Tuesday Reflections; From Paper to Reality

 

My love for construction started at a very young age, but I have come to realize it’s not just the physical act of building that fascinates me. It’s the process of turning something intangible—a dream, a vision—into something solid, something real. My late mother, who instilled this love in me, was always determined to change her family’s destiny, and construction became her way of making those dreams tangible.

Growing up in the rural areas of Uthiru—when tarmacked roads were a far cry from reality and only a handful of rental houses—we lived in a place where rivers still ran strong, and people still knew each other's names. As young kids, we would walk to school, slightly less than three kilometers away, though it felt like hundreds back then. The only constants in our lives were cold lunches—sometimes none at all—dusty shoes or no shoes at times, and the sting of strong canes whenever we indulged in our misdemeanors and other nonsensical acts. I vividly recall stealing my grandmother’s shoes several times to wear to school as I grew older, and although our homestead was plagued by deep need, we were still relatively better off, being kids of a teacher.

Anyhoo, back to construction.

My mother had a strong desire to better her life, and she had a vision, was motivated and determined to change the lifestyle of her family. I remember how, as I grew up, she had these exercise books where she would spend hours dreaming up her next construction project—altering the plans repeatedly until they finally took shape in reality.

Those days, she would wake up one Saturday morning and say, “Karol” (insert Kikuyu accent), “tokira uthie ugete ndicu”—meaning, wake up and go call the fundi. That journey spanned several kilometers and required me to walk to the neighboring village of Kiuru (for those who know the area). We only had one trusted fundi back then, the man who built most of our houses.

My mother was the kind of person who would buy materials one shilling at a time from a trusted hardware store until she had accumulated enough to build a room or a house according to her plan. Once ready, she would call the fundi (mason), who would begin the project under her strict supervision.

Those days, we were tasked with cooking for the construction crew, and there was no way to avoid it. It didn’t matter if it was just ugali and beans, cabbage, or greens—bottom line, the food had to be made.

I remember ferrying hundreds of stones from a particular road to our home because a neighbor (a relative, actually) had encroached on the road, blocking access for lorries. This meant that materials like stones and river sand had to be transported in smaller portions from nearly 800 meters away. And so there we were—my siblings, cousins, and any extra help that had been hired—armed with sacks, kiondos, wheelbarrows, and all sorts of assortments, ferrying construction materials home.

My most vivid construction memory is from when I was 19 and heavily pregnant, cooking for the mason just days before delivery. I remember one neighbor joking that I might give birth right there by the fireplace—but someone had to do it. And being homebound due to my early pregnancy meant I carried the heavy load of family chores.

These memories form the foundation of my deep-rooted connection with construction and construction sites, a connection that remains strong to this day.

Many years later, I found myself constructing my own homes, and my mind instinctively returned to the familiar—I hired the same mason, though by then, he had grown into a site supervisor and a contractor in his own right.

I still remember the sight of a house progressing, one brick at a time, as a dream on paper slowly took form in reality. And that’s when I realized—maybe my love isn’t just for construction itself, but for the process of watching dreams grow. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing an idea take shape, whether in the form of a house, a project, or even a life-changing decision.

I have always relished dreaming and executing those dreams. Some of my wildest ideas are still on paper, waiting for their time. If money weren’t a factor, I would probably put up some of the ugliest yet most beautiful structures in the world. My dreams are unconventional—I don’t stick to patterns. I dream up some truly unique pieces. My most recent vision is a round-faced house. Its full beauty remains unrevealed, but when the coins align, I’ll undoubtedly have an aha moment, relishing its completion.

With that said, I think I should fully immerse myself in building and construction—it seems like such a fulfilling space, not just because of the structures, but because of the journey from imagination to reality.

The last drawing and dreaming my mother did was on her hospital bed at Karen, where, in between moments of pain, she asked for her books and continued to dream on paper.

Rest well, Mum. Your dreams live on—in me.

Final Thoughts;

Dreams don’t always come alive in one grand moment; sometimes, they are built brick by brick, shilling by shilling, sacrifice by sacrifice. My mother taught me that you don’t need to have everything to start—you just need a vision, determination, and the courage to take the first step.

Many of us are caught in analysis paralysis, waiting for your ducks to align, but does it ever happen?

Kind reminders, to anyone holding on to a dream—whether it’s a house, a business, or a better life—don’t be afraid to start small. 

Gather your “shillings,” call your “fundi,” and begin. Progress isn’t always fast, but every brick laid is a step closer to your vision.

Because one day, just like my mother’s sketches in her old exercise books, your dream will stand tall in reality.

Keep building. Keep dreaming.

Njeri

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