The Hacienda: A Garden for the Soul

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tucked away behind the unassuming rhythms of a quiet neighbourhood lies a sanctuary — one not marked by grandeur, but by grace. It is called The Hacienda — a name that rolls off the tongue with warmth, mystery, and a little promise. It belongs to a dear friend of mine, and today, it became my refuge.

I came in search of grounding. Between planning our upcoming charity run, responding to a tide of calls, guiding volunteers, and answering the never-ending summons of emails, I was fraying. I needed stillness — not just a pause, but a gentle return to myself. So I asked if I could visit. Not for company, not for conversation — but simply to be. Her welcome, like the garden, was gracious and unintrusive.

Here, the trees stand as quiet witnesses. Desert-like flowers bloom in rebellion against barrenness, and a fireplace waits for stories. There is a mbuzi choma spot that calls for laughter, and hand-crafted furniture made from reloved wood — beds reborn as chairs, memory transformed into comfort. The grass rolls lazily like a soft green lullaby, and every corner of the intimate garden feels like an invitation to exhale.

With my laptop open, tea served graciously, and bananas on standby, I began to work — but differently. Today, work met prayer. Emails met reflection. Fundraising calls were made with more clarity, more heart. The WiFi reached my device, but the garden reached my spirit. In this quiet space, I reconnected with my why — not in a strategic sense, but in a deeply human one.

Now, let me tell you about Joyce — the soul behind this haven. She is not your everyday grandmother. Some days, she introduces herself as Mrs. Korir — though I am yet to meet the mysterious Mr. Korir. Other days, she’s a “retired virgin who is not tired.” And every now and then, when she picks up my call, she starts with a bold, “Yes, man!” and I burst out laughing.

She says I like bossing people around — well I plead the fifth; between organizing,  planning and execution — whats left, that can be done with my two hands. So God gave me feet in many other people around me. I am loud, extroverted, always on the move. But around Joyce? I turn quiet. She commands presence without demanding it. She owns her space and invites you to find your own.

Joyce is what you would call delightfully eccentric — unconventional in the most life-affirming way. A woman of many names, much laughter, and zero apologies. The kind of soul who turns furniture into art, conversations into confessions, and a garden into sanctuary.

The Hacienda is not just a place. It is her spirit, scattered in plants, echoed in laughter, grounded in silence.

Some gardens grow flowers. This one grew stillness, laughter, and a reminder that sometimes, to move forward, you must first sit down with yourself.

If you ever find yourself needing space to breathe, to think, or to just be — ask about The Hacienda. It may not show up on Google Maps, but it will find its way to your soul.                                                

To Joyce — thank you. For holding space, for holding stories, for holding me. 

Asante.

Njeri.