A story about generosity instead of money.
By Salim • Ubuntu Village
Chapter One
The Funeral
There wasn’t enough space to park.
The dusty road leading into the village had disappeared beneath a line of vehicles that seemed to stretch forever. Cars stood bumper to bumper beneath old acacia trees. Matatus kept arriving every few minutes, their doors sliding open before they had even come to a complete stop. Boda bodas squeezed through impossible gaps, carrying passengers dressed in black, each holding a bouquet of flowers or a folded umbrella against the threatening afternoon sky.
For a moment, I thought I had come to the wrong place.
I checked the handwritten directions on my phone again.
No.
This was the place.
I switched off the engine and stepped outside. The air smelled of rain that hadn’t quite fallen yet, mixed with red dust kicked up by hundreds of feet walking toward the same destination. Somewhere in the distance, a church choir was singing softly. The voices drifted through the wind, rising and falling like a prayer.
I had attended funerals before.
Too many, if I’m being honest.
But none of them had looked like this.
This wasn’t the funeral of a governor.
It wasn’t a politician.
It wasn’t a famous businessman.
There were no television cameras.
No security officers.
No speeches from powerful people.
And yet…
People just kept coming.
Young men in muddy construction boots.
Women balancing sleeping babies on their backs.
Teachers.
Mechanics.
Fruit vendors.
Students carrying backpacks.
Office workers who still wore their company identity cards around their necks.
Even a traffic police officer stood quietly beneath a tree, his cap tucked respectfully beneath his arm.
They arrived in silence, greeting one another with gentle nods before joining the growing crowd.
Nobody seemed surprised by the turnout.
I was.
I found myself following the stream of mourners until I reached the edge of the compound.
Then I stopped.
The house stood exactly where I remembered it.
A tiny structure made from weathered iron sheets.
The roof sagged slightly in the middle, held together by pieces of timber that had probably outlived the man who built them.
One small window.
One wooden door.
Nothing about it suggested the life of someone important.
If anything, it looked like the sort of home people walked past every day without giving it a second glance.
I stared at it for a long time.
The same question kept circling inside my head.
How does a man who owned so little leave behind a crowd this large?
Someone beside me seemed to notice my confusion.
“You came from Nairobi?” the elderly woman asked quietly.
I nodded.
“I did.”
She smiled without taking her eyes off the house.
“So did many others.”
Before I could ask another question, a convoy of three buses pulled into the field nearby.
The doors opened.
Dozens more people climbed out.
Some carried flowers.
Others carried nothing except tears.
An elderly man climbed down slowly, leaning on a walking stick. The moment his feet touched the ground, he removed his hat and held it against his chest.
He hadn’t even reached the gate before he began crying.
Not the quiet tears people try to hide.
The kind that shakes your shoulders.
The kind that comes from somewhere deep inside.
Two younger men rushed forward to support him.
“It’s all right, Mzee,” one whispered.
The old man shook his head.
“No,” he replied, struggling to catch his breath. “It’s not all right.”
I watched them disappear into the crowd.
Who was he?
What had this man inside the iron-sheet house done to inspire grief like that?
The choir’s voices grew louder.
A gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh soil across the compound.
Someone behind me was praying.
Nearby, a little girl — no older than six — placed a single white flower beside the doorway.
She stood there for a few seconds, whispering something I couldn’t hear.
Then she kissed her fingertips and touched the wooden door before walking away.
I felt a lump rise in my throat.
Not because I understood what was happening.
Because I didn’t.
Every face around me carried the same expression.
Not obligation.
Not formality.
Love.
The kind that cannot be bought.
The kind that cannot be demanded.
The kind that can only be earned.
I looked once more at the little iron-sheet house.
Three months earlier…
…I had walked past it without giving it a second look.
Back then, the old man sitting outside had looked like just another elderly Kenyan enjoying the afternoon sun.
If someone had stopped me and asked,
“Who do you think is the richest person in this village?”
I would have pointed somewhere else.
I would have looked for the biggest house.
The newest car.
The tallest gate.
I would never have pointed at him.
And that remains the biggest mistake I have ever made.
Because three months earlier…
I hadn’t yet met Babu.
Nor had I discovered that some fortunes are invisible until the day they’re gone.
— End of Chapter One —
Community is the medicine.
Babu’s story is not unique. Across East Harlem, Kenya, Uganda, and Nigeria, people are building this same invisible wealth — in community, through generosity, across generations. When you support Ubuntu Village, you invest in that.
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Related Reading
Read the Series
- Chapter Two: The Weight of an Ordinary Tuesday
- Chapter Three: The Street
- Chapter Four: Behind the Rusted Door
- Chapter Five: A Wealth Measured in Lives
More from Ubuntu Village
- ‣ Ubuntu Village in Uganda: Owen, and the Beginning of a Promise
- ‣ What We Have Done: Ubuntu Village Program History 2016–2025
- ‣ When the Drum Speaks at the Threshold: Ancestral Rhythms for Mid-Year Recalibration
- ‣ The Unaccompanied Children of Nakuru, Kenya
About the author
Salim Kiarie Mbogo
Salim Kiarie Mbogo is a Kenyan writer, community historian, and cultural educator based in Nairobi, Kenya. His work focuses on the preservation of oral tradition, intergenerational knowledge transfer, and the living memory practices of rural East African communities. He has documented community resilience across Kenya’s central highlands, writing at the intersection of ancestral wisdom, food sovereignty, and African identity. Salim contributes to Ubuntu Village as a field correspondent and guest writer, bringing direct witness to the organization’s East Africa programs in Kenya, Uganda, and Nigeria. His writing asks what it means to carry a people’s story forward — and what is lost when that story is interrupted.
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