Sending the Lift Down: The stairs that called me back

Sending the Lift Down: Stories from Mang’u Primary
A reflection on mentorship, community, and the quiet power of small actions.

Part 1

Every so often, I receive requests for mentorship. At other times, I find myself reaching out to others seeking mentorship. Occasionally, someone tells me that I mentored them—without even realizing it. I am also certain there are many people I have looked up to for guidance, some of whom may not be fully aware of the impact they have had on my life. One thing is clear: I am quite passionate about mentoring.

Mentorship is a supportive relationship in which a more experienced person shares knowledge, advice, and encouragement to help another person grow in their career, business, or personal development. In many settings, this reflects intergenerational guidance, where elders, professionals, or community leaders support younger people to navigate education, employment, and entrepreneurship pathways. Traditionally, in the African culture, it was based more on age sets, where the older group held the hands of the younger groups.

Mentorship can also be informal—often it is. It is learning through experience from someone who has walked the path before you. Everyone needs mentoring at one time or another, and I believe everyone can mentor someone else. Listening to my ten-year-old explain to his younger cousins what they should or should not do is enough to convince me that mentoring happens at every stage of life!

Mentorship is different from coaching in that it can be less structured and more long-term, focusing on overall growth, guidance, and shared experience, and I find that it is a two-way process, as there is always something new to learn even from younger generations. Especially from younger generations! Coaching, on the other hand, is typically a structured process aimed at achieving a specific goal or improving a particular skill within a defined timeframe. Both have a place in our lives.

I have had different experiences as both a mentor and a mentee. And this takes me back to the roots—where it all started.

My earliest meaningful experience of mentoring was in high school. My alma mater—the one and only Alliance Girls’ High School- had a very intentional mentorship programme when I was a student. I can still recall the life lessons I learned, and I have found myself implementing many of them and repeating them to others. Every second term of the academic year, we had three days of group mentorship sessions, with space for one-on-one conversations.

Arguably, what made it even more enjoyable was that for those three days, there were no classes! Imagine school minus academic learning, what could be more fun? During these days before the end of term and closing for the holidays, we had these social skills sessions, with diverse speakers, special meals, and movies in the evening! For a high school student, that sounded like the perfect arrangement. At one time, the teachers decided to wear different hats, and we had a wonderful experience when they were speaking with us, not as our teachers but as mentors. It was fun, and we learned a great deal. Many years later, many of us can still recall the life lessons, quotes, and experiences from those sessions. I can say with confidence that this experience influenced my life in profound ways.

This was where it started.
This is what inspired me to go back to the roots.

For years, I had recurring dreams—nightmares.

In those dreams, I found myself back at my former primary school, struggling to climb the stairs to the first floor. The steps felt slippery, unstable, and frightening. I would push forward, determined to reach the top, but the climb was always difficult. It was a scary experience, and the struggle felt real every single time.

That school was Mang’u Primary, the school in my village that shaped my childhood years. It was about two kilometres from my home.

I suppose everyone believes their school was the best—but for me, Mang’u truly was.

I am also aware that not everyone has positive memories of school, and for that reason, I remain grateful that my formative years still hold such fond memories. The school motto was:
“Whatever I will do, I will do it to my best.”

There was also a reward system. We received prizes for monthly exams, which were highly motivating for us as pupils.

Years later, as I moved on to high school, the school became more distant in my daily life. We would occasionally talk about those moments, but they slowly became childhood memories. Still, we remembered what it meant to be pupils in a school that had a new two-storey academic block building.

In those days, in the village, having a storey building—shule ya gorofa—was a big deal. Only the upper classes, classes 7 and 8, and the head teacher’s office occupied the upstairs rooms. It felt like a privilege, a sign that you were nearing the next stage of life.

Yet in my dreams, those same stairs became a symbol of struggle.
A frightening one.

Over time, I realised the dreams were not really about stairs.
They were about responsibility.
They were about unfinished work.

At the time, I did not fully understand the message, but the school remained firmly etched in my mind.

Mang’u Primary had once been a source of pride. Pupils performed well academically and participated actively in extracurricular activities. In one memorable year, several pupils transitioned to highly competitive secondary schools. The school had momentum, confidence, and ambition.

But as the years passed, that energy faded. It became harder to see the shine that had once defined the school.

I kept asking myself a question that many of us quietly carry:
How do you give back to the place that gave you your start?

In my family, we sometimes spoke about it. We remembered the “good old days,” but it was never clear how to begin. My siblings encouraged me to act, yet starting is often the hardest part. You wonder whether your contribution will matter. You wonder whether you have enough to offer.

Then one day, a few of us simply decided to show up.

We walked to the school with my two sisters, introduced ourselves to the teachers, and began mentoring pupils. Friends joined. Cousins joined. Even people who had never attended the school joined. We organised mentorship sessions, prize-giving ceremonies, and tree-planting activities.

We were not experts.
We were simply former pupils and friends who cared.

And slowly, something began to change.

One day, without warning, the recurring nightmares stopped. I did not notice immediately. But while climbing those stairs during a mentorship session, I realised the dreams were gone.

Looking back, I understood why.
The dreams had been a call to action—a quiet reminder that when you have climbed, you must send the lift down.

