by OP | Sep 3, 2025 | Articles, Reflections On The Ones We Lost
The heat was oppressive, even though it is not yet midday but the two men were thankful for their shaded spot, underneath the canopy of an old tree with a rugged trunk.They sat on a wooden bench by the roadside, where a closed tin shack marked the junction. The main tarmac was a glistening obsidian river that disappeared over a hill but their narrow road, the one that led to the village, was a rocky ochre murram road, its entry marked only by a stout signboard written Ascona Gardens, and a lonely dwarf banana tree, freshly planted.
They had not planned to meet but circumstances and history had engineered this encounter. The taller of the two men wore a clean ironed white shirt, bulky for his lean frame, tucked into his dark grey trousers and his shoes with slanting heels, were polished. His colleague on the bench had on an lopsided, oversized knitted sweater, that was discoloured from lack of washing, over baggy jeans and tattered sports shoes with different coloured laces. He wore a black cap on his head that looked new and it had an emblem, the Kenyan Coat of Arms.
They were waiting for the hearse and funeral party coming from Kisumu about a 40 minute drive away. Their old classmate from primary school, Junior, had died unexpectedly and his body was arriving in the village later that day for the wake.
A scrawny brown dog passed by them, pausing cautiously, as though anticipating some aggression before scurrying along the murram road. “ That’s Wambasa’s dog”, the dishevelled man said, his voice a low rumble.
“It is probably heard there’s a funeral and it’s going to look for food”.
The lean man watched the dog flee. He let out a dry, dismissive sound from the back of his throat, “Pelele,” he said, using the man’s village nickname, “you know all the dogs in the village?”.
“I am telling you, “ Pelele insisted, his eyes still on the dog, “ This one I know. It never misses a funeral. It’s a survivor”.
They reverted to silence, watching the tarmac road. In the distance, the heat conjured up pools of false water on the road’s spine. Apart from the occasional car zooming past, the air was stagnant, no breeze to rustle the leaves above and the sun bore down from cloudless blue skies.
Pelele pulled out a half smoked cigarette from his jeans pocket and lit it with a match box after many failed strikes. He took several shallow drags and blew the smoke upwards, curling his dry cracked lips to create a funnel.
“We have lost a man who had a clean heart. A giver and he liked people. He never forgot me, never left me thirsty” Pelele grinned and shuffled on the bench, pinching his cigarette as he talked.
“The expensive drinks I had on his verandah … .this death…it has robbed us of a human ”.
“You two got along, but your problem was that you just got drunk together. Junior spoiled you. Whenever he arrived, you moved into his home and did not return to your hut until he left,” the lean one said, tapping Pelele’s shoulder.
Pelele chuckled. “No! Junior knew me. Me! you give me something to drink and eat, Baas! am happy…because Junior knew, I cannot stay with money in my pocket…” he felt his pockets for confirmation and then added, “You know he liked helping everyone, he didn’t choose”.
“Yes he did but if you paid attention, keenly it was mostly widows and, this I also noticed, you had to appear on his Facebook. His own older brother’s son, his own blood, he abandoned”
“But that boy was a madman?“
“It doesn’t matter. Charity begins at home”.
Pelele shifted his position on the bench, now digging into his pockets for a cigarette and found none. The two men returned to their silent gazing as the scrawny dog from earlier walked past them confidently, without looking in their direction. It stopped a few metres ahead, sniffing the bushes and then finding a spot, it lifted a hind leg and began to urinate.
“Wambasa’s dog is back?” observed the lean one.
“It has surveyed the ground. The cooks have not arrived. There are no fires lit in that home?”
Both men smiled broadly and then they were silent again, watching the road as a boda sped past, blaring ohangla music.
Pelele watched it disappear over the hill and then said, “Junior, loved listening to Ohangla… Where will we find a man in this village with the same heart of giving? He was like a supermarket. His stock never ran out”
The lean one felt the need for a response.
“He was our brother, but it is good to tell the truth. I think the money ruined him. This is something I told him when he was still alive. Whenever he arrived in the village, men and even women got thoroughly drunk. People just moved into his home and it was just drinking that didn’t end. Then, he’s back in Nairobi, leaving us with our problems. People like Junior corrupted the village. These days all these young men just wait for handouts, someone to release them from stress and think only of riding bodas, easy money. ”
Pelele shifted his position again, “Me, the Junior I knew, was a man who liked people”.
The lean one gazed straight at him,
“I am not saying he did not like people… but the truth is, he corrupted the village. Especially him and the late Morris. They behaved like politicians during campaigns. Even in church, elders followed him, a young man, because of his money. Wasn’t there a time, he paid for land in boda bodas. Just imagine. How long did Ochiel have the bodas? He couldn’t maintain them and he died landless”.
