It’s was the late 1950s.The Catholic Diocese of Murang’a had just completed building Kiangunyi Parish Church. Its whitewashed walls rose proudly above the Murang’a hills, after years of delay during the Mau Mau struggle.
To endear the faithful even more, Father John brought in a brand-new piano and entrusted it to Sister Felista, a gentle nun with nimble fingers and a quiet devotion. Every Saturday afternoon, she would climb to the top floor of the church where the piano sat by the window, and practice tirelessly, preparing to fill the Sunday mass with Latin hymnals.
Drawn by the music, a quick-talking young man from the village, who never missed mass, began to join her. The notes of the piano seemed to call him, and soon the two became an unlikely pair-she at the keys, he with his voice-filling the church hall with melodies.
One Saturday afternoon, as they practiced, the young man suddenly fell silent. The piano notes floated in the air like a child’s lost balloon. The nun looked at him, wondering if something was amiss. Their eyes locked briefly. The young man came close to Sister Felista, lowered his voice and whispered: Do you know I can marry you one day?
Her cheeks warmed. Her big toe drew circles on the floor. She then let out a chuckle so full that it echoed down the stairwell, nearly reaching Father John below. When she returned to the piano keys, her fingers fumbled, the music briefly forgotten.
And so they continued-the nun and the village youth-sharing songs, jokes, and music. In each other’s company,a piano between them, they discovered something the church itself could not give: a warmth, a companionship, a spark.
That young man would one day carry his voice beyond the parish walls, beyond the misty hills of Murang’a. He would sing for a nation.
His name was Joseph Kamaru.