Oh Ye Lucky Ones!

   162    
351

I hated church. It was always crammed. The pew so hard against the ass, my feet could never touch the floor and the service was always long and windy and the music droned on like a broken life support machine. Plus, as a boy, church isn’t on your list of favourite things to do on Saturdays. There are more fun things; kick a ball with friends, ride a bicycle. Watch TV. But you couldn’t, because sabbath was a rule. 

Saturday mornings were routine. TV playing in the background, my mother fussing around the house as we prepared for church. The house smelled of my dad’s after-shave, him seated, one leg draped over the other, in his chair reading Biblos. My mom must have been only a young lady at that time, probably in her very early 30s, already with five children, already versed in the high-wire act of juggling a home, a husband, children, on top of  her own wants and dreams which were limited to juggling five children, a husband and a home. She would be snappy and testy those mornings readying everybody for church ( ‘remove that shirt, Biko, I won’t tell you twice’). 

We always dressed like missionaries; proper trousers, and a dress shirt. My brother and I owned these preposterous (they weren’t then) fake snake-skin boots. They went click click as we walked. Wore them to church every Sabato. My dad always insisted that you properly tucked in your shirt to church or to school. It showed self-discipline. I hated tucking in my shirt. I still hate tucking in my shirt even though I often find myself with a tucked t- shirt in my pyjama pants every morning when I sit at my desk to write. I guess your childhood will always intrude on your adulthood. Your adulthood is the shore where your whole childhood washes at. And sometimes that comes with debri. 

We’d then pile in the car; a Peugeot 404 with its signature fins for tails. It smelled of leather beaten by the sun. My dad filled the driver’s seat. A very neat and fastidious man. I remember his wide back and how far up it ran, all the way to his head, which was always so close to the roof. I remember the back of his head, how dark, oiled and well combed his hair was.  A quiet man, silence would follow him inside the car. My mum, obviously, would be late to come into the car because she would be in the house doing God-knows-what, a real bee in my dad’s bonnet. But he’d sit there and wait impatiently. Once in a while, when the devil was in a great mood, he would honk and I bet that would make my mom even take her time more. We would sit silently at the back, the lot of us and wait for my mother to finally join. Then off to church until later in the afternoon. Church was torturous. 

I hated Saturday mornings. 

But prayers were important to us then as much as they are important now. They were the cornerstone. When we go to the village now, the first thing we do, before hellos, is pray. We pray before bedtime. We pray because we seek grace, for His will to be done as he chooses. We pray through disappointments, doubts and pain. 

Last year, we were about to set back from shags, we gathered in the living room to pray. My dad led the prayer, as usual. He had on an old tracksuit and a worn t-shirt.  I watched him as he prayed, how age was written on his neck and chin. My big sister – Melvine – head bowed was standing right across from me. She is now the matriarch of our family since mom left us. The family’s ombudsman. Her head was bowed but I noticed that she was weeping. When we said Amen, she quickly walked out. Later she told me that she just felt horrible that we ‘were alone.’ That mum would never come back. 

When your mother dies you will always be lonely. Nothing you buy, nobody you hug, no joke you laugh at will ever fill the deep ugly hole your mother leaves. I’m always walking in the shadow of loneliness even though I’m generally happy with my life. You lack even when you have. Of course it gets better, grief gets better, but the shadow of loneliness never goes away. 

Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

Today, eleven years ago, my mother had about three days to live. There is no more ink left  to write about the grief of losing my mother. It’s an old drum that still has the same haunting cry when pounded. There is nothing more to write that will capture the wrecking ball that smashes into your life when that happens, shattering everything. Although time eventually makes it better, it doesn’t heal you. Time doesn’t heal everything. Time only heals when a woman breaks your heart or you lose lots of money in an investment or you lose a job or a friend betrays you, but it never heals the grief of losing your mother. Sure, you cry less and less, but when you cry it’s still with the same pain as the first day. Time just makes it better, but you never heal because there are things that have never been the same again since my mom died. 

First, the idea of “home” is forever altered because men don’t make homes, women make homes. But not just any woman will make the kind of home you feel safe and loved in, only your mother can, no matter how capable they are. I think it’s the whole umbilical cord and nine months thing. My dad has since remarried a nice lady. He’s happy. He’s youthful. He’s strong. They talk a lot and laugh a lot and they look happy together. The home is still the same home, same sofas, same dining set, same old cupboard from the 80s. It’s spotless, the grass is trimmed, the hedges cut. It’s where I’m from, it’s home but it’s not homely anymore. Your mother goes with the home she created. Or the idea of it. 

Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

There is always excitement when going to shags. I prefer the first flight out and I usually land at the (international) airport before 8am when Kisumu is just yawning and stretching, then have breakfast of chapos and beans or liver at Mafoud restaurant, which is this very old halal eatery in Kisumu’s downtown’s industrial area. It’s well lit, plastic table covers and attracts blue collars. Then later do some shopping for dad and dani and off I set out. Normally my dad is there waiting, reading his bible in the verandah. He’d pray for journey mercies after which I’d go to stand over my mom’s grave and tell her I was back, ask her if she’s still resting in peace and tell her we have never forgotten about her. That we will never forget her. Then I go back and have small talk with my dad; how’s Nairobi, how is work, how are the kids doing in school, the usual village death updates etc.

