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.

12/07/2025

Check out our latest video about premium Paints at

Construction materials, construction works, and transport of materials