Graves Beneath the Maize

 By William Kiptoo

I recently walked to the Christian cemetery near Kipchoge stadium in Eldoret, to search for my father's resting place. There was no sign--his name, a marker, or anything.

The cemetery had fallen into ruin. Graves are overgrown with weeds. The few headstones that had once stood in dignity had either crumbled or been stolen. And to my horror, the land had become a drying field for maize. Maize was spread across graves like laundry. Farmers walked across the dead, tossing cobs and laughing as though nothing sacred lay beneath their feet.

That day I was heartbroken!

How did we come to this? In many African traditions, the dead are honored. Their spirits are remembered. Their graves are sacred. But at Kipchoge cemetery, the dead lie in silence as the living trample over their bones for convenience.

A society that forgets its dead forgets itself. It forgets the sacrifice, the love, the hopes of those who came before. When we vandalize their resting places, we not only violate memory—we violate dignity. What message do we send to our children when we treat graves as firewood or farms?

There was a time when the whispers of the dead were heard in prayer, in storytelling, in song. But now, they’re drowned by the rustling of maize husks drying in the sun.

I dream of a day when Kipchoge cemetery will be reclaimed—not by maize farmers, but by the descendants of the forgotten. That someone will build a wall around it, plant flowers, and raise stones with names so the dead can be known again. That someday, no child will have to wonder where their parent lies.

Until then, I return to that field and stand in silence, hoping my father hears me. Because I still do hear him—in the whispers that rise from Kipchoge.