Among the Agĩkũyũ people, the passage of time wasn’t marked by mere calendar years dictated to the people by a long-dead pope called Gregory. Rather, time was enjoined with the rhythm of nature—and unfolded before the people in things they could see.

A man’s life itself was measured in cycles of seven years, each one tethered to a milestone in the journey from childhood to elder hood. It’s worth noting that ‘year’ here doesn’t refer to the Gregorian calendar year of 365 or 366 days.

When a child was born, their life unfolded in these sacred intervals. The first cycle began when the child cut their last teeth—around seven years. The second cycle peaked when the child finished ‘gũtonywo ndũgĩra’ (informal schooling) and stepped into adolescence. Initiation followed after the next seven years, and so the cycles spiraled on, until a man reached the hallowed station of mũthuri wa maturanguru, the third-grade elder, steeped in wisdom, honor, and reverence.

But how did the Agikuyu people track these invisible threads of time? At the heart of this counting system was a mystical plant that acted as a cosmic timer: the Mimulopsis solmsii from the Acanthaceae family. The Mũranga/Kiambu Kikuyu call it thũngũya, while the Nyeri Kikuyu refer to it as rũtho. Among the Kalenjin, it’s known as Seetyoot, and the plant was central to the timing of their initiation rites.

According to the Agikũyũ, this botanical clock flowered once every seven years, its blooms a harbinger of destiny. When its petals unfurled, the people knew that another turn of the cosmic wheel had begun. After flowering, it would wither and die, only to rise later for another seven-year cycle.

Yet, the flowering was not always a time for celebration—it also signaled calamity. The blooming of the thũngũya was followed by droughts, Maasai raids, and even wars. Additionally, the thũngũya was not merely a botanical timer. Its wood, potent when wet, became the staff (mũthĩgi) of sorcerers, perhaps to channel malevolent energies. This only deepened its enigma, its duality making it both a revered and feared shrub.

Today, the thũngũya has begun to bloom again. This was first spotted last December in the Kinare Forest and the Aberdares Forest near Karurumo, Murang’a. The flowering has created a buzz, and cultural enthusiasts, botanists, and Kikuyu elders have turned their eyes to the forest, each seeking answers in the blush of its petals. The flowering, expected to peak later this year, has ignited conversations around lost esoteric science and its application today.

When the plant bloomed back in the day, elders knew that a milestone had ended and another began. They went to the hallowed groves where it thrived and hung beehives to tap into the golden bounty of bees drawn to the thũngũya’s ethereal blooms.

As the wild roses of thũngũya bloom, they beckon us to pause and marvel at the mystery of the inter-relatedness of nature and time. For in their fleeting beauty lies a reminder—that life, like the thũngũya, is a cycle of endings and beginnings, with beautiful blooms in between.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *