By Morris Wambua

Come. Walk with me.

Let’s slip out of the noise, out of the hurry and clamor of ambition, and come to this place where all roads end.

Do you see those gravestones, leaning a little in the fading light?

The cracked marble, the moss creeping over the names?

Look carefully—this earth holds everyone.

It holds the great and the lowly, the loved and the feared, the ones who built and the ones who destroyed.

The grass grows over them all, weaving a blanket of quiet green over the proud and the humble alike, softening every edge, erasing every name in time.

This is where we all come, sooner or later. And if that thought makes you uncomfortable—if it leaves a cold knot in your belly—that’s only natural.

We spend so much of our lives looking away from this place, pretending the ground doesn’t wait for us too.

But here we are.

Look at it.

Take it in, and ask yourself: what kind of life do I want to lead, knowing this is where it ends?

Let me tell you about two lives—two paths, two choices.

One is the life of integrity, quiet and honest, steady as the seasons. The other is the life of greed, fast and hungry, climbing higher and higher with eyes only on the next rung.

You’ve seen both kinds of people.

Maybe, at times, you’ve been both. But in the end, these lives lead to very different kinds of silence.

The Honest Worker

Have you known man the one who took the slower road?

He is not wealthy.

He has no trophies, no titles, no bank account swollen with riches.

His hands are thick and scarred, his shoulders stooped from years of lifting, from shouldering burdens he never let anyone else carry.

He wakes each morning as the light just begins to bleed into the sky, slipping out of bed quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping shape beside him.

He is steady, patient, predictable.

His friends joke that he’s as solid as the oak tree in his yard, the one he planted when he built his small house decades ago.

His work is not glamorous. It does not bring him fame or recognition. But it is his, and he does it well, pouring himself into each task with a quiet devotion that most people overlook.

His wealth is not measured in dollars; it’s measured in the trust of his neighbors, in the smile
of his wife as he kisses her cheek, in the way his children look at him, knowing he’ll always be there.

It is a life without shortcuts, without lies.

When he shakes your hand, you know he means it.

When he says he’ll be there, you know he’ll show up.

There is a deep, abiding dignity in this man, though he would laugh and shake his head if you tried to tell him that.

He thinks of himself as small, and ordinary. But those who know him know better.

To them, he is a rock, a lighthouse, a steady fire in a world that so often feels cold and unpredictable.

When he grows old, his back aches more, and his hands shake a little as he pours his coffee. But there is peace in him, a quietness that comes from a life well-lived.

He has no debts, no grudges, no secrets gnawing at his conscience. And when his time finally comes, he’ll lie down in the earth without fear, because he knows he lived with his heart open and his hands clean.

At his funeral, there won’t be hundreds of people, but the ones who come will carry his memory with them, like a warm stone in their pockets.

His grave will be simple—a modest marker with his name, and perhaps a few words. But those who loved him will tend it, leaving flowers, brushing away the dirt, coming back year after year to sit by his side and remember.

And eventually, the grass will grow over him too, erasing the letters, blurring the lines. But his memory will remain—a soft, persistent light in the lives he touched.

He won’t be famous.

His name won’t go down in history. But in the small, quiet ways that truly matter, he will live on, in
laughter and kindness, in the hands of his children and the eyes of his grandchildren.

The Hungry Thief

Now, let’s look at the other life.

This man is sharp, hungry, always reaching for more. He wakes each morning with a list
already forming in his mind: people to call, deals to close, rungs on the ladder to climb.

His ambition is a flame that never dies down, never pauses to catch its breath. He has no patience for slowness, no tolerance for obstacles.

To him, life is a contest, a game where there are winners and losers, and he has every intention of winning, no matter the cost.

He surrounds himself with beautiful things—cars, suits, and houses that gleam in the sunlight. People admire him, fear him, envy him.

But love?

Love is a language he barely understands.

He sees people as tools, stepping stones to be used, polished, discarded as soon as they stop
being useful. And every time he reaches a new height, a new level of wealth, the emptiness gnaws harder, hungrier, demanding more.

He is wealthy, yes, wealthy beyond measure, but when he sits alone in his grand house at night, he feels something hollow chewing away at him.

His so-called friends are only around when he’s buying the drinks.

His family—what’s left of it—keeps their distance, cautious, wary, worn out from trying to get close.

He thought power would make him feel safe.

He thought riches would make him feel loved. But there is no warmth in his life, no light. Only the ceaseless, gnawing hunger.

When death comes for him, he fights it, clinging to life with desperate fingers.

He tries to bargain, to buy himself another day, another year. But death does not care about his bank account.

The funeral is grand, as he would have wanted—an expensive casket, flowers flown in from far away, a headstone as tall as a man. But the people who gather aren’t there out of love.

They come out of duty, out of curiosity, out of habit. And when he is lowered into the earth, they move on quickly, shaking hands, exchanging polite murmurs, barely glancing back.

The empire he built?

It begins to crumble the moment he’s gone.

His wealth is divided, sold off, and claimed by people who never knew his face. And the grass? It grows over his grave too, inch by inch, covering his name, softening the edges.

Soon, he is just another stone, another forgotten life in a field of forgotten lives.

His memory fades quickly, leaving barely a ripple.

His legacy is dust.

The Grass That Grows Over Us All

So here we are, in this quiet place where both lives meet their end.

Look around you.

The grass grows evenly, softly, blurring the lines, covering the names, swallowing the monuments.

Time does not care about what we built or what we earned.

In the end, all of us are folded back into the same earth, the same silence.

But here’s the truth, the truth we so often ignore: wealth does not endure.

Power fades.

Fame is a flickering light, here one moment and gone the next.

What remains—what truly remains—is how we treated each other, how we showed up, how we loved.

It is the memory of kindness, of honesty, of a life lived without cruelty, without deception.

It is the quiet, steady legacy of someone who understood that life is not a ladder, but a journey meant to be walked together, hand in hand, step by step.

One day, the earth will take us too.

It is a simple fact, as undeniable as the sunrise. But while we are here, while our hearts are
still beating, we have a choice.

We can live as though only wealth and power matter, chasing after things that will never fill the emptiness inside us. Or we can live in a way that leaves something real behind—a warmth, a kindness, a memory of a life well-loved and honestly given.

So ask yourself, while there is still time: What kind of life will I leave behind?

Will it be a life that reverberates softly in the hearts of others, or a life that fades without a trace, no more than dust in the wind?

The grass will cover us all, but the lives we lead before it does—that is our true monument.

So live with open hands, with an open heart.

Walk your path with love and grace. Because in the end, the only thing that endures is the love we gave, the kindness we shared, the way we made people feel.

When you are gone, let the memory of you be a warmth, a quiet comfort that remains long after the last stone has crumbled, long after the last name has faded, carried in the hearts of those who loved
you.

Live so that, when the grass covers you, you are not forgotten. Live so that, even in silence, you are remembered.