All my life, I have been surrounded by storytellers—people whose memories live not just in photographs but in their voices. I count myself among the privileged few. I grew up with a great-grandmother who was a walking library. I had three grandfathers and a beautiful collection of grandmothers, thanks to our polygamous family roots. Life felt like a village, maybe even a nation, because my grandfather and his brother lived in the same compound. And at the heart of that living history was Juju Sara—my grandmother by marriage, but much more by love.
A Daily Presence (with a Dash of Fire and Salt)
I grew up seeing her every day. Her house was just a stone’s throw away—maybe 50 meters or so—but to my little legs and dramatic imagination, it felt like a whole expedition through the Amazon forests or, closer home, Nkunga forests. Whether I was sent to borrow salt or to fetch fire, it would usually be: straight to Juju Sara’s house.
Yes, we borrowed fire literally!—”kinyinga, as we called it. Imagine that: a whole burning log in my tiny hands, running across bushes and corn like I was on a Mission: Impossible episode, trying not to let it go out. Because if that fire died before I got back, trust me, what would be ignited instead would be a mother’s wrath. Sometimes the errands flipped—Mommy would send me with salt or sugar to her instead. We were always in and out of each other’s kitchens, like family should be.
Even when I went away to boarding school, the first place I’d go after dropping my bag was Juju Sara’s house. She’d call out my name as soon as she heard my voice—“Nkiro!”—with a unique joy, like she’d been waiting for that very moment all term. That one word was enough to remind me I was home. Then she’d ask, “How was school?” and I would begin my TED Talk. Honestly, if speaking was a paid career back then, I’d have been rich by age 15.
We were a perfect pair: I talked like it was my calling (and let’s face it, it probably is), and she? She was a listener of Olympic standards. Patient. Present. Never once cut me off. Never once tried to rush me. Sometimes I wonder if she even remembered the stories, but she made me feel like every word mattered.
And here’s the funny thing—when I think back to her, I can’t really remember long speeches or profound quotes. No powerful monologues or deep advice. What I remember is who she was. The way she laughed—soft and light, like it tickled her from the inside out. The way her eyes smiled before her lips did. Juju Sarah loved a good laugh. She didn’t speak much, but she left a whole library in my heart. That’s Juju Sara for you—proof that sometimes, presence is louder than words.
“She stood without standing tall, and she spoke without sound—yet her presence shook generations.”
A Woman of Daughters
Juju Sara had only daughters—during a time when bearing sons was seen as a woman’s primary success. She was mocked, pitied, perhaps even whispered about. But what she gave the world through those daughters was beyond what most could see.
She raised warriors. She raised women of deep conviction, sharp minds, fierce love, and unwavering loyalty. Her daughters adore her to this day. They protect her name like a banner. They honor her memory like a queen’s crown. And that tells you everything you need to know about the kind of mother she was.
Her Legacy in Me
Now, I find myself walking a path that looks so much like hers. I’m a mother of seven daughters. Yes—seven. I don’t know many people who share this exact journey with me and Juju Sara. We’re a rare breed. Only difference is… I beat her by one.
(If you know, you know.)
Every time I look at my girls, I see her story woven into mine. But it’s not just genetics or tradition. This is a woman I have lived next to and known for almost half a century. She wasn’t a far-off figure in family history—she was a daily presence, a walking witness to my becoming.
And though our generations are different—thankfully, I don’t face any shame or judgment for the gender of my children—I still look at her in awe. She lived through a time when having only daughters was met with mockery. Yet she didn’t shrink. She didn’t explain herself. She didn’t need sons to feel like a mother. She just went on and raised lions in girls.
Because of her, I’ve seen firsthand how daughters rise, how they build, how they love fiercely, and how they lead with tenderness and power. She showed me you don’t need to raise your voice to raise strong women. You don’t need to shout to be heard. You don’t need to fight to win.
Juju Sara never ran campaigns for herself. She just lived—and her life said everything. Now, I see her legacy in her daughters, in her grandchildren, and yes, in my own seven girls.
And so I write this tribute not just for myself, but for all the cousins, nieces, and great-grandchildren who ever passed through her home, felt her warmth, or heard their name called in that familiar Juju Sara tone.
This is our memory—our inheritance. And it’s gold.
Thank You, Juju Sara
Thank you for the fire.
Thank you for the salt.
Thank you for the listening ear.
Thank you for the unshakable gentleness.
Thank you for raising daughters who loved you loudly, and for giving me a glimpse of the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.
Rest well, Dad’s other Mama.
You lived quietly.
But your life speaks loudly.
And I am listening.
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