“But Junior was just trying to help him start a business”
“I don’t refuse but Ochiel was a drunkard. Junior didn’t seem to realize the effect of this habit of his, of just throwing money around”.
Pelele was getting shifty, “The way you say it…like he was doing it with a bad heart ….he was just a life-ist”,
“Junior is someone we grew up with since childhood, in this village. He knows how money can be sensitive. I tried to warn him but he wouldn’t listen…the thing I never understood is how you two got along?”
“I also don’t know” Pelele mumbled, his voice suddenly softer, “ Our spirits, they just agreed since primary school. I could even feel his presence in the village, before I even saw his Pajero”
“I think he liked you for the gossip” the lean one teased, his voice dry.
Pelele was defensive. He shook his head “ No, no. You people don’t know him. I agree with you, he liked the high life. Big cigarettes and whiskey. But he also liked to talk. When you find him in a talking mood…”
“What would you talk about? Women?” the lean one asked with inquisitive eyes.
“He was never busy with women…it was women busy with him…he used to complain that people only saw his money. Do you know, one evening, we spoke until 4am, just the two of us on his verandah, the one facing the hills”.
“I know that verandah. He called it Galleria villa Juno” the lean one said, grinning after the memory.
Pelele smiled broadly in return “That one. Galleria, where only his friends from Nairobi sat. Us, villagers, would be in the front. The back was for his guests. We sat there until morning and he scared me, when he told me that people don’t like him. They just want his money. People, always trying to use him. Told me it was the opposite when he worked in Europe, people did not like him because he was an African with money”.
This caused the lean one to fold his arms and then, he crossed his legs
“And what did you tell him?”
Pelele held out his palms, an expression of surrender on his face,
“What could I tell him? The man was speaking with pain. And it wasn’t only that time”.
“Another day, he surprised me and sent an uber from Kisumu. Kisumu! The car came from Kisumu empty, to pick me up in the village… like a mheshimiwa. A black car. Subaru. All the way to Dunga, by the lake. I found him alone, and that was the day he confused me, kabisa! He said I was the only true friend he had. Me, Pelele” he concluded, poking his chest.
The lean man crossed his legs the other way. It was clear to him that the Pelele was a true confidant of the deceased.
Pelele had now stopped shuffling as he spoke, “Do you know what he feared the most…
The lean one leaned forward,
“That someone would poison him. He was scared of people in this village. That is why he always came to the village with a cook. He gave away money so he could never be accused of being mean. He said making money was easy for him but making real friends is not easy when you have money”.
The lean one tilted his head, as though noticing his former schoolmate in a new light. There was more to Pelele than his alcoholic addiction. Indeed, he had a happy disposition and the ability to get along with everyone. The area MP once called him out by name during a funeral and people were shocked. How do they know each other?
Eventually, after some time in contemplation, he confessed,
“Hmmh…you have made me think… but was he sober… when he told you this?”
“You know Junior never used to get drunk. He could drink all night but he never staggered”.
The lean one was now defensive and he held up a finger as he made his point,
“Me, the thing I vowed, was that I would never ask him for money, even though he was my brother.”
‘And that is why he respected you. He used to say he liked how you were not afraid to be yourself and maintained your own standard in the village”.
This statement seemed to surprise the lean one. He unfolded his legs and then arms and rested his palms on the wooden bench. He remembered the young Junior from primary school. They had grown up together but their paths had taken such wild turns after primary school.
The lean one never ventured far, working sporadically around the county and maintaining a simple, dignified existence in the village. Junior, who was always number one in class, used his brains to change his fortune. He got a scholarship to Europe, started work as a software engineer and he became very rich in a short time. Yet, throughout these changes, he always returned to the village. He never got lost. But he was never lucky with family life. He lost his marriage and children in divorce, and for the first time, the lean one, saw a different side to his childhood friend and feelings of regret washed over his body.
Was that what he lived with, the knowledge that all people, I included, only saw his money?
Pelele finally stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He walked a few steps away from the bench to get a better view of the road.
“I wonder where they have reached”, he said, the words barely a whisper. “I could have called but I don’t have credit”.
The lean one did not offer a response. He was staring sideways, at Wambasa’s dog, that was lying on the bare ground, fast asleep, perhaps also in wait.
******
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by OP | Aug 27, 2025 | Articles, Reflections On The Ones We Lost
The phone was ringing, a shrill and intrusive sound slicing through the sacred silence of their bedroom. Pastor Silas reached to his bedside table to silence it. It was 11pm, late even for a pastoral emergency. His wife stirred from her sleep, looked at him with a knowing, worried gaze, her silent concern hanging in the air. When the ringing stopped and immediately started again, he sighed, he picked it, looking at the caller ID. The name was familiar but the voice that came on was not.
