THE ONE WHO WAS

The house felt like an abandoned castle in far off lands and it was just the two of us left: my mother and I. My older siblings were in boarding school at the time and father was out of town for sales work. The dimly lit pendant at the dining was the only light on as we had our tiny scoops of ugali. Once she was done with the dishes, I took my mother upstairs to her bedroom door like the 10 year old man that I was. As I descended the last flight of steps heading back, I heard her call from above at the railing edge, "Aren't you scared to go alone?" "No I am not. I am not afraid of the dark." I replied looking up at her. Little did I know that I would need that answer more in the coming years of my life.

****

'Twas on the 24th day of the month of February, 2010. Early morning before dawn I heard our car reverse on the driveway and on looking through my curtains' edges, I saw my father and uncle, Tom. I was up already because I was preparing for my Social Studies exam on that day. Minutes later, my brother Shem stormed in the bedroom, swept everything off the table, sat on his bed and held down his head with his hands. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Mum's dead." It caught me by surprise and took me some moments to process that to which I stood up from my spring bed that I had sunk into, went to my closet, buried myself in the clothes and surprisingly, unto me till date, I smiled. I smiled at death like an old-time friend.

Friends and relatives that came early that morning found me in my bedroom and they took turns to say their condolence. I recall a profound moment in which our close family friend, Prof. Wilkister, sat next to me on my spring bed and rubbed my back gently in eccentric circles until I fell asleep. When I awoke from the slumber, I was born into a new being.

****

Tabitha left me at twelve years of age. In those years, I spent most of my time in school than with her. Memories of her, on my perspective, are minutest relative to my siblings who were older. Even then, in these shared memories, I remember her in pain more than in joy. In sickness than in health.

"Do you feel that?" She once asked me as she guided my hand through on her breast. "It's a bit hard. What is it?" I asked. "I am going to Nairobi to have it checked." She replied.

Months and years later, I saw her losing her curly hair. Her light skinned complexion turned dark and her body rejected most meals in excruciating vomiting. The flight of steps to her room felt like she was walking on shattered glass for the pain she cried out. It was breast cancer.

The days she was admitted to hospital were dreadful. What never made sense to me was that at Aga Khan Hospital I wasn't allowed to visit her because I wasn't of age. We thus waved at each other from a distance through the window. What seemed as early trials of video call, she would record herself on a camcorder to which I would be given and watch on repeat. The sickness got out of hand and the next thing I remember was seeing her at the deathbed in Kenyatta National Hospital, withered to the bone, to which her last message to me was, "Work hard."

As fate did allow, later I found myself standing at her grave with a lump of soil in my tiny right hand that I didn't want to let loose on the dark mahogany casket beneath. "Let it go." My sister soothed me as she eased my grip. I drowned in the wailing of the people around me as Sweet By and By was being sang by some. Ever since my ears have never been attuned to hearing that song. What beautiful shore are we meeting on?

However, I couldn't wait for the burial to end so that I could play with my Play Station that my bigger brother Kevin had bought for me from US. He had promised that he would allow me to have it only after the burial. "Mom was a staunch Christian but she won't make it out of there if Jesus comes." I joked lightly to my siblings as I saw a concrete mix being cast above the casket. "Can we now play Fifa and GTA?" I asked my brother. "I guess it's time." He responded.

Just like that my memories of sorrow and loss were swallowed in video games and humor. My bestfriend Allan often asks me, "God-forbid it happens to me. How will I make it through?" Often I say, borrowing from The Blacklist, that nothing really takes the pain away but eventually you find a way to live with it. There will be nightmares and everyday you wake up it will be the first thing that you think of. Until one day, it will be the second thing. Better still, I always look up and say, "I am not afraid of the dark."