This one time last year I arrived and drove into the boma and his car wasn’t in the car shade. I parked under the usual tree and switched off the car engine and suddenly I was confronted by a very intense silence. It spilled into the car and into my heart. There was no sign of life. I was suddenly filled with sadness. I felt great despair because it suddenly hit me afresh that my mother was dead and she would never again stand at the doorway, smiling, waiting as I parked. That she would have known exactly what flight I was in, what exact time I landed and when I left Kisumu for the village. Because she would be on the phone constantly, fussing about the roads, ‘don’t drive too fast’, ‘how far are you?’ Now there was nobody to receive me. No aroma of food met me. No sound of her fussing, the sound of domesticity; glasses clinking, pans clanging, plates being set on the table, the hissing sound of the gas cooker, food being warmed, laughter and jokes.

Now there was silence. An ugly wall of silence. I stood outside my car and felt great loneliness and displacement. I felt like I didn’t belong in our very own home, yet there I could see my mother’s grave. I was 44 and suddenly feeling as vulnerable as a boy who wanted her mommy back. So I left, I drove to my Dani’s across the valley, feeling blue. Oh poor Biko with no mother to receive him. Boohoo. It felt childish and I tried telling myself to man up but barrage after barrage of grief pounded me and I was succumbing. 

Dani was very excited and animated to see me which nearly brought me to tears. My voice trembled. I was crumbling. She didn’t ask what was wrong, she simply said in her very grave voice, “walem,” and so we prayed. When she was done she yelled at someone to light the fire then she asked me very calmly what was wrong. It’s the way she asked, the way she gave it gravity that made me shrug off the burdensome coat of manhood and suddenly I was a boy. I told her I went home and there was nobody and I missed my mom. I was emotional, of course and a bit embarrassed by those emotions. She said, something about God’s will, that I should leave it all in the hands of the Lord. She then struggled to her feet and shuffled off on her walking stick. She cooked me a meal herself which made me even more sad because I knew  she’s now headed to 90 and I didn’t have her for much longer either and she would one day be gone and I would have no other female matriarch left in shags, no more port of call, a place of refuge. I ate sulkily as we talked, I could feel her watching me with concern, probably thinking, this grandson of mine really bruises easily.. After she went to have her nap, I folded my body on the sofa that was older than me and great loneliness came over me in big waves and I wept silently under all those black and white framed photos of some my dead uncles and aunts. 

I’m writing this from another hotel bed in Johannesburg. Outside, it’s grey. Winter is knocking. I’m chatting with Melvine about mom on WhatsApp. She’s telling me that today is the last day she saw mum. My brother had picked her up from her house to drop her to the airport. She was frail and weak. “All skeleton,” she writes, “I knew that was probably the last time I was seeing her. I knew she wouldn’t last two more months.” 

My mother was always going to die. 

The last time I saw her, she was at my house. It was night, everybody had gone to sleep and she was seated up on her bed. I was seated on another bed across from her. Her bony shoulders were sharp under her clothes, like ragged edges of a rocky mountain. She couldn’t sleep so she was about to take what she always took for sleep, Domircum and a cocktail of other drugs that she had taken for the past seven or so years. Most nights, like that night, we’d sit and talk for long before I retired to bed. I knew she was dying. She knew she was dying. And she must have been scared, not for herself, but to leave us behind. The terminal illness was hurtling towards its end, it had wasted her away, first physically and now emotionally. I remember I had brought her water for her drugs that she had in her open palm, looking despondent, wasted. She said, “aol yawa, nyathina.” “I’m so tired, my child.” That night when I went to bed, I wept. I used to cry a lot in those final months before she passed on. I was so scared. 

She died on a Sunday. We couldn’t make it to her on time but my Dani was with her on her deathbed. I have always asked her about that moment; whether she was scared, whether she was confused, if she said anything, something, but my dani always avoided those questions. She always told me to leave it, to let God be with His Godly things, ‘weri godo, nya’kuara. We gik Nyasaye ne Nyasaye.” 

Siblings don’t grieve the same. My sister could never sleep when my mom died. She stayed up all night, night after night after night. She was a shell, she remains a shell.  My other sister, June, was living in Switzerland and when you are gone for so long and your mum is sick for so long and then she dies, you live with a certain level of regret. You watch videos. You pore over photographs. You ask questions. You grasp at memories. You desperately want to fill gaps.  I don’t know how my two brothers grieve. We weren’t raised to interrogate our feelings with each other as men. We struggle with vulnerability. Once in a while one of them will mention something in the group, something emotional and revealing.

Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

I was telling Melvine how when I text Kim, my 9 yr old, and ask him, “what was the highlight of your day,” he always, and I mean, always, includes, “seeing my mother.” He never writes, “seeing mom.” It’s always a variation of, “seeing my mom” or “seeing my mother.” An ownership that locks me out. My mother. Two very powerful words. It never makes me jealous. It makes me worried. For him. It makes me pray that God keeps his mother for as long as He can, preferably until they are adults and can handle grief. I sent my sister those screenshots from Kim as I stood at my frosted hotel window, looking at the bleakness outside. She told me how her teenage son usually hugs her when she goes to visit him in boarding school. I told her that I was always fearful during my whole high school life, that I would be called to the main office and told there was a death at home, that mum had died. She said, “Oh my God, me too! Mine started in primary school.” [She was in boarding school]. This was over two decades before she even fell sick. Looking back, I have always feared death would take my mother. Always. And it did. And it sucks. It sucks pipe. 

She died on a Sunday. May 6th, 2012. 

I was in bed writing this blog. This was when I was stupid and didn’t care about my sitting posture. The foolish, innocent days when I thought I was owed a good back.  It was afternoon, I was alone in the bedroom, slumped in bed banging copy from my laptop. The phone rang. It was Julius, my brother. And I just knew it. I knew she was dead. I looked at the phone ringing and thought, ‘let me enjoy this moment before I answer this call. This moment when I still believe I have a mother. This moment of sanity. Because when I answer this call, this moment will be shattered and I will be motherless.’ So the phone rang and rang and finally I answered it and Julius said, “Biko, she’s gone.” Yeah. Then my world slowly turned over on its back and it has never turned back.

Grief is weird. The first five year anniversaries (2012 to 2017) were raw and red and painful. But then the next five anniversaries (2018 to 2022) were okay, very bearable. But now this anniversary, the 11th one, feels like 2013 again. It’s like grief has reset itself again and I have cried more times than I have in the last five years. Which is weird because when you think you are out of the woods, you realise you never left. 

Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

     ***

Because life has to continue even through dark clouds. The registration for the writing masterclass is still open HERE

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

351
162 Comments
  1. Grief must be a lonely place. But you got to keep your head up, for the pain might eat you from within. Often times when I read your texts about your mom, I silently envy how you vividly remember her. And I get the sense that it must be good to remember your mother in that sense. Unfortunately, I have a pale recollection of my own mother. For I was barely six when she passed. So am lucky in the sense that I only imagine how mothers are, but nary any memories. But as you have said, “Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.”

    15
  2. Pole Biko. Everything about this is difficult. This has come to me as an awakening, a reminder to cherish my mum while I still have her. Asante.

    13
  3. It was five o’clock in the morning, I was sleeping in the spare bedroom because my wife, who was expecting twins, was asleep in the other bedroom. The phone rang. It was my mother And I just knew it. I knew he was dead. I looked at the phone ringing and thought, ‘let me enjoy this moment before I answer this call. This moment when I still believe I have a father. This moment of sanity. Because when I answer this call, this moment will be shattered and I will be fatherless.’ So the phone rang and rang and finally I answered it and mum said, “Tom, he’s gone.” Yeah. Then my world slowly turned over on its back and it has never turned back.

    Oh ye lucky ones with Fathers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

    31
  4. Take heart Biko. I almost feel like you are writing about my mom and her demise. The void never fills up.

  5. You remind me of a conversation I had with my father about losing my grandmother. “You never quite recover.” He is an old guy, and he surprised me by that phrase, said well over 20yrs after he lost his mother,

    5
  6. It was five o’clock in the morning, I was sleeping in the spare bedroom because my wife, who was expecting twins, was asleep in the other bedroom. The phone rang. It was my mother And I just knew it. I knew he was dead. I looked at the phone ringing and thought, ‘let me enjoy this moment before I answer this call. This moment when I still believe I have a father. This moment of sanity. Because when I answer this call, this moment will be shattered and I will be fatherless.’ So the phone rang and rang and finally I answered it and mum said, “Tom, he’s gone.” Yeah. Then my world slowly turned over on its back and it has never turned back.

    Oh ye lucky ones with Fathers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

  7. Oh Biko
    I don’t have words
    Every time you write about your mom I feel so so sad. Every damn time.
    I’m one of the lucky ones, my momma is still alive.
    I’ll make sure to call her today and tell her I cherish her.

    Rest well mama Biko.

    11
  8. Death, where did you come from? why is thy sting so painful?
    Someday, all of us will exit the stage. I wonder how I will be remembered by my children and family. Until then, I make the best of every situation. Because each day drives us closer to the final curtain raise.

    2
  9. Oooh Biko. I started reading your blogs ever since I read about your mother passing and then started from the very first one you wrote and never stopped. I relate to seeing a call and actually ignoring it because of not wanting to learn that my dear one had passed on. And I ignored the calls from 3am until 6am and when I answered I heard exactly what I didn’t want to hear. But yes, life has to go on. May you keep finding strength to keep pushing on. Happy May and may she continue resting in eternal peace

    2
  10. Ooh! Biko, the grief never fades. Amimo(mum) was the first to go.. then Flora Nyowila nyar Ouko Dana. its been 7 years but still hurts like yesterday.

    2
  11. We’re all travelers in this world. Life is pleasant, death is peaceful; it’s the transition that’s troublesome. May you find the peace you desperately deserve. My heart goes out to you.

