My brother Nick- was my greatest source of strength, and amplitude. I still think about him often, more than I should. I can't go a day without having him on my thoughts. I sometimes wish he were here, even for a moment, so we can do proper farewells. Sometimes, it makes me sad though, cause Nick being gone, a certain waft of sadness creeps in. The man was not good, he was great.
Everyday, I think how great an uncle to Maya he'd become. He met her once, in her infant gear and I knew they'd get along. The girl was full of sleep, cry and play. They'd definitely get along. One day, I might get to show her a picture of him, watch her curiosity grow and ask her what she thinks of the man.
Maybe she'd look into his picture frame and wonder, what made the man tick. He would seem peaceful, and besides they'd be some quiet about him in the picture. Some sort of tranquility, amidst the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Maya and I will roll down the years. I hope to draw a picture of her when she'd just turned 2 months. I'll remind her how much pride and happiness it elicited on La Familia. When he saw her, he was first to comment - and Chelel is whom she thought she was.
I will tell her about him. Of the great moments I shared with him. Of the stories- enthralling, mellow, sad or reticent that we told. Of the lame, sally or funny jokes we cracked. Of the great Swahili novels we read. And of the films, treacherous, heart wrenching or colorful that we watched. I will tell her about Maskini, Babu Yangu! and how we took turns to read such a great piece of writing. I will tell her of Ranchodas and his greatest adversary yet, Chatur, in one the great films that we watched over and again sometimes in 2015. I will tell her of his great business acumen, industry and drive to do great things. I will tell her of the pomp, and the warmth of his presence around us - in the small ways, in the big ways, and in every way that mattered.
Maybe then she'd know him. She'd try to pierce all information together, and there's a big chance she might ace it. There so much more to infer in the way he sat on a wheeler. Pensive, and almost lackluster. Eyes that roved the horizon like a new moon. A fervent voice. Hairs that grew defiantly on his head, unfettered and unkempt. Shoes that were spotless, and undaunted. A pair of cheerful socks. With a phone affixed to his hand, it would mean there was a song on repeat mode - like A Thousand Miles, perhaps? Maybe, a podcast, a poem or a recording? There were days he'd listen to John Karani on Sundowner and watch the sun sink into the hills far and wide. Then he'd make a certain look and tease us - heri nusu ya shari... [pause]..and his intonation could change ......kuliko shari kamili. And we'd laugh. It was great comic relief then, still is, although it's been hard to find someone with his kinda vibe.
He was born great, or rather, there was a drop of greatness about him. He could make things move or happen, even with his limitations, and in ways that brought forth great reflection. He had some aura around him as well.
Sometimes when I think of him, my eyes get teary. There's no denying he was my favorite sibling. In my life, for the people that profess or claim their love for me, he stood out. I could feel his love proliferate, and he didn't have to say it. And I loved him in equal measure. And each passing day, even as we move on with our lives, I reminisce of the moments I shared with him.
I must admit - it hasn't been easy for me to let go. When I was sad, he was my comfort. When I needed a pat on the back, he did and with such ease I can only be thankful for. And for all and sundry, he put some smile on my face and a everyone else's around him.
I try as much as possible to write our interactions in detail. My fear is that these memories might go away, grow fickle or etch away. I relish writing these raw details, because they espouse my vulnerabilities and my truest self. And there's no harm in being your authentic self, and especially matters concerning my realest G.
In the calm of the heavens dappled with angelic comfort, I hope to see him some day, and shake his hand.
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In the meantime, I am all about inis vitae sed non amoris. A lot has been going on in my life lately, but well que sera sera. I am growing pale in thought, and I can't seem to hold any of it on my mind for a second. I can sense I am giving in, and this makes me tense and terse. I hope to hold the forte much longer. I hope.
This kinda hope is like a black blanket drenched in water and hang on a very thin strand on a windy morning. Looks like all hope has dissipated, and in there is a big hole of exasperation. In the silence of that hole, there's pointless years of strive, and struggle. Of a hole huge, that at some point it has one worried about things - and the very essence of existence in the first place. There's some contrition brewing in the air. But that ain't enough, right?
Nothing goes unnoticed like having to labor for years, and for what. A chance at glory? A shot at life's finest offerings? Some kin to assure one's lineage or posterity? All for nothing.
As you simmer and jolt in a cocktail of regret and penitence, it comes to your realization that all is vanity. There's always room to write your destiny, and to start on a fresh slate. And it ain't easy.
Gearing towards a new month, here's to starting and running your race. Here's to the formative steps of getting back on track. Here's to putting emphasis on people that matter. Here's to you amigo!
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