Baya lived in a small village near Kaloleni town. He was as strong as an ox, yet as shy as a goat tied outside a chief’s office.
He was in love with Zawadi, the most beautiful maiden in the village. Her smile shone brighter than the morning dew, and her laughter made even the old men at the kaya forget their aching knees. Every boy dreamed of her, but Baya’s love was deeper than the well at Mnazimumwenga.
There was only one problem, Baya’s tongue. Whenever Zawadi was near, it stuck in his mouth like roasted cassava between teeth.
Instead of telling Zawadi how he felt, Baya decided to show his love through action.
He weeded her cassava farm until even the mice wondered who had taken over. He carried her water pots from the river, balancing them on his shoulders like a camel with three humps. He chased monkeys away from her mango trees with shouts that scared even passing fishermen.
And when Zawadi would smile at him and say, “Baya, you are like a brother to me,” his heart would sink.
Ah! The dreaded brother zone.
Still, he thought, “Surely, she will understand. A man does not weed cassava for free.”
Frustrated, Baya sought the help of Mzee Wende, the most feared medicine man in the locality. His hut was filled with dried skins, rattling gourds, and charms that could supposedly make even a stone fall in love.
“Mzee,” Baya whispered, his voice trembling like a drum in the rain, “I want Zawadi to love me. Give me a powerful charm!”
Mzee Wende shook his rattle, blew smoke from his pipe, and spat into the fire. Then he stared at Baya with eyes so wide they looked borrowed from an owl.
“My son,” he said, “the most powerful charm is already in your possession.”
“Where is it?” Baya asked eagerly.
“In your mouth,” the old man replied. “You must use your tongue. Tell her your heart. Only then will my medicine work.”
Baya scratched his head. “But Mzee, if I could speak, I would not be here!”
Still, Mzee gave him a small gourd of “love powder” and warned:
“Without courage, this powder is as useless as a canoe in the desert.”
While Baya was busy being shy, another young man named Mele was busy being bold. Mele was smooth-tongued, sharp-dressed, and walked around with the confidence of a rooster in a compound full of hens.
One evening, he approached Zawadi and said with a grin, “You are the flower in my garden. Allow me to be the bee.”
Zawadi laughed, but she blushed too. Within no time, Mele had delivered her CV and his offer was accepted.
He hurriedly sent elders to Zawadi’s home for dowry negotiations. Mdzungu wa utsungu was about to hambala.
According to Mijikenda tradition, this was no small matter. Mele’s family was ready to pay the hunda that included goats, cows, and gourds of mnazi. The elders arrived for the Malozi. They spoke the proper words, greeting the elders with respect, and the negotiations began.
When the village heard, tongues wagged faster than pounding pestles. The beautiful Zawadi was as good as taken.
When Baya heard the news, his heart sank deeper than a canoe in a storm. He ran straight to Zawadi’s homestead, sweating and trembling.
“Zawadi,” he blurted out, “I… I love you! I have always loved you. I wanted to marry you myself!”
Zawadi’s eyes widened. “Ehee! You mean all that farming, fetching water, and chasing monkeys was because you loved me? Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I was… shy,” Baya admitted, nearly choking on his words.
Zawadi’s face softened. “Baya, I love you too. But Mele has already sent his elders. According to our traditions, once dowry talks begin, the girl cannot play with two homes.”
Baya’s knees buckled. In desperation, he cried, “If you do not marry me, I will climb the baobab and never come down! I will swallow all the love powder at once! I will…”
Before he could finish, Zawadi burst out laughing so loudly the chickens scattered. “Baya! You sound like a child who missed porridge.”
Villagers gathered, curious about the commotion. Mzee Wende himself arrived, shaking his rattle.
“Ah!” he shouted, “My medicine has worked! The boy has finally spoken!”
The elders scratched their beards. Two suitors, one girl, and already cows were chewing grass for nothing.
The gathering turned from malozi to resolving the stalemate. They sniffed tobacco, sipped mnazi, and debated until the sun bent low. At last, the verdict was delivered:
“The girl shall not marry for cows, nor for goats, but for love. Let her heart decide.”
Zawadi stood tall, her cheeks glowing. She looked at Mele’s family, then at Baya, and declared:
“My heart is with Baya. Let Mele take back his goats and find another flower for his bees.”
The crowd erupted with laughter. Juma’s family stomped away.
Baya fainted from shock and only woke up when Zawadi sprinkled water on his face. When his eyes opened, she whispered, “Next time, don’t use a medicine man. Just use your mouth.”
And so, Baya finally married Zawadi, not because of charms or goats, but because he found the courage to speak.
To this day, the elders tell young men: “A tongue unspoken is like a farm unweeded. If you love, say it—before another man brings the goats.”
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