    1
  12. This was difficult to read. I have sobbed uncontrollably. I also lost my mom, in 2008 when I was 10. I have always admired how you talk about your grief so openly, something I struggle with because people just don’t understand how it feels like. it’s been 15 years and it still feels like it was yesterday. I’m turning 25 this year and I still don’t know how it feels like to be loved by a mother, so much so that you call your mother your best friend. And sadly, I will never know

    7
  13. May her soul keep resting in peace. I think grief is harder when you are older. Lost my mum at 12. I am not sure I mourned. Everone ignores the kids, well back then. It has been 33 years since ahe died.

    5
  14. Sending you love and hugs. Thank you for reminding us lucky ones to cherish our mothers more. Blessings

  15. “… We will talk about it when you come home. ” These were the last words my mother told me, 19 odd years ago. A mother is irreplacable and yes… Cherish her….love her…adore her…..

    2
  16. When a mother goes, it feels like a big part of the world has emptied itself.
    The only way I passed through that time was to ask God to bear my grief and carry my sorrow as promised in Isaiah 53: 4
    “Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem Him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.”

    3
  17. I read this as I ate food cooked by my mother. I am so sorry for your loss. There is this scary feeling of facing your mother’s mortality. As we grow older it’s louder every day. I can’t imagine being on the other side. Sending you hugs.

  18. The pain never goes away. Pole sana, Biko. May the memory of her always remind you that she loved you dearly.

  19. Grief is a lonely place. Check yourself, lest it eats you from within. Oftentimes, whenever I read your article about your late Mother, I feel envious about the marvelous memories you have about her. I was barely six when I lost mine, so I have no memories whatsoever. But as you have said, “Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.”

  20. Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

    I really felt this, Imma try talk to my mum more, call her more, give her flowers when she is still alive. It is well chocolate man, may God help you overcome this grief.

    1
  21. Oh, gosh!
    This made me teary. I know it never really means much but pole tena Biko!
    It’s 10 years this May since I lost my big sister. She was first-born. Now I am stand-in first-born. It’s not easy. Being first-born. And you made me remember the grief that visited us before the 10th anniversary since she left. My sister. And I just realised that I have not quite healed. Yet. I do still have mother, though. And I am grateful. You have just reminded me, ever so powerfully, that indeed I should be.
    Thank you Biko for ever being so vulnerable. It’s therapeutic.

  22. I have read this with every raw emotion, in a matt, thankfully I had shades on and a wet wipe.
    Also, reading it from an African spirituality eye, how beautifully honoring the ancestors we do, knowingly/unknowingly, beautiful.
    We’re some of silent followers, but this deserved a !.

    1
  23. “Because life has to continue even through dark clouds.”
    sending hugs your way…..
    Cherish those you hold dear..life is fickle!
    May your mum continue resting in perfect peace.

  24. 29th March 2008 04.00am, Sabbath. I am yet to gather courage to ask my sister how it was that morning, whether she did resuscitated her enough….
    Oh Ye Lucky Ones!

  25. This is very sad! But It is well Wuod Adwen. Until that bright morning! What Dani says is very deep. “We gik Nyasaye ne Nyasaye”

  26. I lost my mom on 12th November 2021 09:30 am, and life has never been the same. Every death in my surroundings always brings fresh memory of Mom’s death. Despite this being your 11th year of grief, I can relate to every statement you put down. The drums of grief are always playing with same sound. The shadow of grief is always lurking. The wound of grief never heals, it scars, but with every memory, it scratches open, and the healing journey begins afresh.

    1
  27. Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

  28. “Your adulthood is the shore where your whole childhood washes at. And sometimes that comes with debri.”

    This right here

    Thank you Biko for the vulnerability. I am learning to treasure moments with my mother while they last.

    1
  29. My dad died 27 years ago, and I still cry when I think of him. the grief is raw, sometimes I wonder if I will ever get over it. When my sister died in 2021, it started all over again. Premium tears

    1
  30. I teared throughout out as I read this great piece No one can replace a mother.27 years down the line my dear mum went to be with the Lord and it looks like yesterday.I was a very small girl then but the memories of my lovely mum are so vivid.I always ask myself how life would be if she was still here with us and witness how of life’s turned out and see her beautiful grand kids.One thing I have been very consistent in my prayers is God to grant me a loooong healthy life.I want to see my all grown great grand kids and tell them about so many stories
    In the recent years I have been thinking much about my mom and ofcos cry.On the day she left us in the recent years I have been penning a letter to her….weird I know

    May your mum Biko continue resting in peace.We thank God for the time we shared with them

  31. May she continue resting in eternal peace. and may God give you and family the comfort and grace to bear her absence. it’s unthinkable to live without a mother

  32. Grace for strength.
    “When you think you are out of the woods, you realise you never left” It is said what you fear comes to pass, so be careful what you fear.

  33. I lost my mum about four months ago, on 30th Dec last year. It is impossible to describe that pain. I felt like an umbilical cord was being cut again, harshly and painfully. I remembered your blog Biko, about losing your mum. You had said, “One day your mother will break your heart”. I understood it then. I re-read that blog, and yes, for sure, Mother will break your heart. Since then I have had good and really crappy days, and reading this blog reminds me of what I have heard in the last four months that it is a wave and one does not know when it will strike. Grief. “you think you are out of the woods, you realize you never left. ” Grief. May your mum keep resting in peace and I wish for you more peace in your grief.