Sometimes it is hard to imagine what you can give back. When we started mentoring, we were simply young people determined to contribute. We began with monthly sessions and soon saw their impact, both academically and socially. We did not have much. We did not have a formal proposal. We only had willing hearts and energy.

As we continued returning to the school, memories resurfaced. I remembered the prize-giving days and the pride we felt receiving recognition when I was a student and wanted to replicate this. When we began mentoring, we reintroduced some of those traditions. It became one of the most fulfilling engagements I have ever been part of.

One key lesson I learned is this: You do not need much to motivate young people. Sometimes all it takes is a willing heart.

I remain deeply grateful to the many friends who stepped in at different moments and walked this journey with us. It was never an individual effort. It was a shared vision.

Coming next in the series:
Post 2 of 4 — Sending the Lift Down: The boy who almost missed an opportunity.

A Cow, a Feast, and a Decision she never made

A certain event remains vivid in my mind, even decades later.

One morning, my paternal grandmother woke as she always did—before the sun had fully risen, before the day had announced itself. Her routine was steady and unremarkable, as most women’s labour often is: necessary, repetitive, and rarely acknowledged.

Her day revolved around farming on her small but precious piece of land or carrying out chores in the homestead. If the task for the day involved going to the farm, she would wake early to return before the sun grew too hot. In rural Kiambu, where I grew up, this rhythm was familiar.

When she went to the farm, she carried cow manure, balanced carefully, knowing it would nourish the soil and sustain the crops. When she returned home, she carried fodder for the cow. Nothing was wasted. Everything had a purpose.

I especially remember her passing by our home to share sugar cane or sweet potatoes, as grandmothers often do—small gestures that carried warmth, care, and continuity.

On that particular day, she went about her daily routine. It was an ordinary day.
Or so it seemed.

That afternoon, she arrived at her home—a homestead she shared with her co-wives and several children and grandchildren—only to find a family gathering already underway. This, too, was common at my grandparents’ home.

My grandfather had a habit we loved as children. We would wake up to find one of our cousins knocking on the door with a message. The instructions were usually two-fold: one for my father and one for us, the children.

To my father:
“Grandfather has asked you to go to the village.”

Although we were already in the village, we referred to my grandfather’s home as gĩcagi—the village.

Then the cousin would turn to one of us and say:
“All of you, you were also told to come later.”

We understood immediately. That message meant there would be roast meat.

We did not need a special occasion to celebrate. Any weekend could turn into a feast. We would join other relatives, conversations would spill across the compound, and as children, we loved these gatherings. They meant laughter, stories, and—most importantly—meat. Goat or beef roasting over an open fire was the unmistakable signal that the day was special.

My grandmother must have felt a sense of anticipation as she walked into the compound, greeted by the familiar, inviting smell of a meal already in preparation. After hours of labour, what a welcome reward that must have felt like.

But her joy was short-lived.

She walked to the cowshed.

It was empty.

At first, she stood still in confusion. Then the realisation dawned.

This was not just a gathering with goat meat.
It was a large feast.

A cow had been slaughtered.

Her cow.
Her only cow.

The animal she fed every day.
The cow whose manure enriched her land.
The cow whose milk contributed to her nutrition.
The cow whose potential sale represented security in times of need.

The cow was gone.

What she had not been told—what she had not been consulted on, was that a decision had already been made. The cow had been slaughtered, and the feast was already underway. The head of the household had decided, and that was not up for discussion.

A family celebration, it turned out, was financed by her labour, her asset and her livelihood—quietly appropriated.

I still remember her crying.

This story is not unique. It is deeply familiar across rural Africa and in different versions across the world.

For generations, women have been central to agricultural systems—planting, weeding, harvesting, feeding livestock, managing manure, preserving seeds, and safeguarding household food security. Yet decision-making authority often rest elsewhere, with the male family member.

Assets may be described as belonging to “the family,” but control frequently lies with men or senior household members. Livestock has long been a gendered asset. In Africa, cattle represent wealth, status, and social capital. They are used to pay school fees, settle debts, host ceremonies, pay bride price or signal prestige.

Yet even when women are the primary caretakers, their ownership is often conditional.

Women may have access to the cow—its milk, its manure, and the daily responsibilities associated with its care—but not control over the cow itself. They may not decide when to sell it, slaughter it, or use it as collateral. In some cases, if the cow is sold, they receive no share of the proceeds.

The cow is hers to feed, but not hers to decide.

For my grandmother, that cow was not simply an animal.

It was a livelihood.
It was income.
It was insurance against hardship.
It was a source of soil fertility that sustained crop yields season after season.

In many households, such an asset can determine whether a family remains resilient or becomes vulnerable. Losing it without consultation was not only emotionally painful, it was economically consequential.

And yet, culturally, the cow was also considered part of the family. It had a name. It was spoken to. It shaped daily routines.

I remember the cow in our own household growing up. She was called Kairitu, which means “girl.” She was a good dairy cow—not producing large quantities of milk, but milk of excellent quality. Some neighbours would reserve milk in advance when she was expecting, knowing its value.

My mother managed the milk and made decisions about the income generated from it. My father supported her, particularly when specialised veterinary services were required from Thika—the nearest town to our village—if the local veterinarian could not resolve the issue.

