Death In The Time Of Facebook

Death In The Time Of Facebook.

It will begin with a vague post. “So shocked!” “Gone Too Soon” “#RIP” You will know something has happened but won’t know what. Suddenly more and more of the vague posts will flood your timeline. You will follow the comments in the post looking for clues. At some point the familiar name of an acquaintance you knew only from high school, or TV, or Facebook or the church parking lot, or as a friend of a friend of a friend will pop up. You will join in the shock. You will question how someone so young died so suddenly. You will return to the comments on each post.

Someone will post #RIP and link to his name. You will click on her profile looking for the story. She wasn’t that close a friend but you need to know. You will search through her common friends pages looking for answers. To feed your curiosity. At some point images of vehicles in a crash will emerge. “He stood no chance,” you will think. “Oh the cancer was stage four, maybe they shouldn’t have bothered with treatment,” you will say as you engage in an inbox conversation with a doctor friend. “Suicide? Aiii why? Depression? Kwani she didn’t have friends? He should have just picked himself up."

In the midst of it all you will scribble a thoughtful status update about the last time you saw him. Years back you shared a class. He always saved you a seat. You bumped into her at a concert just two weeks ago. She looked so happy. You will miss her. And then you will return to her profile page. You will go through her final posts and read the “signs”. You will think to yourself she probably saw it coming. He lived his life to the fullest and died doing what he loved best. A Paul Coelho “share” will signal to you that death was imminent.

You will start a whatsapp conversation with a mutual friend. “How did the accident happen? Was he drunk? Did he have a lead foot?” In your feeble attempt to purge the reality of the loss, you will confine a whole human’s lifetime to a drunken error of judgement regardless of how they lived the day, weeks, months or years before. You will apportion blame to the deceased because “he should know that bikes and Subarus are suicidal” or “she shouldn’t have been out at night anyway.” You will be indifferent to the fundraiser to return a body from India. “If it were me I’d be cremated” or “They should’ve just treated her at KNH instead of leaving the family in debt.”

You will join the Facebook page “In Memory of…” and share a thought, a verse or a link to a Don Moen song on YouTube. Or just be silent. You will find out where meetings are happening and probably never show up, or go because another mutual friend is going that you don’t mind sitting with. You will take a couple of hours off from work to show up at the funeral service; if the venue is “close to town”. You will wipe a tear through the tributes while asking your friend who the guy sitting next to the mum is. You will stare at his girlfriend pitifully. You will post and tag your location with a picture of the funeral program to show the world how much you cared. You will view the body and join a circle of old friends chatting on the sidelines. You will attend a funeral and you will go home.

And somewhere on the pews of the same church, someone will attend that same funeral, and wish they never had to go back home.

#PeniMbili #ThoughtfulThursday

Purging Mom

Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, should be carried away to heaven on a soft foamy cloud surrounded by angels with harps playing them their favourite Solomon Mkubwa and Rose Muhando tunes. 

For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers should earn a right to fly first class on those self-contained deluxe rooms in the air that they only got to see on television in their lifetimes. They should be flown to the Maldives, allowed a few days on the beach before the soft foamy cloud, in their favourite color, comes to lift them up to the pearly gates.

For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, protecting their childrens' innocence till the cracks of years of pain begin to become apparent in latter days, for all the tears, mothers should be driven in Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, escorted by bodyguards like VVIPs and boarded on the runway on that flight to the Maldives - and eventually end up on a soft foamy cloud, with a chef serving them all the food they had to stop eating years back on doctor's orders - or because school fees.

For standing strong behind men who did or didn't deserve that strength or support, men who probably took them for granted and snored through their wives' sobbing into pillows deep in the night, for that, mothers surely, should live their last days in the home of their dreams. That home that they secretly took pictures of when they crossed the city to attend chama or a ruracio. That home they could have afforded if they put their own dreams before paying for their childrens' university degrees. For their strength mothers, should enjoy having guards in uniform open gates a kilometre away, valet parking and have Suzanne Owiyo perform to welcome their guests to the housewarming party, before they depart for the airport in their Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, to be boarded on a luxury jet and fly first class to the Maldives. And a soft foamy cloud, would lift them up to the heavens - after finally figuring out what you meant when you told them you went jet skiing.

And when the cloud would descend on to the beach in the Maldives, a mother would say "I have lived a full life. I have done all I needed and wanted. My children are fine without me. I am good to go! Bring on the cloud already! My maker awaits!"

Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, shouldn't die helplessly alone and frightened in a hospital bed with an oblivious nurse just metres away. For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers deserve better than to be laid on the bare cold floor of a morgue. For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, mothers should probably be allowed a final prayer of their own. For all their strength, mothers should be allowed to finish strong. To finish on their terms; even when the end comes sooner than they expected.

Mothers.

Because you only get one. And when she's gone, she's gone.

(7) - Chapter One

He's so perfect.

Buzz Buzz. The fuchsia blink on her phone is an alert that he's on the other end. She grabs her phone quickly and swipes up. (7). Seven. That means seven perfectly crafted messages. Seven heartfelt thoughts. Seven things to look forward to.

He crept up on her. Quite literally. Not her type, she had thought. Wait, why did she care, she didn't have a type. She didn't need to have a type. Who needs a type when you don't need anyone at all. When you're done and dusted. Just good all by yourself. Who needs a type when you've thrown in the towel. Retired from the game. When you just don't want to even think that you could love again - trust again. That you could give your heart to another human to destroy, again. That you could even find the pieces of your broken heart that are delicately being held together just so you can remain alive. That you could hand those pieces over to another being and trust that they won't give you back your heart worse than it was?

(7). That's seven more times that she'll feel a touch of warmth and a shiver of cold all at once! Her body will quiver and she'll sink into her bed and hug herself. She'll close her eyes and imagine him there. He'd be staring right into her eyes and she into his. His eyes - so honest. Carrying the pain of years before and baring it bravely before her. She'd place her palm on his cheek, wishing his pain away. As if just the touch of her hand would be the cure.

He crept up on her. By God did he creep up on her! She prides herself in being able to sniff even the slightest whiff of interest from a mile away. She might need to pride myself in something else! There really was nothing to sniff though. It was a greeting. And then a joke. And another joke. And then a string of back and forth - greetings and jokes. They were both world's apart minding their own. Everyone settled in their little corner of misery. Showing the best of themselves to the world while dying inside. Showing the best of themselves to each other while dying inside. Days and nights shrunk. Encompassed in endless conversations about every minute detail of their days. Only the human need to rest would stop them. Sleep. Wake-up. Repeat. Who would be the first to greet and joke is what they became. They summited to the peak in just a few days. Without as much as a struggle. Seamlessly. They became each other's worlds. Everything revolved around this little dream they had created. But who would be the first to break?

