THE STORIES WE CARRY FOWARD

In the midst of death, what do you really see? When you find yourself standing among those who

are grieving, what comes to mind? You feel their pain, your heart aches with them; even when, to

be sincere, you did not know the one who has passed away personally. You stand there, holding a

hand, offering a hug, and you realize that the only reason you can relate is because at some point

in your life, you, too, have tasted grief. You have buried someone who mattered to you, and the

memory of that sorrow allows you to show empathy now. You feel sorrow for your friend

because you know, deep down, that things will never be the same for them.

If such loss is foreign to you, you gaze skyward, hoping life spares you for a while. We resist

imagining grief arriving tomorrow or next week. We treat death as a distant possibility, reserved

for “old people” or “other families,” until it enters our own home. Life relentlessly reminds us

that the border between existence and absence is far narrower than we admit.

When death strikes, stories about those we've lost emerge—some with tears, others with laughter.

People remember the grandfather who brought joy with his games or the mother who never left

you behind, no matter the errand. If she was going to a wedding or the market, or just visiting a

neighbor, you were there with her, sometimes waiting for hours, but always by her side.

And then there is the uncle who, after a drink, could turn a gathering into chaos—chasing

everyone with a panga, not out of malice, but as his way of showing 'love and discipline'. Back

then, it was terrifying; now, it's a source of laughter. Eventually, he sobered up, apologized, and

life moved on.

Grandma is remembered too, especially for her food. There is always that one dish no one else

could make the way she did. Even now, no matter how many times you try to recreate it, it never

tastes the same. Maybe it wasn’t the ingredients; I suppose it was her love, her patience, her

warm hands, or the three stone wood fireplace that added a flavor modern kitchen cannot imitate.

There was also the relative who criticized everything—commenting on weight, relationships,

cooking, or child-rearing. Yet, when they're gone, those irritating habits become memories that

make you smile, softening with time.

It is true what people say: “The one you miss is the one who annoyed you the most.”

Some funerals are heavy and tearful; others feel like a graduation into eternal rest. There are also

departures that bring relief, offering peace to loved ones after suffering. We hold on to memories

because they remain when the flesh is gone, weaving into daily life: recalling a loved one’s

recipe, a friend’s walks, or an uncle’s jokes that made laughter an appetizer.

Even the so-called “black sheep” of the family starts to make sense to you. With age, you begin

to understand that they weren’t necessarily rebellious for the sake of it; they were doing life on

their own terms, living with a freedom the rest of the family didn’t understand at the time.

Sometimes, the one who rebelled was only trying to breathe.

But as time goes by, something shifts. You start noticing the people around you aging. It catches

you off guard. Your parents, uncles, aunties, and neighbors who once seemed invincible

suddenly begin to slow down. It feels like it was just yesterday when your parents could do a

hundred things before noon: cooking, cleaning, running errands, hosting guests, solving family

disputes, running a business, and still having energy to shout at you for not doing your chores

properly.

Now, you watch them as their knees try to fight them, and they have to use anything in their

reach to stand up. Their steps become careful and calculated. Their eyesight needs glasses. Their

hearing fades, and you find yourself becoming the one who repeats sentences for them.

Sometimes they forget your age or your children’s names, and you wonder when the roles

became reversed. You wonder how life sprinted ahead of you so quickly, leaving you standing

there, forced to accept a reality you didn’t ask for. Your heart breaks a little, but you remind

yourself to stay strong because life is not yet done. There is still love to give, care to offer, and

honor to show.

Your priorities shift. The small annoyances—what to cook, what to wear, which dessert to

pick—lose their urgency. Even big decisions, such as where to send your children to school or

how to grow your business, seem less daunting.

Life teaches you, gently but firmly, what truly matters.

You begin to see the truth of the African proverb: “When an old person dies, a library burns to

the ground.” You cherish conversations with the older people, knowing wisdom lives in them

and time is short. Understanding that tomorrow isn’t promised humbles you, teaches gratitude,

and urges you not to postpone love, forgiveness, or time together.

You stop waiting for life to present grand moments so you can finally enjoy it. You learn to be

present, to really taste your food, to listen with your heart, to hug a little longer, to laugh without

holding back, to say “I love you” without fear of sounding dramatic.

Your faith, even if quiet, becomes more real. You find yourself whispering small prayers, not

only in moments of sorrow but in ordinary days; for strength, for peace, for gratitude. You start

to see God not as a distant being but as a comforting presence walking with you through each

season. You realize that heaven is not just a concept spoken at funerals, but a hope stitched into

the heart, a soft reminder that love does not end where the body does.

And with time, you learn that life is not measured by how long we live, but by how deeply we

love. It’s not the grand achievements people remember most; it’s how you made them feel,

whether they felt seen, valued, welcomed, safe in your presence. Kindness becomes a legacy of

its own.

You treasure simple moments: the job you have, a roof overhead, people who check in, laughter

over tea. You take photos to freeze a moment, hug tighter, forgive quicker, and love harder,

aware that everyone faces silent battles and life is short.

You begin to live with intention, not fear. You hold your people closer and make memories on

purpose, knowing the small moments—the laughter, shared meals, inside jokes, and whispered

prayers—form the stories that keep our loved ones’ spirits alive. These stories not only bring

comfort after loss, but also remind us daily of what truly matters: loving deeply and cherishing

each moment together. The stories we carry forward shape our lives and become our lasting

legacy.