“ I am calling on behalf of Atieno from church. I am the sister. Please come to Aga Khan. There has been an accident”.
Pastor Silas’ wife was now seated upright watching his expression change. He was trying to hide the worry on his face. Earlier in the day, pastor Silas had been called to bless a new car that had arrived from Mombasa. He remembered it clearly. A gleaming white Toyota Corolla Sport Hybrid, fresh from Japan. Its tires were still glossy black. He was used to these routine obligations for his congregants. Prayer for cars. For homes. For businesses. He had done the ritual by heart, walking a full circle around the car, his hand tracing the smooth metal as he spoke of divine covering and journey mercies. He could still smell the newness of the seats on the drive home and the words he spoke to Atieno and her family: an assured promise and guarantee of safe passage.
It wasn’t the first time he had to respond to these emergencies in the middle of the night but this one held a different level of urgency. He looked at the time on his phone and then jumped out of bed and started getting dressed.
‘Have you seen the car keys?’
He was normally an even-keel character, known for his calm disposition but this news had unsettled the good pastor. His wife returned with the car keys and handed them to him.
“What did she tell you?”
“Not much?” and he continued dressing, inserting his collar.
His wife still looked at him with concern and did not press on. She knew the news had shaken him because her husband normally became conservative with words whenever he felt overwhelmed.
Fortunately, he did not have to drive a long distance to get to the Aga Khan hospital in the centre of Kisumu town. His thoughts were racing throughout the quiet drive through the empty well-illuminated city streets. Strange. He remembered Atieno’s husband, not a frequent church goer, but a good man. He had mentioned that he would be doing a short trip to his village, near Maseno which was less than an hour’s drive. What could have happened?
When he arrived at the Aga Khan hospital, he was surprised by how many people he found in the reception area. He was greeted by the sickly glow of the fluorescent lights and a sterile scent of disinfectant. The corridors were a jumble of panicked relatives and weary staffers, a chaos that felt completely out of place at this hour. He was not the only one whose sleep had been interrupted. His heart began beating faster as he took in the scene, his shoes squawking on the polished linoleum as he followed one of the staffers towards Atieno’s shared room.
The staffer announced rather formally that the pastor had arrived.
Pastor Silas was dressed up in a black suit and carried a small bag that held his bible, a note book and pen. Atieno started sobbing the moment she saw him.
Her cry was a guttural ugly sound and it caused her body to heave. Her sister held her by the shoulders trying to console her, the same sister who had called him earlier. There was nothing he could do beyond just saying,
“It will be well, it will be well in his name” and all that felt so hollow.
How fragile was this life?
This was the same lady that had served him tea less than 24 hours ago. Her face was bruised and swollen. Her right hand in a cast.
It was the sister who replayed what had happened. After the prayers, Atieno’s husband insisted that the car needed a thorough clean before the road trip. So they drove to Hippo point, by the lake Victoria where a group of young men specialised in washing cars. They sat by a small kiosk enjoying some fried fish as they waited for the young men to finish washing the car. It would be their last supper as a family. Atieno, her husband and two daughters. It was a beautiful evening drive, the sun was setting over the lake, splashing an orange hue in the horizon and Atieno recalled that her pre teen children were giddy.
Then as they completed the ascent of the Ojola hill, driving at moderate speed, a boda boda appeared out of nowhere from the corner straight into their lane. Atieno’s husband instinctively hit the brakes and the Fuso truck was behind them bumped into them sending the Corolla off the road and rolling down the valley. It took the villagers a long time to retrieve the bodies from the mangled wreck. Atieno’s survival was miraculous. She was found unconscious, still fastened in the upside down position. When she woke to the news that her husband and two children had died, she turned delirious and had to be sedated. That was when the sister decided to call Pastor Silas, who was known to be a calm presence in situations like this.
It was a terrible tragedy. Pastor Silas tried to find words of comfort but his mind kept returning to the events of the previous day. Had he not been present when he offered the protection prayers? What value would words have in this situation? The pain on Atieno’s face was raw and now she was looking him in the eye, pleading for an explanation. She wasn’t screaming, or speaking from a space of rage. Instead it was a pitiful plea that terrified Pastor Silas to muteness.
“But you prayed, pastor?”
“Why did this happen to me? Why would God leave me to suffer like this?”