(7). She stares at them. As if opening them would set her up on a course to sure destruction. Maybe it will someday, but not today! Today she looks at her phone and feels him give her a back hug and kiss kiss her neck. He whispers "I love you.." and she believes him. She looks at her phone and hears him get back at her for a joke she made at his expense the night before. She laughs, picks up a pillow and tries to hit him with it. A hopeless venture. He was always stronger, faster, more agile. She looks at her phone today and giggles as he wrestles her to the bed and pins her down.

He really did creep up on her! He did! They had absolutely nothing in common - until they did. Different worlds, different cares, different lives. One act of thoughtfulness led to the blossoming of a love so deeply rooted in honest and genuine friendship. Killing whatever snide notions she had of men left in her. Completely stripping her of the deep-seated anger and disdain that she'd made a part of her all these years. One act of thoughtfulness. A greeting. And a joke.

(7). And so she clicks and scrolls. Before, in another life, she would be afraid. Afraid of what she would find on the other end of the click. Afraid that it would be (0). Afraid of the heartache. Afraid of the unrequited love. Afraid of harsh words spoken in anger that cut deep. Afraid of the end. But not now. She's not afraid to click. She's not putting it off any longer. That click is her play button. It signals the start of a new day of clicks! Of (7), (49), (158). The click allows her to dream. And to love as deeply as she chooses to love.

And she will be allowed to love and allow herself to be loved. Again.

Getting UnStuck

I can't buy your love, don't even wanna try.
Sometimes the truth won't make you happy, still I'm not gonna lie.
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.

I know I'm far from perfect, nothin' like your entourage
I can't grant you any wishes, I won't promise you the stars.
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.

- Emeli Sande, My Kind Of Love

My Mother, My Cover

You know I used to think mothers were some type of crazy. My mom especially! There's this one time I remember distinctly, there was no electricity and we lit these small gas lamps in the living room; the ones attached directly to a gas cylinder? Aha. Anyway, so the thing caught fire suddenly in a mild explosion. In a split second my mom had evacuated all of us out of the house and away from danger. Cool huh? Yeah, except she ran back in to try and switch off the gas lamp. She died many years later, randomly. Not from an exploding cylinder. Or a car accident. Or a poisonous snake bite. Or a debilitating disease. She just randomly died.

Besides the point. 

Mothers are a covering. They are a warm snuggly blanket on a cold Nairobi July day, sealing you from your hair to your toenails, leaving no part exposed whatsoever. They will talk about you, praise you, promote you and defend you to whomever will listen. They will choose to believe the best of you, never for a moment imagining you would be anything less than what they dreamed you would be, or what they know you are - sometimes what they THINK you are.

A mother - a good mother - is the face of God on this earth. From the moment you are placed in their arms, they see the best of you. Not your scarce hair or wrinkled skin. They see eyes that remind them of their father's and a cute nose. They see purity. They love you exceedingly, abundantly, above all you could ever ask or imagine. And from that moment they cover you. Making sure all anyone ever sees is that cover they've created for you.

A mother is your human. She's your person. She's your guy! You can count on her to be on your side regardless. She'll admonish you in secret, but to the world, she'll present an image of perfection. Never exposing your flaws or faults. Never faltering. 

I've been trying this week to do some writing about mothers in a bid to purge the sense of loss and despair we have felt these past three years. Don't mind me. No need to check up on me. I'm good, and if not, I will be.

Sandals In The Sand - Chapter Four

Silence. Darkness. Only the occasional rush of waves onto the sand broke it. A little distance away music played. In bits. Occasioned by the breeze that blew some notes our way. The world was shut out. Silence. Darkness. Waves.

My confident outside didn't betray what I felt inside as we walked up the stairs. Barely an hour earlier I had changed clothes more times than I ought to. Figuring out what 'look' I was going for. Casual-friendly or sexy-flirty? Was he going to open the door to a long lost friend who just wanted to play catchup or to a long lost lover who just wanted to play? I went with casual. Doorbell. Wait. 

Silence. Darkness. Waves. He knew. He needed to calm me down. Silence. Darkness. Waves. The tears rolled freely. I should run. I should just get out of this car and run! I wanted to turn back the hands of time. I wanted to go back to that first day. Yes, let's go back to the port. Let's not notice him this time. Let's not get absorbed by his presence. Let's not want to spend every waking minute of every day and night with him. Self, let's walk away. Nay, let's RUN away! And yet I sat on. Staring into the dark sea that was always so blue. Thoughts running through my head. And his. 

"Hey!" Oh it's useless! All that confidence I'd built just dissipated. Vanished. I was bubbly all over again. "This is my friend Mo.." Aha! I wasn't a starry-eyed 20 something year old again. I had placed an order for a chaperone. "Hi Mo!" He reached his hand out. Deep baritone. Suddenly I was jealous. That's MY voice. That's MY hand. This is MY... was he? We walked into the sparsely furnished house that was hardly a reflection of his current status. The familiar scent of well-cooked food greeting us as we sat. "I brought you wine!" I had managed common decency. I checked him out. I could see he'd fought like I had. And had settled for casual as well. "Thank you for the wine. What can I offer you?" I'll have you. To go.

"Talk to me." Deep Baritone. "Please talk to me." The pain and helplessness was evident. Silence. Darkness. Waves. I wanted to say it. I wanted to yell it. I wanted to scream it while hitting him!!! "I'm hurting! I am confused! Why?" The pain nearly equalled what I'd felt when my father had died. Deep, intense, unrelenting, endless, hurt. Pain. "Talk to me please." What would I say. Nothing could fix it. Nothing could fix me. Nothing could fix us. I stared forward through the tears. No longer fighting them back. I let go. Silence. Darkness. Waves. Sobs.

"Food is ready actually, want to check it out?" Yeah, I'll check you out. IT! Check IT out. "Sure!" I bounced out of my seat and followed him to the kitchen. The glass of wine had made this near teetotaller very giddy, very fast. Think it had something to do with how quick I drowned it while trying to calm my nerves? He mumbled something as he showed me what he had cooked. I heard nothing. I smelled it. That all too familiar strong masculine scent from all those years ago. I looked up at him. Studied his face... a few kilos later... still good looking. My gaze shifted downward. "It's okay?" Back. "Yes, it's fine. I'll serve it don't worry." He was always a great cook. He looked at me. He drew closer. I saw it coming. "Mo! Food's ready!" I wasn't ready.