That experience revealed an important contrast: women can manage resources effectively when decision-making authority is recognised. That cow was the main reason mum had a source of income despite not having formal work. Most of the other farm produce was used as subsistence, to feed the household.

Yet in my grandmother’s case, the final decision rested elsewhere. My grandfather had the authority.

What struck me most, even as a child, was not only the loss itself, but the silence surrounding it.

No explanation was offered. No apology was expected.

Her labour had been taken for granted.
Her contribution absorbed into the collective.
Her voice was absent from the decision.

Life moved on. Meals were eaten. The gathering continued.

The event became a story retold over the years—
“the day granny found her cow had been slaughtered.”

I do not know how many other decisions she could not make. But this one remains with me.

May she rest in eternal peace.

This is how inequality often operates—not through dramatic confrontation, but through everyday practices that become normalised over time.

Women in agrifood systems require more than access.
They require control.
They require decision-making authority.
They require recognised ownership.

Access to land, finance, and inputs is necessary, but insufficient without the ability to determine how those resources are used.

Without control, women remain exposed to the same quiet dispossessions my grandmother experienced.

Her story reminds us that development is not abstract.
It is lived in everyday decisions.

It appears when a woman returns from the field expecting continuity and instead encounters loss.
When assets she depends on disappear through decisions she was never part of.
When systems rely on her labour but deny her authority.

The cow that was not hers ultimately tells a larger story about power, gender, and agriculture.

Who truly owns productive assets?
Whose voice determines how those assets are used?
What does “family ownership” mean when decision-making is unequal?

Why this story matters in the international year of the woman farmer

The International Year of the Woman Farmer (IYWF) 2026 invites us to do more than recognise women’s contributions to agriculture. It requires confronting the structural inequalities that shape those contributions.

My grandmother’s story sits squarely within this reality.

Across regions, women have always been farmers—food producers, livestock keepers, seed custodians, and land managers. Yet their work has frequently been framed as assistance rather than leadership, labour rather than authority.

The result is a persistent gap between responsibility and power.

Women feed households and manage productive resources yet often lack control over the assets that sustain livelihoods. This imbalance is not incidental; it is embedded in social norms, inheritance systems, and institutional practices that determine who can decide, who can benefit, and who can accumulate assets.

The cow that disappeared from my grandmother’s shed illustrates this structural gap. It reflects a system where women’s agricultural labour is indispensable but undervalued, where ownership is informal and revocable, and where decisions are made in spaces from which women are excluded.

These dynamics remain visible today:

  • In livestock markets where women produce animals but rarely control sales
  • In land tenure systems where use does not translate into ownership
  • In value chains where women absorb risk but capture limited returns

Marking the IYWF without addressing these realities would be incomplete.

Recognition must extend beyond visibility to accountability. It must challenge norms that allow women’s productive assets to be mobilised without their consent. It must position women not only as farmers, but as economic actors with enforceable rights.

This year is therefore not only about honouring women farmers today.
It is about acknowledging the women of the past—like my grandmother—whose labour sustained households and food systems while their authority remained constrained.

Their experiences remind us that gender equality in agriculture is not new work.
It is unfinished work.

When school fees stand in the way of a dream

I often say that if I had a magic wand, I would ensure that every child could access the education they desire, and that school fees would never be a barrier. That wish is deeply personal to me. It comes from lived experience, from memories of struggle, and from the quiet determination of my parents—who believed in education even when paying for it was a constant challenge.

My parents were unwavering in their commitment to our schooling. They did not have much, but they had conviction. They believed that education could open doors that circumstances had closed for them. They carried that belief faithfully, even when the financial burden was heavy. Today, they are no longer with us, but their sacrifices continue to shape the way I see the world and the choices I make.

Growing up in Kiambu County, in Mang’u village, I had big aspirations. Education seemed like the clearest path towards achieving them. When I received the opportunity to attend a national school in Kenya, it felt like my wildest dream had come true.

But that joy was soon overshadowed by worry. I remember wondering whether I would be able to stay in school, whether the fees would be paid, and whether the dream would slip away just as it had begun. It was a difficult period, filled with uncertainty.

Yet, somehow, I made it.
I struggled through it—but I made it.

Those experiences stayed with me. They shaped not only my appreciation for education, but also my sense of responsibility toward others who face similar challenges. Over the years, supporting education has become one of my quiet passions. Sometimes this support has been organized with some peers who have similar values, and sometimes it has been more ad hoc, responding to a need as it arises as once off.

My focus has been on secondary school education which is quite expensive in Kenya. At times, I have worried about sustainability. I asked myself: What about tomorrow? What if I cannot continue? What if this once-off is not enough for the young lady or gentleman to finish school?
Then it struck me that life is lived one day at a time. What matters is doing what we can, when we can, with the resources available to us at that moment.

There is something profoundly moving about meeting a child or a parent who feels helpless and then witnesses gradual change over the years. Seeing a child remain in school, gain confidence, and begin to imagine a future—that is deeply fulfilling. It is a reminder that even small acts of support can create meaningful shifts in people’s lives.

Two things stand out most strongly from these experiences.

