In Elwanikha village, news spread like wildfire, but nothing traveled faster than the story of Martin wa Zimmer.

A man with dreams as high as the sky but plans as shaky as a stool with a missing leg.

So, what happened to him? Let me take you there.

In our village, where even the chickens gossip, Martin entered 2025 like a peacock that had just discovered a mirror.

He claimed he'd scored a "highly important job" in Nairobi, but last year's newspaper was the only paper he showed.

At Mama Atoti's tea kiosk—the unofficial CNN of the village—Martin would sit with his chest puffed out, like a rooster on its best day.

Stirring his tea with all the seriousness of a politician signing a bill, he'd declare, "Soon, I'll be sipping cappuccinos in an office higher than Mount Kenya!"

He even bought shoes that were so shiny you could see your future in them. The goats would pause their grazing just to admire them.

Martin started greeting dogs in English and referring to the chickens as his "feathered colleagues."

But everything changed at the New Year's Village meeting.

Martin appeared in his father's old suit, looking like a scarecrow forced to dress up for a wedding.

The suit was so big that the village kids joked that three of them—and maybe a goat—could fit inside.

Standing before the elders—wise and skeptical as always—Martin launched into his usual speech:

"My dear village people! I'm on the verge of great things! But…" (and you know there's always a 'but,' just like the rains during planting season) "…I need your support. The city's expensive! Even the air there has a tax!"

At that moment, Mama Atoti—bless her bluntness—stood up.

The kind of woman whose words could knock down a brick wall. "Martin wa Zimmer!" she shouted, hands on her hips like a traffic cop stopping cars.

"Isn't this the same story you told us last year? And the year before that? You vanish to Nairobi like fog, only to return faster than a chameleon changes its colors!"

The marketplace erupted. The ancient mango tree seemed to bend down to eavesdrop.

Martin turned as red as a tomato left too long in the sun.

In his rush to escape, his flashy shoes betrayed him—he tripped over a bench and fell with all the grace of a sack of potatoes: “koi-koi-BOOM!”

Now, whenever someone starts making grand promises in Elwanikha, the villagers just smile and ask, “Are you pulling a Martin?”

These days, Martin helps his mother sell sweet potatoes at the market, trading his shiny shoes for gumboots.

Though some swear they’ve heard him whispering sweet nothings to the tubers: “Good morning, my premium grade potatoes!”

As our elder often says, tapping his walking stick for emphasis, “Some people’s dreams are like morning dew—beautiful, but gone as soon as the sun gets hot.”

And Martin? Well, at least his potatoes are more reliable than his job offers.