This is to the old man of the East. My grandfather. The one who was Mandela’s agemate. The man who nobody knew his age. He said he was circumcised around the First World War. That, was a very old man.
Today, I celebrate his life. I celebrate his deeds. I celebrate his wisdom. The old man of the East has set West. The eldest son of the Kanjogu clan has left us. The seed of M’Kiarie has departed. The father of M’Mugambi has set sail. The grandfather of M’Mwenda is gone.
He was called “Yaya”. His war cry was “Yaya kamani” loosely translated to “Come on young man.” And that was what he was. A young man trapped in an old body. And that old body failed the old man of the East.
Today I woke up and wore all black. Oblivious to the fact that old Yaya was gone. My only mentor was gone. My inspiration was gone. My happiness was gone. The man who slaughtered a goat every time I visited. This man who would take my arm and take me to the hives to harvest honey. This old man who composed songs at the dark of night. This man that spoke wisdom that I only could wish to have. The man that no one crossed. The man that had defied death for so long he seemed immortal.
Today, M’Kiarie, M’Mitugo, M’Mugambi, Mutegi and all sons of Kanjogu welcome this old man to the land beyond. The old man of the East is home, yet not. Farewell Yaya, Madiba readied the way for you.
