Ruth Wamuyu - Ninashukuru Lyrics

Video

Mercy Linah - Nashukuru (Official Video)

Meaning & Inspiration

"Kesi zote umeyamaliza."

There it is—right in the middle of the third verse. You’ve settled every case.

As a word-sleuth, I keep circling back to that word: kesi. In a courtroom, a case is a burden of proof. It’s a weight carried in files, a history of debts, or a stack of accusations that should, by all rights, keep you locked in a cell. When Rev. Ruth Wamuyu sings this, she isn’t speaking in metaphors about a nice life. She’s talking about the legal reality of being human before a Holy God.

The tension here is sharp. We live in a world where things are rarely "settled." Think about your own life—the unpaid debts, the lingering regrets, the social expectations that keep piling up. We spend our years trying to plead our own defense, hoping we can justify our existence before the judge. Yet, she sings that He has dismissed them. Not deferred. Not put on hold. Dismissed.

It feels almost reckless. If I really look at the weight of my own "cases"—the selfishness I’ve hidden, the times I’ve failed people—how can they just vanish?

Isaiah 43:25 says, "I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more." Wamuyu echoes this, pointing out that this wasn't a transaction where I traded my good deeds for His acquittal. She says, "Haikuniharimu chochote" (It didn't cost me anything).

That phrase is a stumbling block for the human ego. We want to pay for our own redemption. We want to contribute something to the settlement so we can claim a little bit of the credit. But admitting that the case was settled for free? That forces me to admit I had nothing to pay with in the first place.

I find myself lingering on the word kumaliza—to finish, to complete, to end. It’s the same word used on the cross: Tetelestai. It is finished.

Sometimes, I struggle to believe that the case is actually closed. I walk around like someone still waiting for the bailiff to knock on the door, checking my shoulder for the evidence of who I used to be. But the song sits there, demanding I accept that the records have been wiped.

Is it a cliché? It could be, if you treat the lyrics like a wallpaper of nice religious ideas. But if you take it literally—if you believe there was a literal debt and a literal Judge who cleared the docket—it’s not a cliché. It’s an absolute wrecking ball to the way we usually organize our lives.

I’m left wondering: if the case is truly closed, why do I still carry the files? Why do I keep looking at the evidence that has already been dismissed? It’s an uncomfortable thought, but one I think I need to sit with a while longer. The courtroom is empty, the papers are shredded, and yet, here I am, still holding the pen. Maybe the next step is just learning how to walk out of the building.