It was a dreadful pronouncement, a silent indictment that left no room for answers. Pastor Silas felt the suffocating silence, unable to voice a divine explanation. He noticed that her sister was also staring at him in anticipation and he wondered what he could say that would make a lick of a difference. Pastor Silas could feel the weight of his Bible, suddenly a foreign object on his lap. The polished leather cover that offered words of comfort through all seasons, felt empty. He tried to think of a passage, any passage that could make sense of this tragedy, his mind racing a desperate scramble for familiar words.
He thought of the Psalms: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want… He makes me lie down in green pastures…”
The shepherd had lost his sheep and there were no green pastures here.
He recalled Psalm 91: “For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.” The words, once a powerful promise, now sounded like a cruel mockery.
He could hear his own voice from that morning, the words he had spoken with such conviction. “We cover this vehicle in the blood of Jesus… We declare divine protection over your journey…” The words had sounded so certain, so full of power. Now, they were a hollow, ringing lie. They were just words, unable to stop a truck or save two young lives. His mind replayed the sound of Atieno’s plea, and he felt a terrifying emptiness. He had offered an empty promise, a spiritual placebo, and now he had to face the consequences.
This woman had just lost her husband and two young teens. They had done everything right. A model couple who were finally entering their season of prosperity and then this. Their children were just a few years younger than his own. Well behaved girls. And her husband. A fuss free gentlemen. A hard worker fending for his family.
What was he going to tell the congregation? He had blessed the car less than 8 hours before the accident. He left the room and walked to the parking lot to catch some air and clarity. A few of the relatives were gathered there and they greeted him warmly, amazed that he had actually come out at this hour. He found out that the husband and the two children were already at the morgue and they thanked him for being there for Atieno. He was hesitant to receive the compliment, the guilt of the whole affair hovering over him like a dark cloud.
He had to find something to say but couldn’t find the strength to open the bible. He was trained specifically for these circumstances. He had to find something, so he returned to the room where Atieno was. She was now asleep. Her sister who had been with her all along looked so exhausted that pastor Silas asked her to take a break and find something to eat. He sat beside the bed holding his bible, deep in thought.
Then a cleaner entered the room, her face a map of tired lines, her hair pulled back in a simple bun. She moved with the quiet, practiced ease of someone who used to being unseen. The damp slap of her mop was barely audible against the floor and rustling of plastic garbage bags was the only sound in the room for a long time. Without looking up from her task, she eventually asked, in a low, unassuming voice, “ Would you like some tea, pastor?”
The pastor assured her that he was okay and as if on second thought decided to chat her up.
“Where are you from?”
“I am a NyaGem from Kathomo”.
“What a coincidence. My grandmother is also from Kathomo. Which is your door?
“I am from the Kojuodhi people”.
“ Then we are related… this is why talking is good”.
That statement put her further at ease and she stopped moving for the first time since she entered the room and turned to face Pastor Silas as regarded Atieno asleep on her bed before letting out an audible sigh.
“ This story is very painful”
She still held on to a large black plastic bag in her hand as she lingered at the door
“When you work here, you see so many things. Our roads are killing us. Do you know that some days we even see up to 20 people, all road accidents victims. What is really painful, that many of them are pedestrians and passengers of boda bodas. The roads are finishing our children.
Just last week a bus carrying 25 people, coming from a funeral, went off the road and overturned. Only one girl survived. Can you imagine? People from one family and they had just come from a funeral. These roads spill too much blood”.
With that statement, she wrapped her bulging black plastic bag tightly, and offered her words of comfort.
“I say sorry again, man of God”, and she left the room as quietly as she had appeared.
That simple explanation felt like an epiphany for Pastor Silas. He had remembered seeing the item in the news. The bus was coming from Nyahera going to Nyakach. Despite this, he had not even thought much about it. The accident might as well have happened in Ukraine. When he started to think about it, there was not a single week that passed when he did not hear of a road accident fatalities. How many funerals had he conducted of road accident victims?
In that moment he realised how disconnected he was from this everyday reality. This was not a singular event or a tragic anomaly. This was daily carnage happening on our roads and it had been happening for as long as he could remember. From the days when his own grandmother would pray, that they may be protected as they traveled in contraptions made by the hands of men. Nothing had changed. He had just forgotten. He was the one living in a bubble.
He turned and looked at Atieno who was still in deep sleep. He adjusted himself on the chair and then looked up at the clock on his phone. It was approaching three in the night. His wife would understand. He sat still, in silence, the bible resting on his lap.
****
This is written in memory of Comrade Wanjau Wanja (Njau), whose life was brutally taken in a hit-and-run on Thika road, in Nairobi, on August 22nd, 2025. Journey well to the land of the ancestors, Comrade Njau.