"I love you." Deep Baritone. Those words. He meant them. But I didn't need to hear them.I'm not sure if I needed to hear anything at all at that moment. "I need you to talk to me. Please!" The plea was desperate. The voice broken. He needed to know right at that very moment, if there was going to an us once we left our little cove on the beach. I held the ball. He wanted to know my play. All I wanted was to drop the ball and run! I should run! I should go back home. Not this place. My real home. With sisters and mothers and aunties who were older and wiser. To tell me what to do. But who could I tell? Where would I begin? I couldn't. I didn't want to leave. I never wanted to leave. I wanted him. I wanted us. "Please. Take. Me. Home" I managed.

"So you two... what's the story?" Several glasses of wine later, we had gone back 12 years. Finishing each other's sentences. Laughing at inside jokes. We were at the beach once more with our canned sodas and our Toyota. Feet on the dashboard. At home with each other. I had barely remembered that Mo was in the room. She didn't know. Well, now she did. "Story? Us? Naaaaah! Just old workmates." I responded. Nonchalance. 

"She's my wife. But she ran away from me."

My sandals were deep in the sand. 

Sandals In The Sand - Chapter Three

A random ringback tone plays on the other end. I pace up and down the sides of the swimming pool almost willing my phone to fall in 'mistakenly'. Why on earth was I making this call? 12 years later no less! Maybe I should hang up before the voice comes through on the other end.

The maroon Toyota made it's way up the road to the beach; a now all too familiar route. It had become our thing. Leave work. Take the scenic route via the beach. Chill out a little. Then head home. The warm breeze from the ocean brushed over my face invitingly. Calling me to the beach for an evening walk. A drink. To watch the sun set. We made light conversation on our way there. Work mostly. And my long list of possible suitors lining up their proposals. From the office driver right up the ladder to the second in command. He laughed like he always did. I couldn't read him. Was he playing the protective big brother or the jealous suitor? I could never tell.

Just hang up darn it! But then if I do, it'll look like I was flashing him wouldn't it? Which is worse? You should never have dialled to begin with! Where's your pride?! I couldn't help it. Plus I'm just saying hi and seeing if he got back okay. Right! The heart and head were at it again. Sssssshhhhh keep it down both of you will you? I held my breath. Practiced my "Hello" in my head as I tried to silence the voices. Shoot! What if he doesn't pick up!

"Do you need to leave soon? Because I don't mind..." I tried to be polite. All the while hoping. "Leave for where?" he interjected almost rudely. "I meant, don't you have some place you should be... it's almost 7.." I added. All the while crossing my fingers, toes and eyes that he had the whole night. "I'm right where I want to be." He didn't disappoint. This was us. Gone were the days when the piece of metal was all I saw. It's glory had dimmed significantly. And though I was aware of it's existence and significance, I had began to deny it's power. But we were just two good ol' pals hanging around after work. Enjoying a canned soda. Discussing the job. Laughing and having a good time. I was a stranger with no one else to see and nowhere else to go. He just needed someone neutral to talk to and hang with.

Right?

"Hello?" deep baritone. "Hey! Hi?" He caught me off guard. The palms were suddenly moist. "Hi!" deep baritone response. Straight. No brouhaha. I fought off the regret. "How are you doing?" nonchalance. "I'm good". flat baritone. Huh? That's it? Is this it? What on earth... maybe he lost my number and doesn't know it's me.

Right?

He was quiet. Quieter than his usual quiet. I was always the chatterbox. He mostly smiled and asked questions. His profession probably demanded of it. But he also appeared a tad weary and subdued. Like like was being drained out of him. I stared at him long and hard that day at the beach. He stared ahead at the waves. I tried again to figure him out. I couldn't. I never did. All I knew what he was there, when he was there. And when he left, he left. "Call it a night?" I managed. "Sure. If you're ready?" deep eyes looked into mine. I held the gaze just long enough to soak them in. "I'm ready." I was so ready. I tried to remember a time I'd wanted someone so bad that I couldn't have. I could only imagine the pop stars on TV who were forever beyond reach. He was right here. He was flesh and blood. So near, and yet so very far.

"It's me!" I added my name just to elicit the usual reaction. I waited to hear the smile in his voice as he said my name like he always did. I waited for the pet names to start checking in. I waited to be asked if I was 'good.' Boy did I wait. "Oh okay. Listen, can I call you back?"

My heart sunk. Lower than it had been before I made the decision to dial that number after ignoring it for 12 years. In a flash, I was the underdog again. I hated being the 'chaser'. I hated the feeling. It's that sinking feeling that had sent me calling and now the darn phone call had taken me right back.

"Okay!" I managed. He hung up.

Sandals were left on the sand.

Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart; Again!

They say hindsight is 20:20. 

Whatever that means.

Steve Jobs also said at some graduation that you can only connect the dots going backwards.

Ever had a moment when you couldn't? When you couldn't find that first dot. You aren't even sure there was one. God was there just this one dot? This stupid dot that I'm discovering today? At the end? Ever looked back at a part of your life and saw black. Darkness. Pure unadulterated darkness. Deep darkness. Never has death looked so attractive! Actually, this has been the most painful season of my life after my mother's death. And you know how I'm not quite over that one yet, right?

I slept, and I woke up. On a random night in the last quarter of 2014. And somewhere there, there was a dot. At first I tried to make it go away. Tried to wish it off, shoo it off even. My dot was alive! And it birthed many more dots. Eventually I started to follow the trail of dots, not knowing where I'd end up but trusting that I'd be okay. Perfect even. Trusting that I'd been down so long, this dot, was finally my up. Trusting my heart long enough, to let go of my head, and strip myself bare.

And strip myself bare I did! 

I don't remember a time in my life when I've given so much of myself to another person and expected nothing in return. "Owe no one nothing but love" my bible says. Maybe I expected love. And for a moment there, in one of those million dots, there was love, given and received. Almost overwhelmingly given at first, then equally, and then unrequited. I clutched at every straw. In a bid to reverse the flow of the dots downstream I gave even more, loved even more, did even more. I talked, sought to understand, strategised. The dots needed to realign. I needed to get back on top.