The first is the impact on parents, especially mothers. I have watched their attitudes evolve over time, often moving from anxiety and resignation towards hope. One mother once told me that she believed she had benefited more emotionally from the support than her daughters had. That statement stayed with me. It revealed the quiet burden many parents carry: the pain of wanting the best for their children yet feeling powerless to provide it.

I can only imagine the sorrow of a parent who is convinced that education could open doors for their child but lacks the means to make it possible. At the very least, education offers children structure, socialization, and the confidence to navigate life. At its best, it creates opportunities that can transform entire families.

The second thing that stands out is the message I repeatedly hear from the children themselves.
Again and again, they say:

“I want to be able to help others in the future.”

That simple statement is deeply inspiring. It amazes me how quickly this comes out from the mouths of this young people and sometimes the parents. It reflects a cycle of generosity that extends beyond the immediate moment. When people receive support, many develop a desire to give back. They carry forward the kindness they experienced, and in doing so, they multiply its impact.

This is what keeps me committed to supporting education. It is not only about school fees or academic achievement. It is about dignity, hope, and possibility. It is about breaking cycles of limitation and nurturing cycles of opportunity.

Who will walk with her?

There are many people doing work to support education in Kenya with large- and small-scale interventions, and there are some individuals like me who feel like the hummingbird as one or two students may feel insignificant. In many cases the sponsorships are for the “bright children”.  I will reflect on this later, but my key question usually is “what about her or him?” What about the child who is not performing well academically, but also needs to access an education? Who will support her/him?

Education is rarely sustained by individuals alone. Behind every child who remains in school, there is often a network—parents, relatives, teachers, neighbours, and community members—each contributing in small but meaningful ways. When that network is absent, the risk of exclusion increases, particularly for children from low-income households.

This is why mentorship and community support matter.

Not every person can pay school fees, but many can offer guidance, encouragement, and time. A conversation, consistent follow-up, or simply showing interest in a child’s progress can strengthen confidence and motivation. For parents, especially mothers who often carry primary responsibility for children’s wellbeing; having someone who listens and offers practical advice can reduce isolation and restore hope.

Supporting education does not require large resources. It requires collective commitment.

Each of us can play a role.
You can mentor a child in your community.
You can check in on a struggling family.
You can share information about scholarships or training opportunities.
You can contribute—individually or as a group—to support a child’s continued learning.

Communities become stronger when responsibility for children’s education is shared. When adults invest time, knowledge, and care, children are more likely to stay in school, complete their studies, and develop the confidence to contribute positively to society.

If you are reading this, I invite you to consider one simple question:

Who is one child or young person you can support—starting today?

It does not have to be a large commitment. It only needs to be consistent. Or it can be once-off and some parent or child somewhere will feel that their prayer has been answered.

Because when communities come together to support education, opportunity becomes more accessible, and hope becomes more sustainable—for children, for parents, and for the future.

A dedication

This journey, and the values that guide it, began with my parents, the late John Ngugi and the late Mary Wambui.

They believed in education with a quiet determination that never wavered, even when the cost felt overwhelming. They carried responsibilities that were heavier than their resources, yet they chose to invest in our future. Their commitment was not expressed in grand words, but in daily sacrifices—prioritising school fees, encouraging perseverance, and reminding us that education could create possibilities beyond our immediate circumstances.

They are no longer here to witness the lives that continue to be shaped by the opportunities they fought so hard to provide. But their legacy lives on—in every child who stays in school, in every parent who regains hope, and in every small step taken towards a better future.

This work is, and will always be, a tribute to them.
To their resilience.
To their faith in education.
And to their belief that even in the face of struggle, investing in a child’s learning is never in vain.

Losing mum over and over again: the grief of dementia and death.

Today, I read this article, “The never-ending grief of dementia,” which brought back many memories and experiences in the never-ending grief of dementia.

This article really resonates with me, especially in light of my own experience of losing my mother—not once, but twice. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when Mum started losing her memory, but as a family, we began to notice subtle signs at different times. We were all at various stages of acceptance, and I remember one instance in our family WhatsApp group where we argued over an event that she had mentioned to one of us. My sibling was convinced it was factual, since Mum had provided very specific details. But as time went on, it became clear that she was blending events and creating new interpretations, unable to remember certain details accurately.

Navigating between respecting her autonomy and managing the growing challenges was difficult. Small things began to signal that something was wrong—like when she left the electric kettle on without water or forgot to turn off the gas stove. As a safety measure, we removed unnecessary appliances from the house. Mum was fiercely independent, particularly in the kitchen, and she resisted any help. Finding a house worker was also a struggle. We were caught between ensuring her safety and honoring her wish to remain in control of her environment.

As her condition progressed, we became more mindful of how we communicated with her. One day, I called her, and she was holding the phone in such a way that I couldn’t hear her clearly. I mentioned that the call was unclear, and the next thing I knew, she had stopped using the phone altogether, convinced I had said it was broken and I would buy her a new one. The phone was new, yes, but it was slightly different from the one she had used before, and my brother had struggled to find the exact model. After that, she never used the phone again. It wasn’t a huge issue—we were able to communicate with Dad instead.