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by OP | Aug 20, 2025 | Articles, Reflections On The Ones We Lost
The viewing room of the morgue was cold and impersonal. The walls creamy white, the fluorescent lights still on and casting a glow, even though it was approaching midday. The smell of antiseptic was strong. Overhead, a white fan hummed. A row of white plastic chairs sat against the wall. Three people were seated on them. A woman dressed in a tailored black dress was flanked by two men. The older one, was stout with a head of grey hair. The scarf around his neck had a distinguished knot. A retired diplomat, perhaps. The woman held a bouquet of stiff stemmed flowers, wrapped in ribbons. She leaned on the older man’s arm, cutting the picture of a dutiful daughter. The other man was middle-aged, strapping, in jeans and polo shirt with expensive details. They looked respectable in their stoic grief and also out of place.
The woman ‘s name was Gladys. She received a phone call late in the afternoon, during a visit to her parents’ house with the children Jafari and Tahira.
A strange number. It was against her character to pick up numbers she did not recognise. She thanked God she did. A woman’s heavy voice came on,
“Are you mama Jafari…I know you don’t know me..Mimi ni Lavender…aki,I am so sorry I am calling you with very bad news?”
“Your husband!”
“What’s wrong with Wilson?”
“Wilson amefariki”
Her father heard a scream from the living room and thought she had been stabbed and sprinted. He could not recall ever seeing her weeping so openly. Her mother held her through the convulsions. When the children came, they started crying too, though no one had told them. They felt it.
By the evening, the immediate family had made arrangements. Gladys, her father and her brother-in-law, Wilson’s younger brother, Tolbert would travel to Malindi to identify the body. Tolbert had worried about this outcome, that his older brother would die shamefully and leave them with the heavy responsibility of dealing with his mess.
They had arrived on the first flight from Nairobi via Mombasa to Malindi to claim the body of a lost and found husband.They had one priority, to transfer the body to Lee funeral home in Nairobi.
Gladys had last seen Wilson three months ago. The occasion was warm. Jafari’s birthday party. He really bonded with the kids. It felt like family again, too good to be true and then, he had to return to Malindi. She knew he was living with somebody, Lavender, Lavi, and they had been others. The scandal had already broken out. Things were said, friends lost. She was deeply hurt and had thought she had gotten over it, choosing forgiveness, for the sake of the children who still loved their father. Of all the scenarios she had painted, she had never imagined he would die and not like this.
A lean young man walked into the room, dressed in a light blue overalls and identified himself as the mortician and apologised for keeping them waiting. He prepared the family for the procedure, outlining the steps that had been taken to register the body, the possessions retained, the condition of the body, the accompanying medical report and the manner the body would be wheeled in and where they were to stand.
As he disappeared behind the door, the calm atmosphere was shattered. A blast of blaring boda boda horns, shrill whistles and riotous wailing erupted from outside, followed by a group of men and women waving freshly cut twigs. Her father jerked upright, the diplomatic composure gone. “We’re under attack,” he announced in panic, confirming every security concern he’d voiced about coming to Malindi.
“Bloody hell! The locals are here?” said Tolbert, walking towards the open entrance to get a better view.
Four women burst into the room, just as the aluminum-plated trolley was wheeled in. They were wailing, draping themselves on the casket, pacing about in lamentation, completely disrupting the mortician’s rehearsed order of viewing.
‘Wilson! Wilson! What have you done! Wilson?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wake up Wilson”.
“Where am I going to find another gentleman?”
Gladys read the suspended look of disbelief on her father’s face as clearly as if he’d shouted,
“What on god’s earth is going on here?”
Tolbert blurted out what must have been his inner thoughts
“Who are these people? Is this a prank?”
The mortician seemed unmoved. He stood across from his assistant holding the bars of the trolley, unaffected by the commotion in the room. So the wailing continued and Gladys stared alongside the men, unable to summon a response to the overwhelming grief they were witnessing. At the double door entrance, a group of men in reflector jackets, whistles dangling from their necks, spectated.
Then Tolbert got impatient and confronted the mortician.
“Who are these people, what are they doing here? This is a private moment?”
That statement set one of the women off,
“And who are you?” she pointed at Tolbert
He thrust out his chest and threw his arms back, his designer polo shirt stretching tight across his shoulders.
“I am his brother and who are you?”
The mortician directed his attention and pleaded with Lavender to hold her tongue but she would not comply.
“So what? Ask her! Ask, who called her! I am the Lavender! Yes! The Lavender that called you yesterday”.
Gladys looked at her, and the woman’s face clicked into place like the final, frustrating piece of a puzzle she’d been trying to forget.
This face had broken her marriage.
She had found a picture on his phone and confronted him but he denied it.Then six months later, he accidentally forwarded messages meant for Lavender to her phone and she took a screen shot before he could delete them. He moved out the next weekend.
