatening addictions and virtues are either gained or lost. What you do with the freedom that comes with this magic number "18" is what informs the world of who you are or who have been all along. This is where people are defined because now you get to do things without too much supervision from the people around you, even your parents and yo know why? Because they trust that you will make the right decisions for yourself.

Your parents won't nag you as much as they used to when you go out with your friends because they trust you to do right by them and most importantly, by yourself. You no longer represent nothing because now you represent your parents and your entire home. What you do, boys and girls, reflects on your entire family several ancestors back. For instance, if you choose to smoke pot and someone spots you, do you know what they will say? First, they won't refer to you without including your parents' names. You will hear people say "Isn't this Chibole's son smoking pot? He was raised very badly" That means that the damage doesn't stop with you alone and your parents and entire generation takes a hit for your decisions. You act, but everybody suffers

Do you want to know what happens to you next?................. Tell me about it in the comments.

02/07/2025

So I am sitting down on a bench with my friend Michael. The sun is setting with a glowing orange color almost as if it is protesting that it has to go to bed on the other half of the earth; a feeling that my friend and I share because now we have to go to our respective homes as well. As Michael looks at the aging sun, he seems to drift into a world of his own and somehow this catches my attention.

He was so thoughtful that he was actually ruining the moment for me because this maandamano this was too much in our country and like every other Kenyan, we couldn't stop talking about it. The popularity of the man at the top was at an all-time high and not in the best light. I bet he has had better days.

To stop the awkward moment from dragging on any longer than it needs to, I shout at Michael "Hay loser, what are you thinking so hard about?" This ruins his thoughtful moment as he puts on a broad smile that I could tell was hiding something else behind it.

Michael looks at me and says "

As a young boy, evenings like this made me shiver with fear. My experience as a young boy wasn't very good."

"This should ne interesting." I answered

He looked at me, with the smile fading off his face now and asked, "Why?"

Do you want to find out what Michael said next? Leave me a comment