We slowly realized that Mum could no longer manage new things on her own. So, when we needed to replace items, we tried to get exact matches for what she was familiar with—little things like that. But there were also bigger issues, like when she started misplacing significant amounts of money over time. Dad had to take on a bigger role in ensuring everything in the kitchen was safe, especially when it came to turning off the gas, which was a major hazard.

Eventually, Mum and Dad both agreed to having a helper in the house. Over time, Mum allowed the helper to cook for them, which, though difficult, was a huge relief. It was one less thing for her to manage, and one less thing for all of us to worry about.

The Long Road: Navigating the Emotional and Practical Challenges of Dementia

It was an arduous journey, watching my mum slowly slip away from the vibrant woman she once was, while my dad grappled with sadness and frustration, unable to fully understand how to care for her. I would watch her and wonder, Is she happy? What was she feeling deep inside? It was as though she was becoming someone else, and I was losing the connection we once shared.

There were times when she would tell a story — she was always such a great storyteller — and I would soon realize she wasn’t talking to me at all. One day, she spoke to me about something and then casually mentioned my grandfather’s advice, as if he were still alive. But my grandpa had passed away in the early ‘80s. She was looking at me, but somehow speaking to me like I was one of her younger sisters. It broke my heart. I would keep a straight face, hiding the tears I shed in private. My heart ached with every moment she didn’t recognize me. I would hope, with all my being, that she would know me when I came home. Sometimes she did, but often she didn’t. And every time, I cried. Eventually, the tears didn’t come as often when she didn’t recognize me anymore, but what remained was a profound understanding that, at least in that moment, I knew her. I still loved her.

One day, I went home with a friend. Mum was in great spirits, telling us stories from her childhood and laughing with us. For a few precious hours, I felt like I had the mum I used to know back. But, shortly after we left, she told my sister-in-law that some women had come to visit. She had forgotten everything. It was painful, but it became part of our reality.

The Strain of Dementia on Her Health

Dementia didn’t just cloud her memory—it also took a toll on her physical health. Despite the numerous hospital visits, her dementia was never officially diagnosed, and the challenges continued to grow. Mum had managed her diabetes and blood pressure well, sticking to her medication and diet with remarkable discipline. She rarely had issues. But as her memory faltered, so did her self-care. She began refusing her medication and rejecting the healthy meals she once insisted on. Her health began to decline as she gained back the weight she had once lost, and her love for sugar and wheat became a constant challenge.

Mum, being her usual strong-willed self, was often hard to convince when it came to making changes. She’d insist, “No doctor has ever told me not to take sugar.” She was firm, and no matter how much we explained, she wouldn’t back down. So, we began hiding the sugar, even enforcing a no-sugar policy in the house. But she’d find ways around it, pouring sugar into her tea whenever she could. The struggle to get her to follow basic health routines became a daily battle, and her assertiveness made it all the more difficult.

There were days when convincing her to do something as simple as taking a shower, going to bed, or even just getting up was exhausting. Sometimes, it would take an hour of gentle coaxing, repeating instructions repeatedly as if starting from scratch. I often felt helpless, but my younger sister had a way with her. She could calm Mum down and get things done. I would freeze and lack the strength for this. I didn’t have the right words to explain the feeling of helplessness that would wash over me in those moments, but it was overwhelming. I tried to avoid being the one to push her to do anything. The knot in my stomach would tighten, but I knew we were all doing our best.

Interestingly, Mum would often listen to my brothers more readily. After an hour or more of trying to get her to do something, if one of my brothers came along, she would usually obey. It taught us all a lot about patience and compassion. We learned to stay calm, to laugh, and to accept the small victories—getting her to take that shower or go to bed, even if it took longer than we thought.

The journey was hard, but we held on to the love we still shared..

But Is She Really Happy?

A question kept nagging me—is she really happy? I wished I could get into her mind and know for sure. We did our best, but was it enough? It often felt like trial and error, navigating through her needs and struggles, hoping we were making the right choices.

The Uncertainty of Care

Visits to the hospital offered no solutions for her memory loss. Sometimes, the medications made things worse, leaving her drowsy for most of the day. While we were focused on Mum’s deteriorating health, Dad’s illness crept up on us too. His body weakened, but his memory remained sharp until the day he rested.

Mum, however, was slipping further into dementia, struggling to fit into a world that no longer made sense to her. I learned that memory loss first erases the recent past, leaving only distant years’ memories intact. She seemed to be living in an earlier time, perhaps her youth—before we were even in her life. Our home felt foreign to her. She would often ask, “When are we leaving?” even when we were sitting in our family home.

Saying goodbye became unbearable. She didn’t recognize home, so every departure felt like abandonment. Eventually, I stopped saying goodbye. I would simply pray, hope to see her again, and walk away.

When Words and Food Were No More

Then came the silence.

One morning, she stopped speaking. She stopped eating. The doctors had no explanation. She no longer recognized us, and we could no longer communicate. The last year of her life was the hardest. Where once we struggled to monitor how much she ate, suddenly, we were desperate to get her to eat at all. Her brain no longer signaled hunger.

At the same time, Dad was in the hospital. Another crisis.

In desperation, I brought a blender home, hoping liquid food might work. It did—this was how she ate for the last year of her life. Still, no test could explain what had happened. By the time Dad passed away, she had no idea. We tried to tell her, but she couldn’t comprehend it. In the end, we let it be.