    2
  34. It will also be eleven years since Mom passed away, you somehow write before I do and make me cry a river, then it happen again on my mom’s real anniversary a few months down the road, truly moms are irreplaceable. I freeze when my friends lose their moms because I know the pain is real, tangible, long, and heavy and it simply never goes, it lightens but never goes.

  35. I have drunk from that cup of noxious grief.
    Nothing ever feels, tastes, smells or looks the same again after your mother leaves you.
    A part of the sould shrivels and dies but doesn’t fall off.
    it remains attached to you, silently sullying your being with small doses of grief that gnaw away at your psyche daily.
    May our mothers rest well.

    1
  36. it’s almost a year since my mom left, home permanently changed since that day. Something’s definitely missing!

  37. A mother’s love is love given in it’s purest form. A mother’s absence is a harsh reality for many. May she continue resting in perfect peace and may all your hearts be at peace.
    Indeed, we need to celebrate our mothers while they’re still with us. They are the greatest gift from God.

  38. Tuesday 31 Aug 2021 at 12:32 pm…..my world as I knew it changed. Mum was gone….Covid19…..and life has never been the same again.

  39. Grief is the silent persona that hangs about you..sometimes giving you the feeling of despondency and other times just a fuzzy feeling.
    You keep replaying the moment,the hours,days before they left us…you ponder at why they had to go just like that.
    Yes…grief wraps us differently…and you keep peeping into those who are with you in the present & wonder will they still be here or will you have gone first.
    Biko.

  40. Sending hugs to you Biko, it is well
    this made me cry, just remembering my dad, oh, the pain

  41. I thank God I still have ‘my mother’. Even though I am all grown I still can’t live without her and I dread for that day. The best I do now is to pray to God to continue keeping her alive for my sake.

  42. every time you write about your mum I feel like you are talking about mine. In my psychology class we say grief is a personal journey ,it’s unique to each person. I feel like you’ve totally described my feelings about my mums death,how it’s no longer home because she went with the home she created. I take comfort in the fact that all that has life must die someday,death isn’t unique to my mum,I’ll die too.

  43. I must admit that my relationship with my mother has not been very close, but reading this, I am eager to work towards improving it and building a deeper, more meaningful relationship moving forward.

    1
  44. Reading this as a mother and a daughter AND grand daughter hits different. I will cherish all three.

  45. Biko,thanks for sharing your thoughts. I share in your grief and I know it never ends, and when you think it has gotten easier,a wave hits you so bad,you reel from the weight of it. May you and your siblings find strength in these few days leading to 6th. Hugs Bruv.

  46. To all the departed souls.May they continue resting as we keep on honouring them.
    often times feeling like a stranger in the house you grew up in.She went without a goodbye. No one tells you what has happened. You see your strong father tearing for the first time and you know the worst has happened. To a 10 year old son,that will be a chronic wound.You will lie that you got stronger but those photos of her brings back memories. Or an article by BikoZulu.It’s 16years now and you wonder why she had to leave that fast. You are slowly learning that her departure gradually made you fear deep attachment. What if they also leave without a goodbye?.You pray for your old man that God preserves him long enough because he’s the only one you truly love and trust .

  47. I read this and the tears came….and came. I lost my mom in the year 2000. She was 62 years old, still filled with hopes and dreams for her children. I was still new in marriage, and needed her so much. I still remember the aching raw feeling in my very soul….. Rest in peace beloved Mama, until we meet again.

  48. Oh, Biko!
    Am so sorry for your loss.
    My mother is about 100 years old.
    Still alive, albeit almost deaf and utterly forgetful. We now have to listen to her same story all day and half the night…it sometimes saddens me that she has deteriorated to that level but I always thank God that she has a very healthy appetite and she is not really sickly.
    She even has flights of fancy when she insists that she is not in her home and that we should go “home”. it takes us a while to convince her that she has no other home.
    She can hardly walk, her legs are giving up and she uses a walker.
    The thought of not finding her, however, seated at her usual spot in the village, is unbearable.
    Thanks for drawing my attention to the inevitability of time running out.
    I will do better to spend as much time with my mother as I possibly can.
    May the happy memories sustain you!!!

  49. sucks pipe!!!! I spent the better part of last year wallowing in grief over my dad, and I thought it was getting better, then one year four months later, Mami is gone. now everything that was beautiful to me and my parents is a trigger, I breakdown without warning, wherever and whenever… I find comfort in the moments we shared in their last five years, but these same moments are my undoing.

  50. This post, and all the others that I have read about your mother are so deep
    I’m one of the lucky ones, I thank God that I still have her, my greatest blessing. I believe It’s because of her that I continue to survive the sustained pain of great loss

  51. My heart goes out to you Biko. May God comfort you deeply and fortify you.
    I will heed your advise by God’s grace. I will cherish my 78 year old mum. I try but there’s room for improvement! I will take her some flowers when I go to see her next. I am willing to bet that no one has ever bought flowers for mum.

