REVENGE IN THE VILLAGE

THE BOY WHO LIVED

Growing up in a small village in the late '90s and early 2000s was an experience that felt richer and more genuine than anything the bustling cities could offer. There was an undeniable charm in the simplicity of village life. While kids in the city spent their weekends glued to TV screens, watching reruns of Tom and Jerry, or riding their bikes between friends' houses, us village kids were often lost in the cool, clear waters of local streams, swimming and playing until the sun dipped below the horizon.

I was raised in Nyeri County, nestled in the heart of central Kenya, where the rhythms of life were shaped by the land, the seasons, and the community around us. My generation witnessed the world shift in profound ways. I remember a time before computers, cell phones, and social media—and then I witnessed the first waves of technology roll in. It was a strange, exhilarating feeling to straddle two worlds: one foot planted firmly in the past, and the other stepping into the future.

But not everything about growing up in the village was idyllic. In fact, there were some harsh realities. According to the gossip of my primary school peers, girls from my village were often ridiculed as being unattractive or unremarkable. For reasons I could never quite understand, I became a frequent target for their teasing. Their cruel words stung, leaving me self-conscious and isolated. While the others laughed and judged each other, I kept to myself, too ashamed to join in, but too hurt to speak up. Their constant mockery chipped away at my confidence, affecting everything from my schoolwork to my sense of self-worth. School felt like a daily battle where I was the unwilling punchline of every joke.

But as the old saying goes, "Someday you tame the tiger, and someday the tiger has you for lunch." And just like that, the laughter at my expense was about to come to an end.

The turning point came with the arrival of Mama Rosa, a mysterious middle-aged woman with jet-black hair who moved into an old, abandoned bungalow on the outskirts of our village market. The house had been vacant for years, its creaky, weathered structure a silent reminder of a life long gone. Locals whispered about Mama Rosa's tragic past—how she had bought the house from a toothless, grey-haired woman who had moved away after the death of her son. It was said that Mama Rosa had once lived in Kitale, but had moved back after losing her only sister in a terrible road accident. Consumed by loneliness and thoughts of death, people claimed she wished she had been the one to leave the world behind.

But what the village didn't know was that Mama Rosa's arrival would soon change everything for me.

Her three daughters, stunningly beautiful in a way that seemed almost otherworldly, transformed the village dynamic overnight. They were so captivating that, at times, I could hardly believe they were real. Their eyes were as bright as stars, their smiles radiant enough to light up even the darkest corner of the village. With every step they took, it was as though the world around them paused in awe.

Each daughter was a vision of grace and confidence, with an allure that could make any man lose his composure. They had a magnetic beauty that seemed to embody everything I had been told I lacked—everything I had always felt was beyond my reach. And suddenly, it wasn't just their beauty that caught the village's attention. Because of them, I found myself finally being noticed, respected, and included in ways I never had before.

For the first time in a long while, I felt like I mattered.