I fought a losing battle for about a month. It ended with me grovelling, promising, vowing, leaving all my dignity at the feet of another human being. A mere mortal with so much command over me that I shut out the world and grieved for two days straight with no end to the pain in sight! And the dots never reconnected. They were scattered too far away. Words had been said, feelings caught. Every other word was a twist to the knife that had been dug deep into my heart.

I held the first dot. I was in control. I was on top of things. I'm sharper than this. I'm bigger than this. I'm better than this. So how the hell did I allow this to happen? When did I lose control? When did I give it all up? 

Anger. Bitterness. Pain. Repeat.

Now let's see how I sleep tonight!

Sandals In The Sand - Chapter Two

"Ha! I knew I would find you!" That voice. That voice again.

"I knew I would find you!" That hug. That scent. That warmth. I broke away quickly. Almost willing the effect of it away. Damn it! I should have left earlier. I knew I should have left when I first thought to. I was about an hour too late.


"Hi! How are you finding the place? Have you settled in okay?" Was he speaking to me? Was the guy from the port actually standing right next to me, addressing me?? Stop it heart! Stop racing! Stop it! Move on! "It's alright." I managed. Alright? That's it? Where are my adjectives? I'm paid to communicate. Communicate woman! "Everything okay at the house? Need anything?" I need you! I want YOU! "No, I'm fine." I managed my usual smile. "Thanks". Stop it heart! He can probably hear you!!! C'mon! "Well, I promised your Aunty I'd take care of you while she's away so if you do need anything, anything at all, just ask." Do I get to need you? Can I have you? Do I need to ask for you? "Okay, thanks." 

"Hi! Long time!" I muttered barely audibly. "This is my sister, my cousin, my baby brother and his girlfriend, and my daughter." He went round the circle seamlessly saying hello. He was just as charming as he'd been that sunny day at the port. Working his way around my family with a smile. Just as he'd always done. Only, I didn't really care. It had worn off. Whatever IT was, had long worn off. 

Then, I used every opportunity, every chance I got, to see him. I was the messenger, delivering what could easily have been emailed to him. I sat across from him at meetings, if only to watch as he presented his absolute brilliance to the world. To say I was completely awed and smitten would be an understatement! And yet there was still the little matter. There was still that little piece of jewellery I couldn't get past. I was young enough to build up the thoughts but old enough to know I'd never be able to carry them through. Still I stared. Still I dreamed. Still I imagined.

Now, he looks at me. It is dark, but I sense the familiarity in his gaze. "You are good?" His honest concern almost breaks through. "I'm good. You?" Small talk is not my thing. I'm chatty, bubbly, even a tad touchy. "Yeah. Your aunt insisted I should come for the party so here I am." I could have used a warning! I really should have left earlier. It was late, I'd had a long day, I had my princess with me. Surely I had every reason! "Oh I see, she's right there at the tent." Dismissively. Urging him onward towards her and away from me. "Who's that?" The nosy sister enquires as he walks away. "Remember my port guy? That's him." Nonchalance. "Uuuuuuuh goodness he is CUTE!" She giggles. He IS cute. And bleeding hot! He always had been. It didn't matter now though, did it? Over a decade later, no it didn't matter to me at all. "Come Princess, let's go home." I ignore the whining from all parties present and make for my car. 

"I'm heading in your direction today. Need a ride?" That voice. Would I ever get over just how every word came out of his mouth in a perfect baritone? "Yeah, sure, why not." Yeah, sure why the hell not! Give me a ride by all means. Make it count. Make every minute count. Use the scenic route. Brush against me mistakenly if you must. Do it, and make it good! He opened the door. He ushered me in, made sure I was okay, and shut it. Well I never! "You are good?" Eyes looked right into mine and never for a second broke the gaze.  "I'm good." I smiled and looked away lest he should read my mind. I was safe. I was okay. I was in good hands. Thousands of miles away from my familiarity. Safe. Okay. In good hands. My house was literally a minute away, but it felt like the longest ride of my life! As if nature conspired to stretch the microseconds to allow me to remain in the moment as long as possible. There could have been some small talk then. If there was, I never heard a word! "I'll see you tomorrow then? You have my number, let me know if you need a ride, I can pick you up." Damn that was fast! We were home already. I should invite him in. "Okay, thanks." Or perhaps not.

Why didn't I leave earlier? Hmmm... I should have. Didn't think he'd be here. Why didn't Aunty tell me he was coming? Ah but of course he was coming. They are such good friends. Hmm... I wonder how he ended up dating this other lady. Aunty must have hooked them up... mutual friends. How did he just show up there though? No warning.. I should have left... "Muuuum, muuum, tomorrow I'll be a flower girl at the wedding?" 

My sandals were on the sand.

Sandals In The Sand - Chapter One

 "Hello sweetheart..", the unmistakable deep baritone voice rang through the phone. "Was just headed to bed and remembered I haven't spoken to you today. I needed to hear your voice."

And just like I did all those years ago, I smile. Ear to ear. I close my eyes and try to bridge the distance between us. Amazed at how a feeling so long gone, could be so easily reawakened. As if it had never been separated by time, by space, by events. A feeling so strong it appears to have never skipped a beat from that odd time many, many years ago. I cling to the phone, willing him to draw closer still.

I reminisce. I smile. I close my eyes. He is closer to me now than he ever was. I can feel him. My heart races. I am living out a romance novel word for word!

I'm taken back to that first time I saw him. Young and impressionable. Far away from home. Life just beginning to happen. He, standing at the port, hard at work, counting, interviewing, noting. I, sent to pen it all down. My first real assignment. Trailing my new boss up and down trying to get the story done. And then I saw him. He was literally tall, dark and handsome, and in all sense of the words. I continued on, working... and staring. Amazed at how composed he was amidst the madness of the day. He'd done it before numerous times. I was only just getting one foot in to the system.

Was that a ring?

I wondered how one person could be so well put together. I studied him. Something about him seemed different from all the guys I'd known. He had a sort of manliness, strength and confidence about him. Something about him spelt warmth, comfort, care. You knew just by looking at him, that you'd be lucky to have him on your team.

Damn it! Was that a ring??? Did I spot a ring?!

He weaved his way through the crowd seamlessly. Hundreds of people stood there that day, but I saw only him. Your eyes truly do see just what they want to see. I would turn my back, talk to someone, write something, consult the boss. I would turn back and in an instant I'd have him locked in sight. Like a drone waiting to fire a shot, my target's position was fixed. For a moment there, I imagined he saw me too. I imagined he noticed me. I imagined he felt me there. For a moment there, I thought beyond the happenings of the time. I imagined him clasping my hand in his as we walked along the beach. Feeling the coolness of the ocean water sweeping over my feet. Leaning in. Gazing up. Soaking in. I imagined the perfect sunset and a gentle breeze crowning the beauty of the moment as I dug my sandals deeper in to the sand. Not wanting that moment to pass. Never wanting to let go. I stood there dreaming. He worked.

