Long before I ever got close to it, Mount Kenya was already part of my life.

Back then, we didn’t see it as a place people visited. It was just there quiet, tall, watching us. On clear mornings, when I went to fetch firewood or walked to the shamba, I’d stop and look at it. Its white peak hanging above the clouds. Sharp. Beautiful. The elders didn’t say much about it, but they always faced it when they prayed. They lowered their voices when it showed itself. And no one ever pointed at it with a finger. Only with lips or a nod.

Even as kids, we knew it meant something.

Years later, I went to Mount Kenya National Park. Not to hike or take photos. I just wanted to see it up close to feel what had always felt far away.

The forest was cool and quiet. I walked slowly. The trees were tall, the air smelled like wet soil and leaves. Birds sang somewhere high up. I heard water flowing and monkeys calling in the distance. I didn’t rush. I wanted to take it all in.

Then I saw it. The mountain. Clear and full. Just standing there, the way it always did, but now I was close. I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, the same way I used to stand as a child, looking up at it from home.

There was no crowd, no noise, no guide explaining anything. Just the mountain and me.

I bent down near a stream, scooped water in my hands, and drank. Cold. Fresh. It tasted like home.

In that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Like the mountain knew me. Like it had been waiting.

Some places don’t speak loudly. But they stay with you. And when you finally return, they welcome you without a word.

Mount Kenya is one of those places.

 

Agnes Irungu