During the harvest, millet was in full bloom, the ears were heavy with harvest. The air was filled, with songs as birds were courting. Wa gacambu, took her clay ***, a gift from her hubby, she trotted to the river. Though she was heaving due to the weight of her belly, she was determined to prepare supper before her husband arrived. Just next to the mulberry tree, near the river, pain like lightening shot through her. Momentarily she froze, she slowly put down the *** and sat next to the tree. Her eyes held a distant gaze, her body trembling in pain, as her second son felt it was time.
Like a symphony, she laboured, like a band the pangs came, like a hurricane she felt, the desire of the one in her to come out. In less than ten minutes, the two were separated. Kaburi's quiver had added another arrow, a son, a defender. She was a strong woman, she collected herself. Picked up the *** and the bundle of joy and headed home. Ikingi was the name of her second son.

A rain drop given time grows into a mighty river, the song sang, its melody yonder, the stanzas balanced and the lyrics soothing.
Life is all about balance a fight to peace, a scream to silence a race to a stop.
Sweet are the morsels of memories of great time spent, of great advice given, of simple smiles and thunderous laughter.
Its the sweet gesture, a soothing handshake. It the blessings to the kindred and honour to the friends.
All giants once were, toddlers who depended, time made them emerge and Gods grace and favour nourished them. In the dusk they lay with a song of praise in their lips and in everlasting slumber night finds them.

Ikingi the patriarch, a great memory you leave. A warmth and a lesson, we bless the Almighty for thee