Darn, that's definitely a ring he's rocking! Could be just one of those rings right? Guys do that as well right? Smack on the ring finger no less. Left hand? Is that his left hand? He is wearing a ring on his left ring finger!!!

How did I get here? I sink deeper into my bed, pulling the covers over my shoulders as I try to mimic the warmth of his embrace. How did he do it? How, all these years later, are my feet solidly planted in the emotion I felt that day, years ago, when it all began? Why am I staring at my phone, waiting for it to buzz; his name flashing at me in bright yellow? Why am I holding my breathe, composing myself before I finally pick up? How did he get here? How did he get me here? The longing, the dreaming, the wishing.. all so real once again.

"Have a good night dear. Let's talk tomorrow." The conversation is coming to an end. Long before I'm ready to let him go. "I love you.."

And just like that, my sandals are stuck in the sand once more.

You Went To A Funeral and then You Went Home

You heard some bad news from a friend, relative, social media, church or maybe in a gossip circle. However you heard, you immediately felt bad, asked how to help, donated time, food, money or prayers. Whatever you did, the family was grateful, even if they didn't say it. They were blessed by your gifts.

Life goes back to normal. The family sits on your heart. You pray, you ask, you follow the updates. You did what you could.

One day, you heard the really bad news: Death won and a family lost. Forever.

Once again, you prayed, you helped, gave what you could. Even if you didn't know it, the family was thankful for you, your help, your prayers, your love and your support.

You attended the funeral, cried some real tears, laughed some real laughs, enjoyed the memories of the one who is gone. Finally, you hugged the ones who lost the most.

Once the funeral was over and the day was done, you went home. Back to life, back to love, back to those who make your world complete. You went to a funeral, and then you went home.

We all lose, but someone that day, went to a funeral and didn't want to go home.

Someone that day, drove home to the couch, the bed, the house that is forever empty. Life is not like it once was and never will be again. Where there was once laughter, sits an empty chair. The couch is bigger, the blankets and pillows are extra. There are empty shoes, clothes, toiletries that might never be used. Bags sit. Drugs disposed. So much to do and SO MANY MEMORIES left to be remembered, processed and grieved.

Time passes and the wounds are not healed. Sometimes, life feels normal and OK. Then a birthday, holiday, celebration occurs and the loss is real all over again. Sometimes life is normal, and for no reason at all, the LOSS comes right back, like it happened again.

There is loneliness, emptiness and tears. "Public faces" put on a show, and comfort the ones who interact. "Home faces" are real, raw and honest. There are headaches, stomachaches and countless mistakes made all because the grief lives in place of the person who completed a family. Not to mention the questions, the hurt, the anger that sits because it is hard to face.

Days pass, holidays pass, milestones completed the grief lives, despite how the family looks in public. Remember, it's a face, a show, an act, it's not always real; however, it's not always fake.

When you go to a funeral, and are allowed to go home to life, remember that at least one person goes home to a new life that was NOT asked for, but handed to them. Give those people more than sympathy or judgement; give them an endless amount of time to grieve in their own way. For that one act of kindness and grace, they will be forever grateful for you.

Courtney is a mom, teacher, photographer, writer and dreamer. Visitwww.oursmallmoments.com.

But With God

There's been a running commentary in Kenya since the recent emergence of a number of advertisements by Unilever for their food additive Aromat. The words of the days these days are "But with Aromat..." life is made all the better, sweeter, nicer. You can add Aromat to your bad day and suddenly you will be walking on sunshine. Add Aromat to your fuel tank, see how fast that tanks up! Add Aromat to your payslip and join the board of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Add Aromat to a bad dress day and see a fashionista emerge instantaneously. But this Aromat has been overdone for sure. (Just so you know it has good amount of MSG so add Aromat at your own peril! Chema chajiuza!) But I'll tell you what we need to be talking about right this very minute.

But With God!

There seems to be a group of Christians that make God comparable to Aromat! An instant solution provider for all your needs, problems, everything! They make it look like that "Yes" to a life with Christ will suddenly make everything better, sweeter, nicer. "Just give your life to Jesus", they say. "Pray about it", they urge. "Talk to God about it", they insist, "You will be JUST fine!" And please don't get me wrong, I am signed, sealed and delivered by Christ and my very existence here on earth, I've realised, is to do God's work, God's way. And I find great joy in my salvation.

I'm also very real. Saved by grace and relying on His mercy every day. 

Depression is stupid! But with God... How people judged a young church girl who committed suicide some weeks back. Almost like they couldn't tie together how someone can be saved and serving in ministry and then CHOOSE to end her own life. "How was her walk with Christ?" they ask. "Has she been in a bible study?" they press. "It's important to pray about these things" they say. They speak completely oblivious to the torment and the pain that people with mental illnesses and those related to them go through each and every day. Think of the worst day you've had ever. Now make that every day. Now make those days endless. Now judge. 

"She's pregnant???? I thought she was saved??!!!" they question. As if salvation keeps your feet from walking into that bedroom and taking your clothes off. Or the reverse. "Dear Jesus, please don't let me get pregnant! Pleeeeease don't let me get pregnant!" Turning the Most High into some form of morning after pill. I put it to you, that sometimes it will take your head to dull out the lies from you heart and shout to your feet to walk away from a bad situation. God is not Aromat. You can't just sprinkle him last minute onto your toxic relationship. I assure you. I know. Most of the time, it will be a decision YOU will make to walk away. And yes, you can pray about it, but far be it from you, that you imagine the cherubs and seraphs will be sent to pull you away from that affair. Use your legs. Walk away.

I remember when, after a long hiatus, in 2007, I began once again to live a life worthy of the calling I received. The one thing I can never forget is how I had debts from hell to high heaven. I owed everyone!! I even owed my nanny money! That was the year I stopped taking calls. Because it was always going to be someone from the bank, or a friend asking when I'd pay. And I had a job then, go figure. Was living ten time above my means and very flashy about it. But didn't even have the peace to sleep soundly. I remember when I finally made the turnaround, making endless prayers to God about my debts and hoping, just like in the bible, that my creditors would find it in their hearts to cancel them. My favourite hymn at the time being "Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe..." To Him. Not to the bank. 

