Who cries for the boy...?

"Who cries for the boy?", the old woman would whisper to herself. Its not the words that caught ones attention, neither is it the huskiness in her voice,but the deep pain that was evident in her voice and her wrinkled face every time she said it.  The pain in her voice bordered that of concern or was it despair, but it couldn't conceal the passion it carried. All these emotions were only noticeable to those close to her and more so, those she called upon when she needed assistance. Gatiba, her grandson was one of those people. On many occasions, she had uttered these words as she watched her last born son disappear in the horizon, after his regular monthly homage, he paid to her without fail. But on this day as his frail and ragged son walked away, Gatiba, couldn't fail to notice the intensity of the pain in her face, as she uttered those words. Though her eyes were ready to shed tears, they
couldn't, since her tear ducts had long since failed due to old age. This made Gatiba ask, for the first and the last time, why she always asks, "who cries for boy" each time his uncle left. 

i hear voices..or is it

"..I hear voices,..Wagithina!!", Waitherero says.  "aaii waitherero, what do you expect, we are in nappier grass plantation" I reply. "Peter you cant hear", she repeated. Any time Waitherero used my English name, I knew she was serious, I only used hers under humble and negotiating circumstances.