    1
  52. This piece made me meza warus.
    Grief is personal. Grief is gripping. Grieving can start all over again from a nostalgic memory. May our loved ones rest in peace. Thank you for this one Biko, it’s very personal to me.

    1
  53. 21 years later. now older and having my own family, I miss my mother more than ever before. I wish she met her grandchildren, her son in law. I wish she saw me through life. Now that am older, 8 years was too young for me to loose you, I just didn’t know it would hurt more now than it did then, I pray for life so that my children get to experience me!

    5
  54. A friend shared this with me,after reading a piece I wrote yesterday about my late mother,I have read this article in tears,because it has taken my exact thoughts and feelings and put them on paper,I wish I could meet you,so you can hug me,because for the first time,I have found someone who feels exactly as I do.I struggle too much to be alive ,I think I need grief therapy.

    Akinyi Opon
    [email protected]

    2
  55. Biko, you’ve made me mourn my mum who died
    54 years ago, like it was yesterday…
    Awuori, nyathi dhako wadwa..

  56. May God grant my grandma more days, grant her a more strong body, and a strong spirit and will to continue living.

    She raised me up. She is old and frail now….and am afraid.

    My condolences Biko. You make us value our time with cherished ones whe we still got them around.

  57. I wonder what my mother says about our relationship or lack thereof. Because I never know what to say. There used to be soo much sadness and emptiness in our story and after I learnt that I will somehow always be motherless I made my peace. At times am surfing through life and all of a sudden I get this reminder that I can have everything else , but there some things I will just never have. Because my mom either doesn’t know how to love us that way or she is just soo self absorbed to do it. We lie that we heal and live as happily as we can, but its soo strange to not have a center.

    1
  58. This June is will be 30 years since i lost my dad, yet it feels like yesterday.
    My grief was too much till I did psychology and learnt how to handle it.
    Here is my loss and grief journey video link. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bD1movCIgRY&t=48s&ab_channel=Mindspace.Network

  59. Oh Biko, never been there wouldn’t lie i know how it feels and don’t even know what to say, But i know grief is a process and it’s good you are able to pen something about it. Prayers with you in this grief and it can never be the same and sometimes we just got to take it as is. I borrow from this writer Thornton Wilder ‘The greatest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude’ that eventually we will find our way through this particular “valley of the shadow”and while there may always be a tinge of sadness, there will come a sense of our own inner strength and our ability to rejoice in the life we have shared, and to look towards a future in which the loved one, though not physically present, continues to bless us.
    Eternal rest grant unto your Mom oh Lord and Perpetual light shine upon Her. May She continue resting in peace. Amen

  60. Thank you for the reminder Biko…
    Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

    ***

    thank you. I have been saving to register for the writing master class…

  61. Oooh Biko!
    May the memories you have of her sustain you.
    May you smile amidst your tears.

    Rest in Peace, Ajim!

  62. Pole sana bro . A familiar path you describe – extremely familiar ……oh ye lucky ones ………Losing a Dad and Mum gets you a PhD in character development – because life MUST go on ……eeeeeish‼️
    It is well …….

  63. I am truly sorry for your loss, Biko. I had balancing tears as I read this. May God continue to comfort you all and may your precious Mother continue to rest in peace.

  64. Oh Biko! Hugs to you! This resonates! 12 years later & I miss my Mom profusely! Isn’t grief the price we pay for love? May they all continue resting in perfect peace.

  65. The crippling fear of losing ones mum is very familiar. Suffered it numerous times. Been a reality for the last 17 years. As the cycle continues, I see the same in my son’s eyes when he asks some questions.. like will I be around when he gets a job, buys his first car…… etc, and I can’t bear the thought of him inevitably suffering such grief

  66. Biko – I am a Sep 23 griever, when Maitu passed on in a rush of 30 min cardiac. The pain feels fresh and I am forever seeing women who look like her, yes with her favorite dress, cardigans, headscarf and handbag. I look with envy and sometimes anger at people who are accompanying their mothers. Go open a church and preach to all this one line …… “when you think you are out of the woods, you realise you never left”

  67. Grief doesn’t go away, it just takes a back seat….wishing you all the best bro and may mom rest in perfect peace.

    1
  68. Reminds me of Hurricane , maybe you should recap and update us on the happenings.

    may your mother continue resting in peace

  69. Oh ye lucky ones with Mothers, cherish your moment for the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you.

  70. This post is therapy. 28 years later I still grieve for my mum. I no longer shed tears… She missed my entire childhood and at times I sometimes get angry at her for that. But the short time we had are memories I cherish.
    My heart aches for your loss and it catapults me back to my own loss.

  71. The worst thing about grief is that it comes in intervals each time with a much worse intensity ……..

  72. Biko let’s sing this hymnal together. May you find peace. I wish your female matriarch more years so that she can give you a port of call in your Shags.

    My heart can sing when I pause to remember,
    A heartache here is but a stepping stone.
    Along a trail, thats winding always upward,
    This troubled world, is not my final home.

    Refrain
    But until then, my heart will go on singing,
    Until then, with joy I’ll carry on,
    Until the day my eyes behold the city,
    Until the day God calls me home.