Debts will kill you, but with God..... No. Take it from me. They only go away when you pay them off. No Aromat solutions here! I remember sitting down with my then boyfriend, now husband (bless his heart) and writing down the list of everyone I owed. The first list was a serious edit. I was still trying to impress the guy. But by the time I got to the 4th revision, he knew I was in trouble. Needless to say a year later, I was debt free. More thanks to him and of course to God through whom all blessings flow.

There are no Aromat type solutions with God. Yes, He will help you, guide you, give you wisdom. But He is not a magician. In your walk with Christ, you're going to have to learn to use your head and your feet whenever you get into trouble. You might need to walk home instead of to the bar. Don't land in the bar and ask the Lord to lift you out... kama yeye ni Mungu! You will need to burn that porn yourself. You probably will want to call back that guy and tell him you changed your mind and don't want him to come over to your place. 

But with God... walk away. 

Rock Bottom

Ever felt like your life was spiralling out of control? Like it had a life of it's own? Yes, like your life had a life of its own. Yes. That feeling? It probably was or is.

I've felt this way for a long while now. Not years really. Months maybe. Like every decision I made was taking me deeper into the abyss. Like the consequences of my choices were lining up waiting to gobble me up one by one. Like any deeper, would be the lower ground floor of rock bottom.  A friend recently said to me, "Who knew rock bottom had a basement?" And no statement has resonated with me like his did. I mean who knew there was worse than rock bottom. 

I surely have been sinking into the abyss for a while now. On the surface I'm just the same old funny girl. Inside, I'm a shell of what I used to be, could have been, want to be. I wonder how many other people are living double lives like I am. Smiling and waving to the crowd; all the while dying inside. I cannot begin to explain it. But I know someone somewhere knows what I'm talking about. At the very least, God gets me. I definitely do feel like I'm caught up in hell. And every move I make, every wince, every grimace, only serves to push me further into hell. 

I am out of control. At least I think I am.

It only every occurs to me just how bad things are, when finally in the dead of night, in the silence, long after everyone has fallen asleep, long after the buzzing of my chat messages has stopped... in those moments, do I truly begin to reflect on what dish life has served me and how I've chosen to munch up every bit of it. Almost without a care. Almost without a second thought. Savouring every bite of madness that's on offer. Enjoying every bit of the self-destruction, the self-pity, the self-loathe. Enduring... nay enjoying every hedonistic bite. Falling asleep, not because I want to, but because I have to. Surrounded by the sounds of whatever music is coming through headphones that I now can't live without. Watching a few random episodes of a series. Or just thinking.

And waking up. Only to realise that status quo remains. The consequences continue to pursue me. The fear numbs me. The pain awakens me. The heart deceives me. I trudge slowly onward. Unsure about what lies ahead. I make a feeble attempt at a prayer. I seek to speak to someone, and yet, no one quite wants to listen. But God. Like David, I toss myself at Him. He who judges every so harshly and yet remains Abba. He whom David trusted more than man. 

2 Samuel 24:14

New Living Translation (NLT)

14 “I’m in a desperate situation!” David replied to Gad. “But let us fall into the hands of the Lord, for his mercy is great. Do not let me fall into human hands.”

I'm in a desperate situation. But let me fall into the hands of the Lord, for his mercy is great! Please do not let me fall into human hands. 

Rock bottom has a basement. I own it. 

Where My Heart Is

I left a piece of my heart in West Africa. 

COTE D'IVOIRE

The moment I got off the plane in Abidjan 12 years ago, I felt at home. Looking over the city from my hotel room I knew I was right where I needed to be. As we drove through the streets, the warm gentle breeze hit my face as if to say welcome home.

The Abidjan Skyline

I vividly remember feeling on top of the world. Literally! My hotel room was closer to the sky than the ground. For a young 22 year old, just out of university the experience was heavenly. I spoke my little French from years yonder in a bid to communicate with those around me, asking which was the best place for me to go and see. They called me a taxi and sent me off to the mall. Before the coming of Junction and Westgate mall, you know all I had to compare this mall to was our little Sarit Center. I walked in and out of the shops in amazement; my absolute favourite being Woodin and Vlisco. Surrounded left and right with tonnes of colourful fabric. I was in kitenge heaven! Still that wasn't my first buy. I walked into another shop and bought myself a pair of jeans. 23 dollars. That's what it cost me. (Toi Market would be ashamed). It wasn't even all that, BUT I was alone and had pocket money. Surely I could splurge on a random pair of jeans right? I remember taking the cab right back to my hotel room and watching countless hours of french TV too afraid to venture out at night unaccompanied; young and impressionable. I bid farewell to Abidjan two days later and proceeded to what would soon be my new home for a the next 6 months. 

SIERRA LEONE

River No 2 Beach In Freetown

Landing in post-conflict Freetown, I wondered what could have caused the wonderful people of Sierra Leone to turn on each other in such brutality. Of course years later in 2007, my countrymen did exactly the same and I understood the selfishness of leaders in Africa inciting their people against each other. Before I digress. The office sent a vehicle to pick me up and drop me on Wilkinson Road. A beautiful three bedroomed apartment was to be my home during my time there. I shared the apartment with another Kenyan lady and a Nigerian gentleman. Bintu, our wonderful house help would wake me up to a breakfast of champions each morning and send me off to bed with a chicken meal or other. Beef is rare in West Africa. It's all-you-can-eat chicken or bust! I spent my days being revered at the office. Madam Janet was my title there. Ignore the fact that I was at the bottom of the food chain of all the international staff there. A former tennis champion who was rebuilding his life working as a driver, helped me wile away my evenings learning tennis at the club and woke me up every Saturday for a jog along Lumley beach. One of my favourite days was spent watching the Sierra Leone Boys Band rehearse and later on attacking a lobster meal off of River No 2, by far the whitest sand and bluest ocean I've seen. Most notable (to all my single friends) was just how loving the men (generally in West Africa) are. They'd pick you up, open doors, cook the meals and make you feel like a queen. And it wasn't just because I was this hot Kenyan mama! (Okay, maybe a little). Walking barefoot in the sands of Number Two beach in Sierra Leone.. gazing over the clear blue waters of ocean... enjoying the magnificence that was life in Freetown.. I've never felt more at home. I left a piece of my heart in the friends I made, those I lost and those who refused to let go.

