Writing Strength and Sorrow wasn't a choice; it was a surrender. It was the only way to heal, and in doing so, I hope to create a space for others to find strength.
The dirges during funerals in Western Kenya are meant to be celebratory- the joy of having met and experienced life with someone whose physical body is probably being kept in the same compound awaiting a set burial date. It is a time for the local villagers to get drunk and have a reason to spend the night outside around a bonfire, listening to the local DJ playing a casette tape that has been heard over and over again from his squelching meter-tall dusty speakers. It is also a time for the bereaved family to look for a cow (if the departed is a lady) or a bull (bless the departed man) that is going to feed the masses for as many a days as they would like to keep the actual burial ceremony pending.
I experienced these rites first-hand. In a span of one year, four close family members transitioned into the afterlife. Their voices now exist only in the memories of us who had to bury them. And in the videos that mobile phones were able to capture. Their names do not pop up anymore whenever the phone rings and certainly no need to call their numbers because the mobile service provider has possibly deactivated and blocked the numbers. But that is just again also half-truths because what if I call the number and someone else answers? I can’t bring myself to that. (PS: I did and I was totally heartbroken that it has been allocated to someone else)
Many stories end in death. However, I think that death was just but the beginning of mine. I was coincidentally 40 when all these happened. You know the saying about life beginning at a certain age, don’t you?
I learnt that people mourn differently. Even though we all shared a parent, my father was not necessarily my brother’s or sister’s father. Being the last-born in the family, the circumstances of mom mothering me were different from that of my eldest sister. She was older. She had retired. Dad had taken up full-time farming in place of a blue-collar job with the railways company. My siblings had his presence during his time in his 30s and 40s. He parented me in his late 50s till his death in his 80s.
Thus some of my siblings withdrew into their shells. Some became very vocal and easily sparked by the most trivial of issues. I burnt out from work. But I needed to be a phoenix to rise from those ashes and make the best of the circumstances. The therapist said something interesting that I knew all along, but probably needed someone to articulate it for it to take effect: Life moves on.
Inasmuch as I was consumed in my world of mourning, the local Dekamarkt supermarket still opened faithfully at 7:30am and closed at 8pm just as it was published on their website and on their main entrance. Internally though I was furious as to how the neighbour could still be going grocery shopping on Saturday afternoons just as he had done before. Didn’t he know that I am mourning? Couldn’t he see that I was enduring such heartache? But I also realised that they are not in my world, have never been and they never will be. My son’s school teacher still expected him to show up to school. On time. Every day. I had to wipe my tears and stand up and keep up. A community of friends helps. Living in a foreign land is hard enough on its own.
A common theme that I encountered was the encouragement to take a break. “Sign out of everything,” they said. “Go to Dubai for 2 weeks and then to Thailand for another two.” You see, not everyone has that luxury. Some are raising young children, while some are applying for jobs. We have a mortgage to pay and home renovations and repairs that are pending. I cannot leave for Chile for an ayahuasca-filled encounter in the desert. With whom do I leave my one year old son? Who is going to pack lunch for his elder brother?
I found solace in construction creativity. I am almost done with the renovation of my parents’ house and I tried to replicate European standards with the renovation. 100% match it is not, but I can say a close 95% it is. I saw how local fundis are able to produce quite impressive results with the right guidance and checking-ins, thanks to WhatsApp. I still listen to local Kenyan radio. Sundowner on KBC English service. Keeps warm the memories of those that have departed.
I did, as its founding editor but didn't get in that in this essay. I have a whole career trajectory with magazines that was happening concurrently with column writing.
Grew up on Saturday Magazine and Mantalk was first in line. Finding your writing in substack was a gem. I've devoured every piece. Am looking forward to having the book delivered and adding it to my collection.
