Nĩndakũgeithia mũthomi wa jaranda ĩno. Reke tũrung’e ciĩgiĩ rũthiomi nyendete rwa Gĩkũyũ. Kũmenya gũthoma, gũthikĩrĩa na kwaria rũthiomi rũrũ nĩ kĩheo kĩa goro kiuma kwĩ Ngai Mwene ũgĩ woothe. Growing up in the heart of Mathĩra, specifically Kĩeni, where the sweeping grass plains nourished our herds near the bustling Karatina market, I witnessed the raw power of our language. Today, I fear for its survival. We transitioned to the CBC curriculum, yet I still reflect on the 8-4-4 system—why is it that the language of our ancestors was pushed to the periphery in favor of English? If I had a wish, it would be that every child in Kenya learns to read and write in the native tongue of their birthplace. Only then can we guarantee our African heritage is not diluted or cast into oblivion. Language is the ultimate vessel of identity.