I missed her stories—those tales of our childhood, even the embarrassing ones.

I missed her sharp analysis of life, her unwavering spirit, her fierce independence. I even missed her stubborn resistance, her refusal to go to bed, because at least then, she was there.

But dementia had already taken her from us. And then, on December 30, 2022, we lost her again.

Mourning Her Twice

Her death was more painful than I ever imagined.

I wasn’t just mourning her passing—I was grieving the last three years when she had been physically present but emotionally out of reach. It felt unfair, like time had been stolen from us. I wrestled with God, questioning why dementia had robbed us of our goodbyes.

For months following her death, all I could remember was her decline—the silence, the confusion, the absence. Try as I might, I couldn’t recall her laughter, her warmth, the woman she was before dementia took hold. I was stuck in the pain of those final years.

Until the day I started remembering her. My real mother. The day I started seeing her happy self and hearing her laughter was the beginning of healing. Even in my dreams, I could finally remember the mother I knew.

This experience taught us many lessons on caring for older persons and especially people with dementia.

Someone experiencing memory loss already senses that something is wrong. Reminding her will only deepen her distress. Family members often try to jog her memory with, “Do you know who this is?”

This would often happen with the caretakers and despite reminding them somehow they would be excited and hopeful that this time she could remember. I always quickly countered with the self-introduction, “Of course she does! It’s Sophia.” Instead of testing her memory, I gently introduced myself in a way that preserved her dignity. This was not the time to push her to remember; it only made her more anxious.

Repetition became the norm. I once visited a relative with memory loss and reintroduced myself and my son five times within an hour. I didn’t mind. What mattered was making her feel comfortable, not pointing out what she had forgotten. I was careful never to say, “As I told you before…” Instead, I treated each introduction like the first time.

It is heartbreaking to visit a loved one who no longer recognizes you. Many family members find it too painful and start avoiding visits. But I read something during this time that stuck with me: you know and love them, even if they don’t remember you.

I reminded my extended family—especially my nieces and nephews, who struggled with their grandma not knowing them. Visit anyway. Even if she forgot the moment you left, your presence still mattered.

Eventually, I stopped crying every time my mother didn’t recognize me. I focused on the moments when she looked content. When she seemed comfortable. When she smiled. Those were the gifts.

An Unending Grief

Dementia is a unique kind of loss—one that unfolds slowly, stealing pieces of a person long before their final breath. A parent, a grandparent—losing them to dementia is an ongoing grief, a sorrow that doesn’t wait for death to begin.

Be gentle with yourself.

When it is time, you can say goodbye.

The Weight of Unspoken Words

I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t feel like writing about it. Yet, it still matters.

Those were the words swirling in my head over the past few months. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, yet I have felt stuck—unsure of where to begin or how to restart. Do I have anything left to say? What if I just start typing? But then, either there aren’t enough words, or there are so many that I can’t seem to pin them down. Where do I even start?

The internal monologue continued, a constant hum in the background of my thoughts. Then, as if the universe had grown impatient with my hesitation, it sent me undeniable nudges. I had ignored previous ones, but these were louder. Over the past year, people had reached out to tell me how much my writing resonated with them as they processed their own losses. Yet, I felt I had no more words, so I remained silent.

A Nudge from the Universe

Then, in the span of two weeks, two different people nudged me to write again—one a long-time friend, the other a stranger. My friend, whom I hadn’t seen in years, simply asked, “Why did you stop writing?” The stranger found my blog through an email reply and sent me a message:

“Don’t stop writing. Your blog spoke to me and blessed me. As someone who has lost a parent, it resonated deeply. I cried, and I felt better.”

I started writing. Maybe the words would come. I tried the entire week, but they remained scarce. I kept trying, grasping for sentences that never fully formed. Then came Father’s Day, Sunday, June 16.

The Bittersweet Weight of Father’s Day

I woke up thinking of my dad—how he had come to treasure our phone calls on Father’s Day, how his voice had carried both strength and tenderness. The day was filled with fond memories and aching sadness, the longing for one more conversation, one more Father’s Day, one more Christmas. But that was a different universe, one that no longer existed. The best I could do was bid him another goodbye—and as many goodbyes as I needed.

And then, the words came. Something within me stirred, and I wrote.

Goodbye is a Process

My thoughts drifted back to January when we commemorated Mum’s first memorial anniversary. After a beautiful memorial service, I felt ready to say a proper goodbye. The day had a tranquil beauty to it. Despite the heavy rains that made the roads nearly impassable, friends and family still came. The choir sang, and as we unveiled the cross and laid fresh flowers, I tried to say goodbye.

This time, I could see where her grave was. That might sound strange, but during the funeral, it had felt as if the grave had shifted—my mind refusing to fully comprehend that she was gone. I remember a friend urging me, “Look and say goodbye,” but I could barely manage it. A year later, it felt possible.

That day, I realized one of the greatest gifts I had received in my grief: the presence of friends and relatives who had walked with us through the darkest moments. It mattered. I was saying goodbye to my mother—not just acknowledging her passing, but truly letting go of the grasping conversations I had been having in my head, the silent questions without answers.

Carrying Their Blessings

And there they were, my parents, side by side. Just a year apart. The pillars of our family were gone. A wave of loneliness washed over me.