We appreciate you for penning this book. As an ardent reader of your writings and articles since 2000 while at University of Nairobi, have always admired your perspective to writing. You always bear it all (sharp and honest) when tackling themes in focus. Thank you
The dirges during funerals in Western Kenya are meant to be celebratory- the joy of having met and experienced life with someone whose physical body is probably being kept in the same compound awaiting a set burial date. It is a time for the local villagers to get drunk and have a reason to spend the night outside around a bonfire, listening to the local DJ playing a casette tape that has been heard over and over again from his squelching meter-tall dusty speakers. It is also a time for the bereaved family to look for a cow (if the departed is a lady) or a bull (bless the departed man) that is going to feed the masses for as many a days as they would like to keep the actual burial ceremony pending.
I experienced these rites first-hand. In a span of one year, four close family members transitioned into the afterlife. Their voices now exist only in the memories of us who had to bury them. And in the videos that mobile phones were able to capture. Their names do not pop up anymore whenever the phone rings and certainly no need to call their numbers because the mobile service provider has possibly deactivated and blocked the numbers. But that is just again also half-truths because what if I call the number and someone else answers? I can’t bring myself to that. (PS: I did and I was totally heartbroken that it has been allocated to someone else)
Many stories end in death. However, I think that death was just but the beginning of mine. I was coincidentally 40 when all these happened. You know the saying about life beginning at a certain age, don’t you?
I learnt that people mourn differently. Even though we all shared a parent, my father was not necessarily my brother’s or sister’s father. Being the last-born in the family, the circumstances of mom mothering me were different from that of my eldest sister. She was older. She had retired. Dad had taken up full-time farming in place of a blue-collar job with the railways company. My siblings had his presence during his time in his 30s and 40s. He parented me in his late 50s till his death in his 80s.
Thus some of my siblings withdrew into their shells. Some became very vocal and easily sparked by the most trivial of issues. I burnt out from work. But I needed to be a phoenix to rise from those ashes and make the best of the circumstances. The therapist said something interesting that I knew all along, but probably needed someone to articulate it for it to take effect: Life moves on.
Inasmuch as I was consumed in my world of mourning, the local Dekamarkt supermarket still opened faithfully at 7:30am and closed at 8pm just as it was published on their website and on their main entrance. Internally though I was furious as to how the neighbour could still be going grocery shopping on Saturday afternoons just as he had done before. Didn’t he know that I am mourning? Couldn’t he see that I was enduring such heartache? But I also realised that they are not in my world, have never been and they never will be. My son’s school teacher still expected him to show up to school. On time. Every day. I had to wipe my tears and stand up and keep up. A community of friends helps. Living in a foreign land is hard enough on its own.
A common theme that I encountered was the encouragement to take a break. “Sign out of everything,” they said. “Go to Dubai for 2 weeks and then to Thailand for another two.” You see, not everyone has that luxury. Some are raising young children, while some are applying for jobs. We have a mortgage to pay and home renovations and repairs that are pending. I cannot leave for Chile for an ayahuasca-filled encounter in the desert. With whom do I leave my one year old son? Who is going to pack lunch for his elder brother?
I found solace in construction creativity. I am almost done with the renovation of my parents’ house and I tried to replicate European standards with the renovation. 100% match it is not, but I can say a close 95% it is. I saw how local fundis are able to produce quite impressive results with the right guidance and checking-ins, thanks to WhatsApp. I still listen to local Kenyan radio. Sundowner on KBC English service. Keeps warm the memories of those that have departed.
You didn't do a stint with a magazine called Adam?
I did, as its founding editor but didn't get in that in this essay. I have a whole career trajectory with magazines that was happening concurrently with column writing.
U know. I bought the first copy with John Githongo on the cover. I think I still have it somewhere. 😁
Grew up on Saturday Magazine and Mantalk was first in line. Finding your writing in substack was a gem. I've devoured every piece. Am looking forward to having the book delivered and adding it to my collection.
Thank you Mike. Wow. We have walked far together. Thank you for the company and support over all these years. Enjoy the read.
We appreciate you for penning this book. As an ardent reader of your writings and articles since 2000 while at University of Nairobi, have always admired your perspective to writing. You always bear it all (sharp and honest) when tackling themes in focus. Thank you
Thank you for those generous words. You had my back for a long time. I appreciate this.
Got my copy.
Thank you Oyunga Pala. When you come back home, reach out / call me. I owe you a big meal, at a place of your choice.
Asante ndugu