Mercy Masika - Shule Yako Lyrics
Lyrics
Baba nichukue ooh Baba nichukue nifunze nataka kusoma Kwa shule yako kwa shule yako Nichukue nifunze nataka kusoma kwa shule yako kwa shule yako
Nikiwa nawe kama mwalimu ninajua nitahitimu Nitashinda adui akileta majaribu Unitayarishe unibadilishe mtihani nipite mwito nitimize Nijue kuandika niandike maono yangu nijue kuhesabu nihesabu baraka zako Nijue kuongea nihubiri neno lako oh kwa watu wako
Baba nichukue nifunze nataka kusoma kwa shule yako kwa shule yako Nichukue nifunze nataka kusoma kwa shule yako kwa shule yako
Shule yako hatudanganyi ni ukweli na uwazi Wanafunzi hawagomi mwalimu atujali Unifunze mipango wote niwaheshimu Yesu ni mwalimu Yesu ni mwalimu Nijue kuandika niandike maono yangu nijue kuhesabu nihesabu baraka zako Nijue kuongea nihubiri neno lako oh kwa watu wako
Baba nichukue nifunze nataka kusoma kwa shule yako kwa shule yako Nichukue nifunze nataka kusoma kwa shule yako kwa shule yako (x2) Oooh nifunze baba
Video
Mercy Masika - Shule Yako (NIFUNZE)
Meaning & Inspiration
My hands are mapped with veins that tell of too many winters, and the skin is thin enough now to see the history beneath. When I sit in the quiet, the old hymnals on my shelf have spines that crackle like dried leaves. I’ve spent decades trying to learn the lessons of the Master, and yet, hearing Mercy Masika sing “Baba nichukue nifunze,” I am reminded that I am still standing in the vestibule of His classroom, barely scratching the surface of the alphabet.
She sings, “Nijue kuhesabu nihesabu baraka zako.” (That I may know how to count, count your blessings.)
When you are young, counting blessings is a joyful, frantic affair—a tally of what has been given, a check-list of favor. But when the light begins to dim and the joints ache with the changing weather, the arithmetic changes. Counting blessings in the long dark isn't about the abundance of the harvest; it’s about recognizing the singular grace that sustained you when the fields were scorched. It’s looking back at the failures, the hospital waiting rooms, and the friends long buried, and realizing that even there, the sum total was mercy. It’s hard math. Sometimes I struggle to keep count when I am tired, but the song nudges me: start again. Start with the breath in your lungs.
Then there is the line: “Shule yako hatudanganyi ni ukweli na uwazi.” (In your school we do not lie, it is truth and transparency.)
There is a terrifying honesty to that. In the early days, I brought a mask to my prayer time. I wanted to be the student who got all the answers right, the one with the perfect attendance record. But time strips that away. You get to a point where you stop trying to impress the Teacher because He already sees the ink-stained fingers and the erased lines of your mistakes.
Psalm 25:4-5 comes to mind, though it feels less like a prayer of a novice and more like the cry of a man who knows he is prone to wandering: “Show me your ways, Lord, teach me your paths.” It isn't a request for information; it is a request for a way of life.
I wonder, though, if I’ve really learned to be a student. The school of Christ isn't a lecture hall where you sit with folded hands. It’s a place where the ego is pruned back, often quite painfully. It’s a place where the lessons I thought I mastered thirty years ago—patience, surrender, quiet trust—keep showing up on the test.
I don’t know if I’ll ever truly graduate. Some days, I feel like I’m barely passing the remedial class of humility. But listening to Mercy, there’s a comfort in the repetition. “Kwa shule yako, kwa shule yako.” It keeps me anchored. I suppose that’s the point, isn't it? Not to become an expert, but to remain a student until the very end, keeping my eyes fixed on the One who holds the chalk. I’m tired, yes. But I’m still here, waiting for the next lesson.