Tolbert was still staring at her, expecting a denial and permission to turn on his rage. Instead Gladys just asked,
“So you are the Lavender?”
“I am the Lavender”
That only seemed to agitate Tolbert and he barked at the mortician,
“Can these people not give us room to mourn as his family”
“Can they just leave us alone with my brother?”
Lavender shot back,
“Where were you when he was dying? If I didn’t have a good heart, would I have taken him to hospital with my own money and brought him here?”
“I won’t be so sure until I see the autopsy report”
“How is this person talking?”
“Mr. Mortician, I think you should take charge and kick these people out, we need time to be with our brother”
Gladys could hear the voices getting heated but her mind was on the children. How was she going to explain this to them? The mortician’s tone changed.
“Please Mister. We do not use that kind of language here. Please, I don’t tell you how to do your job, let’s respect each other here, Please this is also my office”.
Then he turned to plead with Lavender, urging to calm her words and instructed that Wilson’s immediate family would view first, followed by Lavender and her group. Having regained control of his office, he gently opened the lid.
Gladys was overcome. The two men supported her to the chair and sat her down. Tolbert wrestled with the wrapper on a water bottle.
The wailing began again, the four women surrounding the coffin, each in dialogue with their Wilson. Gladys noticed that the mortician was not bothered by their melodrama.
Lavender’s long red nails stroked Wilson’s hair, her fingers running through it as if trying to stimulate every follicle. She talked to him in a singsong voice, singing a lullaby. This was the vulnerability Wilson had never shown her. Just his demons
Benta in the shimmering skirt, one size too small was leaning heavily on the casket. Thick-set and known as his drinking buddy. She was torn, a whimpering child. The toughness had left her body and surrendered to grief.
Rael’s eyes were red and teary, tears rolling freely down her cheeks. Her hand covered her mouth as she stared blankly. She was the one who used to be a dancer in a live band. The investigator found pictures on her Facebook profile of the wild fling in Mauritius. The age difference was a scandal but by this time, Wilson had stopped caring what people thought.
Grace fussed over his clothes, adjusting his tie while murmuring in a low tone. She was the most mysterious of them. The private investigator had discovered little on her. What she remembered was that she nursed Wilson when he first got sick and had fallen out with Lavender and he kept returning to his nurse in time of need.
Gladys realised that this was a final goodbye. They were not faking emotion. They knew her husband of 12 years in ways she could not imagine. These were the arms that he ran to for refuge.
The mortician summoned the women and indicated that he needed to close the casket and return the body to storage. The women were reluctant to let go. As the trolley was wheeled away, someone had to peel off Lavender and Benta’s hands from its edge. Gladys was back on her feet watching Wilson’s body return to the storage room.
When Lavender turned around, she met Gladys’s eyes.
Two women in different states of distress.
Their worlds had clashed in such an inglorious encounter.
Gladys recognised something familiar in her eyes. Lavender had seen his brokenness. She knew Wilson. She knew that man too, but he was also so many others.
She held her gaze and asked:
“What did he ask you to tell me”
P.S. This reflection on a wife’s loss is drawn from my meditations on death, grief, and healing. It forms part of a series of Reflections on the ones we lost, drawn from my upcoming book, Strength and Sorrow, where I delve deeper into these universal experiences and the pathways to finding understanding amidst loss.
by OP | Aug 13, 2025 | Articles, Reflections On The Ones We Lost
Dani died two days ago. The family gathered on a Saturday afternoon at Dani’s old house in Loresho, a Nairobi suburb. The parking lot was full and the cars had spilled onto the roadside, outside the imposing maroon metal gate. Dani had been a widow for two decades and it was evident that she was loved. As the matriarch of the family, everyone seemed to hold a special memory of this bungalow and her sudden absence sparked a family reunion that had the hallmarks of a celebration amidst the mourning. She had just turned 90, but no one had suspected she would be gone barely three months after celebrating a spirited 90th birthday.
All her children arrived, a contingent of uncles, aunties, cousins, nephews, nieces, and friends who appeared as though responding to a family roll call.
The home was buzzing with activity, with every room having an assembly of people. Tanya, Dani’s granddaughter had drifted away from the pack of children playing hide and seek between the cars in the front yard. Dani’s brown chair by the window was empty and beside it on a low stool, sat her weathered, black leather-bound Bible.
Tanya wondered where she had gone. In Dani’s room upstairs, she found her bed empty, her aunties crying, holding each other and her older cousin hushed her out of the room when she asked why they were crying. She had looked for Dani throughout the house, moving through the crowd of people into the sprawling backyard and in the corner under the shade of tall trees, she spotted her favourite uncle and someone she didn’t recognise.