GHANA

And then years later in 2013, I rediscovered my love for West Africa when I got an opportunity to do some photography in Ghana. When the guy at immigration looked at my surname and said to me "it sounds very Ghanaian", I knew I was home again. Our host for the duration was as warm and as generous as they come. My dear Stephen whom I betrothed via long distance to my younger sister, is my friend for life. The first time I offered to pay for our lunch he quickly and firmly said "My sister, your money is no good here!" and proceeded to sort the bill. Travelling through the inner towns of Ghana, Koforidua being our base, we received the same warmth. Learning came to a standstill at every school we visited. Water was delivered promptly to quench our thirst. A quick meal of whatever was available was prepared and we gladly enjoyed the tastes of Ghana in every way possible, ending our trip with a meal of grilled guinea fowl! Yum! Forget quail! And as I walked through the streets of Accra, surrounded by pomp and colour, I remembered what I fell in love with 12 year ago. The warmth, the laughter, the music. The food! The people. A piece of my heart lives on in Ghana. In Accra before we left, we walked through the market looking for gifts for friends and family. It was there that I bought my mum an authentic Ankara fabric that she wore during the last family event she attended before she passed on. She loved it, just as much as I love my second home. West Africa.

I left a piece of my heart in West Africa. And I'm coming back for it. Look out for me Dakar. You are next on my list. As does The Gambia, Benin, Togo and Mali. I'm not done with you yet West Africa!

The Gift of Silence

Never have I imagined in my life, there'd be that one thing I really want to talk about.. NEED to talk about and I just can't!

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm the True North for all things sanguine. And boy can I run my mouth! (And recently my fingers). But yes, I'm generally a life-of-the-party type of girl especially when I warm up to people. People rarely take me seriously, well because, I'm never that serious and never is IT. Where IT is x, find x. I'm also that girl that you can tell ANYTHING. Anything at all. Nothing fazes me. Oh you had sex with a dog? Oh wow. How was that? (Okay please don't confess your beastiality to me. I. Will. Faint). But yes, I've heard about everything this world has to offer in terms of stories. People for some reason, find me approachable; they reckon I'm that person that won't judge them. And once in a while I do offer some great solutions to their problems... assuming they are at the point where they actually consider they could have a problem.



Alicios Theluji sang this lovely song that is the theme of my life right now. Well not really the theme, because it's been a while since I had to iron HBs shirt and he threw it back at me or snatched money from my wallet. But just because she seems so conflicted! Here is this guy that she likes okay. He treats her like absolute crap! She's tired, she's had it with him.. but she's still there. Taking it like a girl! Sucking it up woman style. Again, no relation to me. I just love the Zouk beat in it and the video is absolutely lovely.

Back to me.

So I'm definitely that girl. I've had the benefit of living life longer than the 33 years I've walked the face of this earth. I definitely have been there and done that... I've had issues, subscriptions and nearly won lifetime awards for the drama that has been my life. I say benefit because life has been tough, but God has been good. I kid you not, but for God I'd surely be dead now... not entirely a bad thing, but I still have work to do in these parts. I say benefit, because I've lived a full life, and now I have a real life example for nearly every situation that people throw at me. Boy have I been there! You can't read it from my near-perfect poker face and smile. But I have lines beneath my eyes and scars in my heart that read different.

So now that I'm the one that needs a me... What happens? Do I talk to myself? Do I fix myself? Can I trust myself with me? Can I convince myself to do what I tell me to do? Will I listen to myself? Take my own advice as if I were giving it someone else that I care about deeply? Am I too full of myself to even want my own advice to begin with?

I never would have imagined being where I am right now, this April of 2014. I have been tamed. Brought down to my knees quite literally. And in my usual signature way, I have bent over several times and cried tears that felt like they were being manufactured in my toes and needed to travel painfully through my body to reach my eyes! It's unbelievable but I'm quite literally standing in a pit of quicksand, unable to get myself out and with no one to help me out. I'm actually standing by and watching myself sink in so deep, I'm not certain I will ever be able to get out.

And all this just after Easter. I should mention that the crucifixion and resurrection though an integral part of my walk with Christ has also been for me the toughest to absorb. I accept it. I know Christ needed to die that I may be saved (from myself), but I've never quite understood just why He NEEDED to die the way He did. I've never ever truly felt that my sin was so horrible, it needed to be beaten, pierced and crucified for me to get a chance to enter into Heaven. Well, now I know. Now I know, that there was no other way God would have accepted me for me. Definitely not now. I go to sleep every night and whisper to God to remember mercy. Because never have I needed His mercy more than I do today. I could have overdrawn on my grace, so I must cling to mercy.

So here I am. Talking to myself.

A Bed of Roses

I talk about marriage a lot. A whole LOT! It's something I'm passionate about. Passionate enough that I plan to do an MSc in Marriage and Family Therapy. So here's to another post on marriage!

So you know how when you are planning to get married, every piece advice has something to do with roses, thorns and work? "Marriage is no bed of roses!", "You must find the roses among the thorns!", "Marriage is NOT easy, it's hard work!!!" You haven't heard those lines? Okay, I am a wedding photographer so I do get to hear my fair share of marriage thoughts; nearly 40-50 times each year actually. It's amazing how the bride and groom smile and jump the broom anyway. Walking off into the sunset with confetti in their hair and a gait in their step. Ready to take it on!

I remember my confetti moment; now MERELY 5 years ago! I could hear the music play, I could hear people speak. I sensed the excitement, but to be honest, that entire day was a daze. I remember bits and pieces of it and there's a video somewhere that recorded it all but it was all so cloudy... literally and figuratively that I honestly have no recollection of how it all went down. I do however remember the "Marriage is hard work!!" "Talk to each other or you will die!!! Go to sleep angry and you will be annihilated! May Armageddon come upon you if you don't date or share a car!!!" Okay, I exaggerate, but that's what it sounded like.

I remember the first morning of our honeymoon waking up still starry-eyed next to what I thought at the time was a Demigod of a husband! "Good morning husband!" He half-smiled... would have preferred something more like what I watched on whatever soap I was following at the time. I sat up, pulled out my journal (yes I'd been told at a shower to make sure I capture all my memories in a journal as a young wife) and told him I'd like to spend the morning writing down our favourite memories from the wedding. He got up and muttered as he walked to the bathroom that he'd prefer to just have breakfast and relax by the pool.

ARMAGEDDON!!!!!!!!

