The Wisdom Carried in Our Bones

The Wisdom Carried in Our Bones

by Jesman “Jez” Mutezo

Growing up in a large extended family wasn’t just a way of life, it was a symphony of voices, a collection of lived stories passed down like heirlooms. Our house was always full: aunts laughing in the kitchen, uncles debating politics under the guava tree, cousins playing barefoot in the dust, and my grandparents offering a kind of quiet strength that only age and experience can craft. In that lively home, wisdom was never scheduled, it simply spilled into everyday moments.

One of the first proverbs I remember hearing from my grandparents was, "Rume rimwe harikombi churu," one man alone cannot surround an anthill. At the time, I didn’t understand the weight of it. But as I’ve journeyed through life, moving to foreign lands and navigating unfamiliar systems, those words echo back with power. I’ve come to know that no one truly makes it alone. Whether it was an old friend offering a job lead, a stranger holding my hand in a hospital, or a fellow foreigner in Japan helping me understand train routes, I’ve lived the truth of community. I’ve learned to value advice, to listen deeply, and to ask questions when in doubt. And over time, I’ve also learned that discernment, knowing which advice to hold onto and which to release, is a wisdom all its own.

My family also taught me that humility and hard work go hand in hand. Whether we were sweeping the dusty yard, fetching water from the borehole, or preparing sadza for a dozen mouths, it was done with diligence and grace. My grandfather often said, “Even if you become a queen, never lose the pride of your sweat.” That grounded approach to life is something I carry into every space I enter—whether in the classroom teaching English in Tokyo, or behind the lens during a fashion shoot. Excellence, I’ve learned, isn’t loud, it’s consistent.

Among the matriarchs in my family, there was one aunt whose sharp tongue often masked deep care. She would say, “Know when to speak, and know when to be silent.” At the time, I took it as a reprimand, but I now know it was preparation. In boardrooms, in heated arguments, and even in relationship and friendships, that wisdom has guided me. Sometimes silence is dignity. Sometimes it’s wisdom wrapped in restraint.

My family also held fast to natural healing, herbal remedies passed down from generation to generation. We never went straight to a pharmacy when aloe vera, garlic, moringa, or ndorani were right in our backyard. Those bitter brews and healing steams were more than cures; they were rituals that connected us to the earth and to those who came before us. Even now, I carry some of those remedies in my home, and often find myself advising others on the same.

But the richest inheritance of all was our faith. I remember Bible study nights, gathered on reed mats under the glow of a paraffin lamp, singing hymns that made our spirits dance. My grandfather would read aloud, pausing to explain verses and their meaning. That spiritual foundation has kept me anchored in the roughest storms. It was in those moments that I first began to understand purpose, grace, and the beauty of surrender. Faith was not something we performed; it was something we lived.

These lessons weren’t isolated teachings. They were interwoven into who we were and how we moved in the world. In African homes, wisdom is not taught in lectures, it is felt, lived, and embodied. It’s in the names we are given, names that carry hopes, memories, or ancestral promises. It’s in the way we respect elders, in how we make space for others, in the soft but firm corrections we receive. Storytelling around fires or on mats after dinner was never just entertainment, it was how we passed on history, identity, and pride.

Even now, as an adult living far from the land of my birth, I carry these lessons like sacred beads. I wear them in my speech, my work ethic, my compassion, and my creativity. The world may call it instinct, but I know it is inheritance. My family gave me more than a name, they gave me a compass.

In honouring them, I honour myself. And in sharing these stories, I honour every woman, every child, every elder who has ever whispered wisdom into the ears of the next generation.

Because when an elder dies, a library burns. And so, we must tell these stories, while we still can.