That same night, I was leaving for Cairo. It was a significant journey, and somehow, I felt I was carrying them with me in my heart. I had no idea what awaited me in ‘Pharaoh’s land’, but I held on to the thought that they were with me in ways that transcended physical presence.

Still, I kept moving. I needed to return to Nairobi for last-minute travel preparations, yet I found myself lingering. I wandered from one room to another, not quite ready to leave. My friend patiently waited in the car, engine running, but I couldn’t stop pacing. It wasn’t about reaching 10,000 steps—I was searching for something. One more thing to do, one more person to embrace, one more goodbye to say.

A Blessing Before the Journey

And then my cousin found me.

“My mum has been looking for you,” she said. “She must see you before she leaves.”

I wondered why. And then, my aunt—my ‘younger mum’ in Kikuyu tradition—blessed me. She placed her hands on me and prayed. I don’t know if she fully understood what that meant to me. But in that moment, something settled in my heart. Moments later, two of my uncles—my ‘younger dads’—called me over.

“Oh, we’ve been looking for you. We must bless you before you go.”

Tears welled in my eyes. My parents had blessed me—through them. By proxy.

Finally, I felt ready to leave.

Living with the New Reality

Grief has taught me that goodbyes aren’t singular events. They unfold over time, in layers. I have said goodbye to my parents countless times in the past two years, and I will continue to do so. But I also carry them with me. Their absence doesn’t lessen the love, and remembering them doesn’t deepen the grief—it simply means I have learned to live in this new reality.

I miss them no less. But now, when I think of them, the tears are softer, the memories warmer. Saying goodbye does not mean forgetting. The love remains, woven into the fabric of my being.

And so, I keep writing.

“We do not “get over” a death. We learn to carry the grief and integrate the loss in our lives. In our hearts, we carry those who have died. We grieve and we love. We remember.” ― Nathalie Himmelrich,

For me, saying goodbye again and again is part of my process of letting go and accepting that life as I knew it would never be the same. It is also a process of appreciating that there are still precious experiences ahead, and I want to live fully—not just look at the grave.

A friend once told me that when people leave this physical life, we can take solace in knowing that we can speak with them wherever we are, no longer constrained by time and space. When the moment feels right, we can say goodbye, over and over, as needed.

What remains are the memories—both joyful and painful. The illness and death are memories I wish were not part of the experience, but they, too, have shaped me. There are lessons in life, and there are lessons in loss. I cherish them all.

Losing my parents has deepened my empathy in ways I never anticipated. It has given me a purpose—to walk alongside others in their grief, to support those with ailing parents, to offer a hand when the weight feels unbearable. Sometimes, even when my own cup is nearly empty, I find that giving fills it up again.

And so, I keep writing.

“I remember my mother’s prayers, and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.” – Abraham Lincoln

Like Lincoln, I am convinced that my mother’s prayers will follow me all the days of my life. My father’s prayers lift my spirits, and the dreams he once carried continue to inspire me. His hopes and aspirations fuel my motivation, giving me the strength to keep going.

At times, when life felt overwhelming, I found myself wondering, What would they have wished for me? It may seem cliché, but in my lowest moments, that thought has helped me rise again.

Goodbye is not a single moment—it is a journey, a slow and ongoing process of healing. It cannot be rushed; it happens day by day. We keep moving forward because, in truth, it is never really goodbye. Our loved ones remain with us, woven into the memories we carry in our hearts.

And when the time is right, we learn how to say goodbye.

I am my father’s daughter- Happy father’s day

The year was 2000. The location was Moi University Eldoret. Finally, I was given the power to “read” by President Moi. Yes, the millennium found me here, an adult. That is not the point… but the people in this photo. Mum and Dad. My dear parents. But more so, my dad, on this fathers’ day.

I recall vividly attending the morning Mass at the Moi Main campus. It was such a joy to be back even for a few days to fellowship with the Catholic Students’ Association (CSA) community which had been my part-time engagement while on campus (I did 40% CSA, 40% University choir then education and the rest… took the other percentage. True story. There are some witnesses who had this same schedule).  I also knew that there was still time before my ‘clan’ landed from Mang’u, so I went for the morning mass.  Then I saw my sister come into the hall, then some other relatives. I could scarcely believe my eyes. The morning mass would take about 30 minutes, so this was earlier than 7.30 am. They had already arrived to witness the big day. It has remained a memorable recollection in our family, demonstrating how my dad used to keep time. They were woken up at night, or rather just before they slept, because “we are going to get late”. I don’t recall hearing how other relatives were mobilised, but I know most of them slept in our house since they knew that if they were late, they would be left behind. That was my dad. My dear dad. He was a timekeeper. He imparted many values to his children and has left a great legacy.

I recall during his funeral service after the tributes, a (former) colleague who was speaking on behalf of the organisation indicated that the values she had heard mentioned about my dad were the values she witnessed in me. Other colleagues who worked with my siblings said something similar. While I knew that he had imparted many values in my life, it was only during his demise that it struck me that there were more values I held dear that I learned from him and did not think much about.