Was he serious??? I'm his wife!!!! I come first!!! Memories have to be written down in my journal!!! How will we remember? What will our kids find wrapped in an old cupboard long after we've gone??? I have faaaaaaaiiiiiiiillllleeeed!!!! My first real tears of shock and bewilderment were to be shed on that day.  Only a day after the confetti and magical dress I'll never rock again. Needless to say that journal today makes a good book for my shopping lists. I tear off pages without blinking.

You know, when someone who's been married 20 years tells a starry-eyed bride that marriage is hard work, as a newlywed, it's only as hard as where I am at. My first year of marriage I thought was hell! Did he actually just squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube???? Is he seriously just going to sit there watching telly while I'm SLAVING here making dinner?!! I thought I would die! This is it! I can't take a lifetime of badly squeezed toothpaste tubes! I would cry and google and subscribe to yet another marriage newsletter. You should see my bookshelf; The First Five Years, The Marriage Dance, When Two Become One, The Act of Marriage, From Roses to Dishes, A Diamond in The Rough, His Needs Her Needs, The Power of a Praying Wife.... are you seeing how the trend was going.

A few years into marriage you realise that the toothpaste is the least of your worries. That's probably when you decide to bring to life those gifts that are non-returnable and don't come with a manual. I call mine the Waluhyas. And suddenly you realise you might have a bit of a problem. You notice that the old telly advert where a baby is crying in the middle of the night and the wife says to the husband "It's your turn!" and he begrudgingly wakes up to go and settle the baby in the NEXT room; is a lie from the furthest corner of HADES! In fact you most likely will be sleeping in between two babies. The wailing one on one end and the one that's playing dead on the other end! Lol! And at that point you probably imagine, that is what those women were saying. This has got to be as bad as IT gets!!! Surely I will die if my husband doesn't do at least 50% of the baby work!!!

Oh but you were just getting started.

A little after that just when you've signed the mortgage contract and enrolled the first child in GEMS, signed up for Pilates because now you're a full-time mom wanting to raise your young family... He decides to go into business. Or maybe he just loses his job. And you move from two huge salaries, to one huge salary, to one promise of a salary if 'business goes well'. And suddenly you are having to find creative ways to prepare lentils for dinner. Ndengu fry, ndengu curry, ndengu stroganoff... Hahaha! And you think that perhaps you still may be welcome, with your brood of course, back at your parents home. They who've been married 40+ years, have a house the size of your block of flats and what was your bedroom is about the same size as they house you now live in.

And when you look at your parents, still going strong in their marriage all those years later, you imagine their worst fight was about toothpaste, or who's turn it is to cook, or diaper changes. You see them smile and exchange private jokes. You see them hold hands at your wedding as they give you away, and you imagine all they ever fought about was mortgages and lack of finances. You see that because that's where you are. You don't see another woman or man. You don't see the loss of a child. You don't see a life threatening illness.

And that's okay.

But the next time someone who has been married 20 years tells you "Marriage is hard!", acknowledge it with them, but don't pretend you know what they are talking about. Say yes, it's hard, but seeing you married means it can be done.

Try Sleeping With A Broken Heart

My mother died of a broken heart. She did I tell you.

Never have I had something occupy 90% of my time like I have my mother's passing. By God were we played. But even the thought of her being in a 'better place' or our ability to get on without her hasn't been able to calm my aching heart. No amount of crying has dulled the pain. I look at everyone who's lost a mother and wonder how they are living so normally. How do they do it? Are they pretending? What is it that was so precious about my own mother that I cannot bring myself to think of her as dead? Is there a percentile of people who just cannot cope with death? Am I it?

She definitely died of a broken heart. She who had never been so much as admitted in hospital since she had my brother in 1988. It was too much for her to take.

I remember when I had my 2nd child through emergency C-section, my mother was so apprehensive. She and my aunt sat outside the theatre and nearly flipped a nerve when the nurse wouldn't let them see my son after the delivery. I was still in recovery. My husband was miles away in another country working. A nurse left theatre with the little man, rushing him to the nursery and my mother let her have it. "We have to look at him! We have a right to see him and confirm that he's ours!". Boy did she let a nurse have it! And see the baby, she did. She made sure to note all his features "Lest they decide to switch him with someone else's". I eventually awoke from the operation and was taken to my
room, my mother in tow. There with me, alone, she sat till I was fully awake and on till she was sure someone else would be there with me. She offered to spend the night, but I declined. My mother didn't drive. She was frugal. Choosing instead to use public transport. I was in a hospital in South B. My mother lived on Thika Road and it was about 7pm when she eventually left the hospital.

It must have broken her heart that night in that God-forsaken hospital. It broke her heart so bad, she chose to die!

Let me help you understand just who my mother was. She was quite literally EVERYTHING to EVERYONE. She sacrificed so many things to make everyone comfortable. If I had a shilling for everyone that's come to us with stories of what my mother did for them, I'd probably be heading toward the 1000 shilling mark. Not much for money, but in people, that's a helluva lot! And I thought
I was the friendly one. Mum visited every sick relative in hospital, sent money for every harambee, attended every graduation, wedding and funeral. We knew an unexpected phone call from her would probably end in us contributing to buy a church pew or for someone's chemotherapy. We were so used to it. She'd say "I have this much, how much are you adding for me?" And "I'm broke" was not something you'd say to her. "I don't have a job, and I manage my money in a way that I can still put away some, you what are you doing with your money?" That was the response you'd get. We soon got the hang of it.

If there's anything we learnt from my mum, it was to give. To give and give and give. To give even to those who didn't deserve it. Especially to those. I can count off the top of my head a number of undeserving recipients of my mother's giving. Those that she gave her life for and who later spent their years trying to bring her down in word and deed. And yet, she kept giving. One of our latter visits upcountry before she died was to bury a young man in whom she'd invested so much in... despite a sour relationship with his family. She practically adopted him, right to the end. All we got from them when she died, was a text to say sorry. But that's alright. Now she knows. Doesn't she?

In a moment of deep heartache, my mum decided she'd had enough. How much more could she bear?

In her moment of deepest need. When she needed someone asking the hard questions like she'd done for us over and over again. When she needed someone to reach for the bell or call the nurse. When
she needed someone to call her doctor and consult him on whether all was well. In the moment that she needed someone asking if she was okay, if she needed a glass of water or wanted to use the bathroom.

In that aching moment of need, we walked away. We turned around and went home to sleep. We put our need to sleep, before her need to have us there. With the promise that we'd return the next day to do those very things.

She didn't wait around to see us live up to our promise. My mother died of a broken heart. Alone.