    2
    The things of earth will dim and lose their value,
    If we recall they’re borrowed for awhile;
    And things of earth that cause the heart to tremble,
    Remembered there, will only bring a smile.

  73. Thank you brother. it’s great to tell us how the road is up ahead. salute. R.I.P mama Biko you raised us a good one here.

  74. This is me, just this past weekend in shags.
    It’s not easy.
    Only thing is it’s just 9 months on, and very very raw.
    May we all find ways to heal and move and accept God’s will.

  75. “shadow of loneliness never goes away.”
    I can relate with your pain. Lost my mum on 30th December 2021 and part of me died with her that morning. I miss her everyday…..every moment.
    Grief never goes away, you just learn to co-exist with it.

  76. When your mother dies you will always be lonely. Nothing you buy, nobody you hug, no joke you laugh at will ever fill the deep ugly hole your mother leaves. I’m always walking in the shadow of loneliness even though I’m generally happy with my life. You lack even when you have. Of course it gets better, grief gets better, but the shadow of loneliness never goes away.

    Biko this quite a read , read it 3times and have wept. lost mum 2020 and this exactly how it feels. Thankyou for sharing

  77. My dear mum passed away in 2016, and life has never been the same again. I have struggled to read this blog because it hits home.. It hits hard. Pain so relatable. The grief is still so raw. Losing a mother is so freaking painful. If you still have your mum around, love them and spend time with them. You are the lucky ones indeed as Biko says.

  78. That lonely feeling has been with me for most of my life since I was 5. Every time I try to replay how it used to be when she was alive, at least the little I remember, whatever I have now becomes useless.
    Secondly, men don’t make homes. My dad is supposed to be alive and yet I have never seen him. I don’t know if he is still alive or gone, but I have reached a point I don’t care. Thank you for this piece.

    1
  79. I admire how real you are about life and how sometimes you pull back your mask… very relatable truths about vulnerability and life , something rare to find with most writers.
    Grief is indescribable,it cuts through the bone marrow and when you think oooh damn it’s been 30 years surely Dzu ,it feels like yesterday
    More Grace to us who have lost our shujaas

  80. Grief sneaks up and eats part of us. Loosing loved one leaves us with pain, and you walk with a shadow of loneliness. Pole Sana Biko I can relate with you on this journey. I have curled up in that foetal position with a broken heart and wounded spirit. A feeling of betrayal by this monster called death that robbed me our last born brother, whom I raised as my first born child (African family dynamics) and my fiancee.

  81. BIKO!!!

    Death sucks! Sorry for the loss of your Mom. Tell you what, the loss of a parent is so deep and unless you experience it, you can never understand. Hang in there on all the beautiful memories.

    My Dad’s 10 years Anniversary since his demise is round the corner on 19th May. I usually start having mood swings from March 16 till June 01. I hate crying coz of the baddest headaches that follow, so i cry in bits….tears flowing here and there without saying a word, in the shower etc… i lost my hero and it still hurts. i miss his voice. to be honest 10 years have flown by and i don’t even know what has happened in between. It’s like i lost a part of me over the years and i am coming out of the dark tunnel 10 years later.

    Hang in there Biko, go through the motions. In God’s hands your lovely Mom rests. On May 6th i will send a prayer up for you and yours.

    Cheers!

    1
  82. I miss my dad. From beginning of May I’ve had a good cry every single day without fail.
    He was my friend. We discussed EVERYTHING!
    The past couple of months have been difficult, and at times i sit down and ask God if He could just release his soul for 30min max to just come and sit with me. I lost a friend.
    His shoes too large no one has ever fit.
    I miss my old friend.
    It will be 7 months in June.
    I miss you my good friend.
    I still love you my dear dad.
    Well…there goes today’s tears. Peace!

  83. I miss my dad. From beginning of May I’ve had a good cry every single day without fail.
    He was my friend. We discussed EVERYTHING!
    The past couple of months have been difficult, and at times i sit down and ask God if He could just release his soul for 30min max to just come and sit with me. I lost a friend.
    His shoes too large no one has ever fit.
    I miss my old friend.
    It will be 7 years in June.
    I miss you my good friend.
    I still love you my dear dad.
    Well…there goes today’s tears. Peace!

  84. I have never cried this much for so long. I lost my mum in 2021 May 27th.Biko, I have never healed, i may never heal.
    My mum was always going to die from.2013 when she was diagnosed with cancer…she took longer..I dreaded her death, it came sooner….
    Thanks for this story…..Thanks alot Biko.

    I’m the eldest daughter I’m the home,, I cry alot especially during prayer…Life will never be the same again without my mother.Sadly my grandma also passed on earlier in 2017…she loved me dearly…..

    My mother’s death feels so raw, I never got to grieve..there was covid, bills to pay and a funeral to arrange!

    1. Hugs Rachel. Am a crier. I just read this and realized it is the first born’s lot. I cry with you my sister. Hugs.

  85. ‘When your mother dies you will always be lonely. Nothing you buy, nobody you hug, no joke you laugh at will ever fill the deep ugly hole your mother leaves. I’m always walking in the shadow of loneliness even though I’m generally happy with my life. You lack even when you have. Of course it gets better, grief gets better, but the shadow of loneliness never goes away’……sums it up

    1
  86. You brought us so close to you that reading this feels like she was not only a mother to you but to all of us….

