Coins in Her Chest: The Quiet Power of a Woman Who Builds

 

There is something my grandmother used to say—mutumia dagaga cia nyodo.
A woman never lacks coins tucked in her chest.

I grew up hearing it often, especially when women gathered around tea, speaking in those measured tones of lived experience. Sometimes it would be said about a widow who managed to send all her children to school. Other times it was whispered about a woman who always seemed to have something to give, even when she had nothing visible. They would nod, knowingly, and say it again—mutumia dagaga cia nyodo.

At first, it sounded humorous. Even suspicious. Coins in the breasts? bra? But as I grew, I began to understand that it was never about coins.

It was about a way of being. About the quiet, sacred industry of women. The invisible labor that holds families together, that keeps meals on tables and futures in motion. It was about women who knew how to work with their hands and stretch small into plenty.

My mother—God bless her soul—was one of those women. I do not think there was anything she did not try. She was a teacher by profession, but outside the classroom, she was a creator. She would tie and dye fabric, knit clothes, dig up the earth to grow vegetables, and if a structure needed fixing, she would roll up her sleeves and do it. Her hands were constantly in motion—sewing, stirring, planting, building. Always doing. Always becoming.

She never made noise about it. She just moved through life like a woman who had coins in her chest, plans in her spirit, and dignity in her walk. Her life taught me that provision is not always loud. Sometimes, it is a quiet rhythm—a knowing—that whatever happens, she will find a way. That is what mutumia dagaga cia nyodo really means.

In Gikuyu culture—and indeed, in many African traditions—the chest, the bosom of a woman, is sacred. It is not only where she feeds her children. It is where she stores her strength. Where she keeps her backup plans, her quiet prayers, her wisdom, her pain. Where she gathers her resilience like embers. And that resilience, more often than not, begins with her hands.

That is why I say to young women today—especially young wives:
Get busy.
Let your hands find something they can do.
Start small, start quiet, start uncertain—but start.

Whether it is baking, farming, sewing, creating content, running a business on Instagram, or learning a trade—do it. Even if it seems slow. Even if no one claps. Even if you are still figuring it out.

Because when a woman works—not just for money but for becoming—she builds a future that is difficult to shake. She develops a rhythm that anchors her, even when the winds come. Her hands learn the dance of provision. Her mind begins to expand. Her voice, once soft and unsure, begins to steady.

We live in a time of speed—M-PESA, data bundles, degrees, digital everything. And while these are powerful tools, may we not forget the still, stubborn strength of the women who came before us. Women who did not wait for applause, or perfect conditions, or someone to give them permission. They used what they had. Where they were. As they were.

And so, I say again: mutumia dagaga cia nyodo.
A woman never truly lacks—not when she believes in her hands, in her God, and in her quiet, roaring voice.

Sometimes, the beginning is as small as boiled water for tea.
As humble as braiding under a mango tree.
As steady as kneading chapati dough at dawn.
As sacred as a whispered prayer in the night.

To the young woman reading this: begin.
To the young wife wondering if her life still holds a dream—yes, it does.
To the woman whose hands are tired, whose hope is thin—rest, then rise again.

May your chest be full—not just of breath and beauty, but of boldness, skill, and secret dreams.
May your hands know the joy of making.
And may your voice—soft at first—grow strong enough to shape the world.

 Njeri

Ps. i hope i got the Nyodo part right...hahah