Oti was Dani’s youngest, the baby of the family who’d married less than a year ago, in part, due to the pressure of his mother who had threatened several times,
“You better marry Nya Kigali before I die?”
Oti was with Mash, his best man at his wedding and they had been friends since college. They were reminiscing about the wedding and how happy Dani had been at the event when they noticed Tanya running towards them. Mash hurriedly threw his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and squashed it, keeping his shoe over the cigarette butt.
(more…)
by OP | Aug 6, 2025 | Articles, Reflections On The Ones We Lost
The picture was strange. I couldn’t make sense of it.
“Are you a geographer or surveyor?” I asked.
Why do you ask that?
“This looks like a satellite picture of some kind of mountain range”
He stared at the picture as if seeing it for the first time. There was a pregnant pause. Something had shifted in the air.
“ it’s an ultrasound image”.
I was so off, I felt embarrassed.
“ It’s an ultrasound image of my son, Myles”.
I should have made the connection because there were no other pictures with children. Just a framed picture of the couple.
“How old is Myles now?”
That silent pause returned and his look became forlorn.
“Let’s just say, Myles would have been six this year?’
“I am so sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay. You would not have known”.
As a coach, I knew to hold my tongue. Don’t minimise the loss. Don’t offer a motivational word of encouragement. Don’t change the topic. Don’t fall back on platitudes about “God’s will” or “God’s plan.”
Just sit in discomfort with them. Don’t move. Stay still, we just sat there, on his dining table in the small apartment staring at the pictures on the mantle.
He was silent for a long time and I resisted all temptation to fill that silence with words of comfort.
Finally he spoke, his eyes a bit glassy and he was smacking his lips, suppressing the rising emotion.
“You’re the first who didn’t feel a need to say anything”
“It’s the least I could do”, I replied.
“I wish more people understood this”, he said, staring at the ceiling as he tried to regain his composure.
“Understood what?”
He shook his head slowly and we returned to silence. Tears emerged. He wiped them away, then looked up at me, allowing me to see them. I saw a deep shame and surrender written in that gaze. He looked away again, back towards the ceiling, searching for the words in his head. Then he let out a gush of breath.
“Just listening. It is easier to talk about now. It hasn’t for a long time”
He was a 32 year old man and he had buried three children. Somehow the first three were bearable because he had held them, seen them, named them. Myles died at four months old. The twins came two years after. They were named Myles,(the 2nd) and Michael. Myles died in the first month and Michael two months later. He thought he had gotten stronger but the unborn and unnamed one nearly broke him.
He had no name and he started growing out of the womb at five months. They called it an ectopic pregnancy. His partner’s life was in danger and she had to go into surgery. He was facing that horror again.
The pain. Indescribable. He felt helpless and powerless as he watched his partner go through this recurring experience of loss. He could do nothing to relieve the pain. This wasn’t a problem that could be fixed. It rendered him silent for a year. Not more than five people knew what he had gone through. Not even his own siblings. He must have aged a decade and put on a lot of weight during that year. He became one of the walking dead, fumbling under a melancholic burden. He was both a supporter and a griever.
The other children were buried in a muslim cemetery in Nairobi. He knew where they rested. He had a place to remind him that he was still a father. I once had kids too.
But this unborn one. Still difficult to talk about.
We had settled into his small dining table with four chairs serving as divider between the dining area and the compact living room, that had a flat screen TV on a side board and a single couch. Beside the TV was the picture that set off this conversation. From his voice, I could tell that he had suffered.
“6 years man, I have been trying to be a father for six years and nothing to show”
He chuckled at the thought and I chuckled alongside when he voiced the irony.
“I see jamaas playing around, with baby mamas. They have kids that they don’t want. Can’t even pay school fees. I don’t play those games”
“Even the Wahindis, the Indians, can trust me, an African man, with their children in water”.
“I haven’t told you my story?”. I leaned in.
They were not officially married. It was a ‘come-we-stay’ arrangement that grew complicated. A christian man and his muslim girlfriend. None of them had told family that they were cohabiting and serious. When Aleena got pregnant it was a big scandal. Their secret had unraveled in the most shameful way. Barely a month after conception, tragedy struck.
The partner’s family scorned him, called him a loser and tried to scuttle the daughter to a foreign country, away from his corrupting influence. She came from the prominent side with means. He had known hardship after his parents death. His own family suffered and the siblings scattered in different directions nursing their buried hurts. The death of twins was an extremely low and humiliating moment. He was utterly helpless. He couldn’t do much to help his grieving wife and was at a loss when the second twin succumbed to a chest infection and died. That’s why he let Aleena’s family bury his children, the muslim way, in a communal cemetery.
