PART 1: Front Row Seat at the Funeral

I was listening to a podcast where a girl said front row seat at the funeral hits different. It's not the same and you're never the same after.

To understand why this front row seat I found myself in would leave me with digestive issues as scars, I need to tell you a little bit about Dedan.

I grew up in the countryside of Meru. I have 4 siblings and I'm the last born child. My earliest memory of me and my siblings is tricking each other so one could get more sausages than the other. Another early memory is wearing these maroon pants in the tea farms where we were helping mom work. She liked to involve us so we wouldn't end up lazy human beings.

I remember another Sunday where my siblings and cousins were all together riding bikes. I fell really hard and got hurt, and he took such good care of my wound. Even then, he was looking out for me.

As we got older and he went to high school, I remember sneaking him food and candy through the school fence. He was the school entertainment prefect and knew every trending hip hop song. His room had this colorful wall art with rappers like Lil Wayne, 50 Cent, and Eminem. He was so happy for me about my high school exam grades even when I was unsure, and he'd defend me against my siblings. No one has ever stood up for me like that.

Around this time, I watched him put up a weights machine in the backyard and start lifting weights. They were made of stones, by the way—he got creative. He would lift them in preparation for joining the army, a dream he was ecstatic about. He did the trial runs and got in. He had the grades; all he needed was to build the body strength and endurance for army training.

When he finally made it into the army, everyone in my class knew I had a brother in the service. I really looked forward to seeing him when he would come visit me at school during his time off deployments. Walking up that hill on Mandera Road will always feel so nostalgic for me. I missed his cadet passout because I was in form four preparing for my KCSE exams.

My favorite memory has to be him coming home after his first six-month army training. I'm seated at the end of the dining table when the front door opens and he walks in. I jump up, run to him, and hug him. I had missed him so much—that was the longest we had gone without seeing each other.

Once he got posted to Nyali, the good times really began. I remember those Sunday drives after church where he'd take us around looking for nyama choma joints, the car radio playing very loud hip hop music. Those were some of the best days of my life. To this day, I still blast Lil Wayne and Eminem songs—that's the music I grew up to.

He taught me how to drive in the school field where my dad taught, making me do laps and align the wheels by successfully passing through a goal post. Those evenings, the sun gleamed and the green lush grass couldn't be more alive.The trips to the coast were magical. He taught me how to ride waves, and we'd walk on the beach during sunsets. I love the beach—I feel like it carries him, and the sunsets are more beautiful now because he's up there. The first time I tried pizza was with my brother and his friends from the army. That was a cheerful night I cherish. My first road trip with my sister was to the coast to spend time with him. We went to the barracks, did a tour, spent days at the beach, and went shopping. Those holidays were so full of life.

He was so immersed in life—happy, brave, perfect. He was my brother, and he was my best friend.

What I would later come to realize through therapy is that he was the only person who ever felt like a safe place growing up. He was my only safety net. To have that taken away in the blink of an eye would totally crush me in ways I was not prepared for.

It was a Wednesday evening when my uncle called. He said he wanted to come see me. I was staying at the university campus at the time, and I hadn't talked to this uncle in a while, so it was strange that he wanted to come see me. But I brushed it off.

They came with my aunt, picked me up, and said we would spend the night at their house and travel home the next day. "Why are we going home?" I asked. They told me there was an accident and they didn't know who was hurt, so it was better to wait for the news at home. In my head, I knew at worst maybe he broke a leg or something, and we would take care of him back to full recovery. I could never have imagined him being gone.

So the next day we made the trip. I called my mom to tell her we were traveling home. She sounded different, like someone who had been crying. I asked her, "Is everything okay? Do you have a flu?" She said everything was okay and to see her when we got home.

The ride home was pretty silent. I didn't know what was waiting for me on the other side.

We made a stop at my uncle's home. Everyone stretched, and my aunt came and sat next to me. She said, "I have something to tell you. Your brother didn't make it." My life would never be the same after those words pierced my heart.

It's a timestamp frozen in my memories. I remember that day like it was yesterday.

But there's another memory that haunts me just as much.

The second last time I saw my brother was at my sister's wedding. We are at a petrol station fueling the car. I step out and so does he. We grab snacks, we are happy. My sister is still in her wedding gown and you could hear chit chat and laughter. My whole family is there. My sister and her husband would be leaving for the second part of the wedding at their in-laws. He says we are never going to be together as a family for Christmas. I think to myself that's a little dramatic—she's just getting married, not dying. Little did I know those words would come true in a matter of days and would haunt me to this day.

Grief did not make me stronger. It broke me in ways I did not know were possible. This is where my breaking begins. That was before I knew. Now after, I feel like I'm standing still while the world is moving around me.

Everyone moved on with their lives but I'm standing still, frozen at the memory of the petrol station and flashes of your casket being lowered as they shot the 21-gun salute. I'm in between these states perpetually.

I lost everything that night.

I lost my best friend,

I lost my brother,

I lost my safety net,

and I lose myself over and over again.

It's excruciatingly painful. I didn't know it could hurt like this, and this is the bane of my existence.

Stay tuned for Part 2