On this Father’s Day, I am reminded that I am my father’s daughter. He may have left us physically for two and half years now, but his legacy lives on. On this day, I remember how he shaped my life, and indeed, as one of his sisters/my auntie said, “They made a great team”. Mum and Dad. They made a great team. Today, I remember fondly and a bit sadly that I can no longer call him and hear him say, “You are the second one to wish my Father’s Day”. For some reason, he valued phone calls on Father’s Day. As much as we called him regularly, Father’s Day was special. I hope he can hear my phone call today, telling him Happy Father’s Day in heaven. I hope he can hear me recall how much he imparted values in my life and left a great legacy.

Punctuality is important in my life. We may not share all the values as a family, but this one! I recall that even during the funeral services for Mum and Dad, some friends commented later how the program ran precisely on time.  During Dad’s requiem mass, the officiating priest was late and found the whole compound full, people waiting impatiently, and he commented about the impatience. I subtly indicated that Dad kept time, and we kept time. There is a popular saying in Kenya about the “African time”, but he taught us not to buy into that belief. I get impatient with “let us say 7.00 so people can arrive at 8.00” because I am my father’s daughter.

He paid his debts on time. I find that I get agitated if I have a payment I have not made. Recently, I explained to someone who provides services for us here in Cairo why I need him to send the bills promptly so I can pay every week as agreed. He does not understand the big deal: “I know you will pay later. It is fine”. I told him about my dad. That debts are paid promptly. I usually feel like there is a burden hanging over my head if I have unpaid bills, they feel like a debt. Growing up, we used to have a credit facility at the local shop. This is where we would pick items for the whole month, and at the end of the month, Dad would pay. I did not understand why he would give one money to pay for the debt and immediately start a fresh list of buying on credit. As a kid, I wondered why not just use the money to buy what was needed; it felt better to actually pay in cash than to “carry on credit”. But no, pay the debt first. That never made sense to me until recently.  I try to always pay what is due because I am my father’s daughter.

I am a student of lifelong learning. I buy more books than I can read. Someone put a perspective on it recently: “Well, that is a retirement package”. I do not read as much as I intend to necessarily, but the intention is there :). When I moved to Cairo, I easily discarded, sold and gave out a lot of stuff. But the books. While I can give away books occasionally for charity, my books are priceless. Part of the stuff that was shipped later to me was boxes of books. Dad loved education and wished for us to get an education. He sacrificed a lot for education on his meagre wages. I recall the many journeys he made to schools to ensure he put a word on when he would pay the school fees balance. He took great pride in seeing us finish school; the graduation ceremonies were important. I am glad I got an education to the highest level I could. He did his part in ensuring we got an education without caring if one was male or female. Many may have thought (and some commented) that he was wasting money on education, especially education for girls. But he kept on. I got an education and developed a love for lifelong learning because I am my father’s daughter.

Dad had a great faith in God and tried his best to impart the Catholic and Biblical teachings to us. He hated it when someone lied, and one knew they could be forgiven for telling the truth. Swearing was not to be done in our home. I recall when we would be playing outside the house. I recall when he would be napping because he worked the night shift and then travelled to the village, but then he woke up to reprimand whoever was swearing. It seemed normal to say, “I swear to God I didn’t do that” while playing. He made it clear that the Bible teaches not to call the name of God in vain.

When I wonder why my son wants me to “bring something” for him when I have travelled or when we get to the supermarket, I recall Dad bringing us bread. He worked in Thika and came home over the weekends. He always brought bread for us. This may not make sense to the current generation, but wheat products were precious and rare. I am sure it cost him a lot compared to his wages to buy us bread. But he did. There was a time when I struggled between giving a treat to children and spoiling them. Remembering the bread my dad brought for us helped me put this into perspective. We appreciated having bread; some cousins even visited around the weekend, hoping to get a slice.

Dad’s commitment to providing for his family was impressive. He did not have much, but we never felt we were lacking. Deep down, knowing he was trying his level best made all the difference. He was organised and planned for the rainy (or mostly not rainy) day. I recall a famine in Kenya in 1984. Many families went hungry, but we never did. He bought (most likely on credit) a bundle of yellow maize flour (cheaper and not liked in Kenya as it was seen as famine relief) and a bundle of white flour that we would mix. We could not go hungry; at least, we were assured of porridge and ugali.

I knew Dad cared for our mum. I recall Mum started taking medication many years ago for HBP, and this was not easily available. We knew Dad bought medicine for Mum from Thika, and whatever the circumstances, these never lacked. When I told him I wanted to pay for him to go to the Israel pilgrimage, I had imagined he would love that. Later, he changed his mind and indicated he could not leave Mum alone for that long. While I don’t know if other contributing factors contributed to this hesitation, I know he cared. When he was sick in the hospital, he would still ask about his mum and who was taking care of her.

Dear Dad, thank you for being there for us and for having been there for me. I never wondered if you cared because I experienced it. You were present in our lives; with ten children, one could think of an excuse not to be there for his family. But you were there—through thick and thin. On this Father’s Day, I miss you. Keep resting in peace.

Thanks for being a dad to me and for us. You were a grandfather to our children, whom you spoilt, and we saw another side of you, playful and easy. Keep resting in peace. I love you, and I am grateful for all that you were for me. I am grateful that I am your daughter.

Happy blissful, heavenly Father’s Day!