He was even willing to convert, for some dignity. His partner had never insisted. She had also wanted to convert to christianity but it wasn’t a deal breaker for him. He didn’t share much of this journey with his own larger family. They wouldn’t understand. They would probably judge. He was going to find a way to take care of his partner. Then tragedy struck and he found himself at the mercy of the wife’s family. They were paying the hospital bill.
He was just an unimportant plus one. Part of the problem.
Three times, it happened and he was still at their mercy. Not respected but tolerated because their daughter refused to give up on him.
He recalled the years previous. They had prayed hard. Full of optimism. God of mercy, we have remained humble. This was it, the third time was a charm. We would finally break the curse,
“We too could be parents.” Then it happened again.
It crushed him completely. He became an android. It was work as a swimming coach that saved him. It gave him routine and a healthy escape. There was some fulfillment in teaching privileged kids how to swim, teaching them to get over their fear of water and become champion swimmers.
“Maybe it was also the children” I suggested
He turned his head,
“Yeah,I have never thought about it that way. I love those kids”.
“Do you stop being a parent when your children die?”
He didn’t answer and instead started talking about his stages.
Crying. Blaming. Conspiracy. Anger. Lost Helplessness. Surrender. Now he was talking. It was a good sign.
“We talked about it with Aleena. Talking helps us heal in some way because who is there to blame but yourself.You have to accept it. That feeling of constant despair. As much as it is painful, we accept. There is nothing like getting used to it. It is easiest to stay there. But the best way is to walk through it. Think of it like walking through a dark tunnel. You just have to keep walking until you see the light. I am at that stage where I see it, still far but at least I know I am walking in the right direction”.
“Wueh, you have passed through a lot”
He just nodded and continued
“Imagine, you want to share or at least confide in someone else, but they can’t really feel it. They may feel sorry, but they can’t relate. In fact they become very uncomfortable. Most people ran quickly from these topics. You get a quick “ pole sana”. We are here to support you. They ask for the Mpesa account for their contribution and tell you to be strong, God is in control. Then they are gone. Quiet”.
He had a lot to get off his chest.
“You know people talk. Your woman is always pregnant but we never see any children. Maybe the man was the problem. There is a question mark after your name.The family insinuates. We are tired of our daughter shedding blood. Imagine that. Even cheap drug addicts, who sleep in tunnels, can have children. What is wrong with me?”
I asked him what he did about it?
“So what do you do? You just have to be strong for her. You cannot burden her with your own sorrow. That’s what men do, right? Don’t talk, don’t break. But inside, my friend, shame, guilt”.
“I didn’t even want to be in a new relationship, I could not imagine going through what I went through with another person”.
I wondered how many unseen fathers were struggling to find anyone who could validate their specific loss. Losing a pregnancy, or a miscarriage, is a common and difficult experience. While the physical toll is on the carrying parent, the emotional and psychological impact is also profoundly significant for men.
We emerge from broken societies and shattered in many parts. Grief was a collective experience that was recognised as a complex and non-linear journey supported by the extended family and the wider community. No one was left to navigate alone. Where there were once sacred rituals and ceremonies, now there exist only superficial condolences and pomp. Once upon a time, a baby was conceived and instantly became a living being that we could count them among our dead and integrate them into the ancestral lineage facilitating their spiritual transition. That spiritual connection to the unborn child from conception was lost. Now we just talk in whispers about discarded foetuses with no names.
This is just an illustration of the experiences of men after a pregnancy loss. They are unseen in healthcare and societal narratives. There are many resources for women’s physical and mental health after a miscarriage, but fewer for men. This can make men feel unrecognised and alone in their grief. There is a serious gap to address in care to truly support family and community structures. In this case, healthcare policy has to change and start including fathers more in the care provided for pregnancy loss and perinatal bereavement.
“Have you ever considered adoption, IVF?”
He rubbed his fingers together. It costs money.
“There has to be a lesson in it?” I prodded further
“Yes, as we count the years, talk about them more, imagine what scenarios would have been. Keep them in our memory. We talk about them with a smile on our faces.”
“These tragedies have brought us closer. Only the two of us can truly understand. There’s no one else. The strength between us pushes us forward. I feel very safe expressing my vulnerability with my wife.”.
It was the first time he called Aleena, his wife during the entire conversation.
“We haven’t given up”.
P.S. This reflection on grief and unseen fathers is drawn from my reflections on the ones we lost and meditations on grief, and healing. It forms part of a series of insights drawn from my upcoming book, Strength and Sorrow, where I delve deeper into these universal experiences and the pathways to finding healing amidst loss.
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