MEPOHO: The Woman Who Warn of White Man Before Swallowed by Earth in Kaya Fungo

By Caroline Katana 

Email, thecoastnewspaper@gmail.com

She Walked into the Forest and Never Returned.

The morning air in Vuga village was thick with dew. A rooster crowed once, then fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, a fig tree rustled—though there was no wind. The year was some time in the early 1800s.

She rose barefoot from her mat, wrapped herself in a white cotton cloth, and walked alone into the sacred grove.

That was the last time anyone saw Mepoho. But her story — her voice — has never left.

 Born Knowing Things

Born in Vuga, Kwale County, Mepoho was the youngest of four children in a humble Digo household. Her mother, Mwana Hawa, was a midwife who whispered prayers over newborns. Her father, Mzee Khamis, brewed herbs and spoke little.

From the age of five, Mepoho would stop mid-play to speak of strange things. A cow would die. A man would fall. A tree would split. Everything she said—happened.

At ten, she stood under the rain and shouted at the sky: “The earth is angry.” At thirteen, she refused to eat for a week, saying, “The spirits are feeding me.”

By twenty, the elders had stopped doubting. They called her mlozi—the gifted one, the one who hears.

She never married. “I am already wed to the ancestors,” she once told a curious girl.

 The Prophecy

It came like a thunderclap. One dry season, after days of silence, Mepoho gathered the villagers. She stood on a termite mound beneath a tall fig tree. Her hair was loose. Her eyes were distant.

 “They will come from the sea,” she said.

“Their skins will be pale, their tongues sharp. They will bring fire. Their feet will not touch the ground. They will build walls, rename us, steal our sky. And the rain—will disappear.”

No one moved. A baby cried. A dog whimpered and ran off.

Some elders scoffed. Others spat to the ground. But Mepoho said nothing more.

The next morning, she told her family she must walk to Kaya Fungo, the sacred forest in Kaloleni, Kilifi County. That the spirits of all Mijikenda awaited her there. She packed no food. She asked for no escort. She simply walked.

Swallowed by the Kaya

In Kaloleni, under the thick canopy of Kaya Fungo, lies a fig tree older than memory. At its roots: a hollow space, just wide enough to curl into. No one touches it.

The women say she reached the tree, knelt beneath it, and sang. She called to the ancestors. To the forest. To the sky. Then the earth opened — and swallowed her whole. No body. No bones. No goodbye..Since then, the tree has never lost its green.

 When the Rain Doesn’t Come

During times of drought — when the rivers dry and the maize curls — elders from Kwale and Kilifi come back to that tree. Dressed in white, they carry incense and honey water. They kneel. They sing softly:

 “Mepoho, forgive us. Pour the rain.”in Giriama they would say ” Hunalomba Mvula”. Sometimes, the clouds gather before they leave.

 Why She Still Walks With Us

Mepoho never held a child, but left behind generations of believers. She wore no crown, but her warning rules the sacred groves.

In the climate crisis, in the loss of forests, in the hunger creeping back to our land — we see her prophecy unfold.

At night, some women in Vuga say they hear her walking through the trees, whispering to the wind. If you ever find yourself in Kaya Fungo, alone beneath the fig tree, you may feel it too.

” The leaves still listen.

The earth still remembers.

Mepoho — is not done speaking”

Legacy: Invoked during drought, honored in sacred rituals, remembered by oral historians

Mepoho’s story is not hers alone. Across East Africa, other women like her walked the line between the physical and spiritual worlds. 

From Mekatilili wa Menza of Kilifi, who defied colonial rule with sacred oaths, to the Nyabinghi prophetesses of Uganda and Rwanda, who spoke with the voices of ancestors, these women foresaw danger, resisted oppression, and became part of their people’s spiritual memory.

 Like Mepoho, they stood in forests, spoke with fire, and vanished into legend—leaving behind warnings we are only just beginning to understand.

This story is part of The Coast Newspaper’s series on sacred women in East African history.