  87. So I read this and reminisced with you church prep. Then about knowing where you have reached on your journey I just remembered how last week mom needed to know every stop I made and when I didn’t get home the time she expected she panicked and called my bro. Honestly I nearly got irritated by the monitoring but today am remorseful. I am counting my blessings because through your writing i have mourned your mom, my mom and all favorite aunties in between plus remembering my dad.. I am glad you are helping people realize there is no shame in grief processing and it doesn’t come to you one way. I am especially glad about the different grief patterns for siblings because I thought our family was weird in how we grieved my late dad. Thank you and may you find solace in your family and your way of processing this. It does become like a comfortable garment which you may forget to wear but when you do you feel the all too familiar sense of loss and when you put the garment off you aren’t fussing about it all the time, you realize you are able to compartmentalize it and live with it. Enjoy the memories the most. They are all we’ve got anyways. No regrets.

  88. wow. this was tough to read. lots of breaks in between to rub off my tears. and the huge ‘potatoe’ on my throat!!!! Pole sana ndugu

  89. Thanks Biko for sharing this experience. My Mother is now a little over 2 years gone. Through sharing your experience, I am comforted that I ain’t insane or anything bad. I miss her terribly, every single day.

  90. “is weird because when you think you are out of the woods, you realise you never left.” I cried rivers reading this. Lots of similarities with my case (& feelings).

    I want to read your books one at a time. Where can I get physical copies?

    1. You can order on this page under the Marketplace page or get in bookstores – nuria bookstore, rafu books etc

  91. Hugs Biko.. It’s been one year and 8months since I lost my mum too.There is no day that passes without me remembering her.For sure the emptiness in that shags house is so real.I always believe she is resting in peace and happy with angels in heaven.Time heals other heartbreaks but not of loosing a mum.But still there is a God in heaven who gives us strength and peace.
    Oh you lucky ones with mothers, cherish the moment because the ugly shadow of loneliness awaits you

  92. Pole Sana and hang in there…..losing my mom is one of my greatest fears as well…..especially as we grow older….for now I can only imagine how it feels……

  93. This made me sad. It made me fight back tears, but for a different reason.
    My mother is alive, Friday last week, 2 years ago, we buried my father.
    Mine is the antitheses. A sad one.

  94. Your Dani reminds me so much of my grandma, loosing her beginning of this year still hurts. And I can’t help but see my mom through your eyes Biko. Maybe, maybe this is how she’s feeling. This is what she’s going through. I’ll be sure to let her know she’s cherished.
    May your mums soul continue resting in peace. Hang in there.

  95. Sorry for your loss Biko. This brought tears to my eyes. I lost my mother while away and it did not hurt as much as it did when my Dad passed away. It still hurts!

  96. So emotional, i am yet to gain courage to visit my dad’s grave 3 years later, i send flowers to be planted. I only watch it from far. The last time i visited i wanted him to talk to me. I talked to those with him to tell me what he said in his last moment but they ignored me. He had assured me he was okay, he said he was coming home and the same day he left us.

  97. Oh wow! I know that I will never know how much I will miss my mum until she’s gone, but the dread I lived with each day I nursed her gave a clue of the fear of loosing her. Great reminder to be grateful for everyday we have her.

    sending love to everyone who lost that one true, special love, a mother. peace be with you! ♥️

  98. Weuh, thank God i have them parents because mine could be premium tears on daily basis. Oh God keep them for longer time

  99. This is really touching!

    A form of grief that it is almost impossible to go yonder. May God grant you the will to keep pushing, Biko.

    Losing a dear parent (a mother in this case) is tough. It is among the few million things that no matter how prepared or unprepared you are, it will still shake you. It is the unconditional and emotional love that amplifies the grief. We can only hope that with time, the pain eases – but we can’t kill it or go numb.

    1
  100. Every time I read about your grief of losing your Mom, it hurts deep inside my core. I do not relate and cannot understand as yet. I will keep cherishing my Mom as long as it shall take. So sorry Biko!

  101. 2011 June: I got home from school one Saturday (I was sick). My mother had diabetes, for at least 14 years, and that Saturday she had just come home from hospital. I remember she couldn’t even tell how to pick the drugs, I did it for her. She was unable to eat, I could see the drugs will hurt her even more, but take them she did. Did I mention I was 15? That night was the longest of my life, to see your own mom get worse (I can’t write what I saw) and then she went into a coma that Sunday morning at 5am. On Monday I went back to school, only for my brother to show up on Thursday to pick me up, then I knew. He had picked my sister first, I could see how out of her being she was, and I remember telling my brother, “she has suffered too much, she deserves a rest.” Dear Biko,

  102. Whenever mom goes to their home for a day or two, home feels empty. Lonely beyond measure. I can’t imagine what it will be like when she finally rests.

  103. I totally relate.. Lost my mum May 10th 2014.I was 14 and had just joined high school.Life has never been the same it’s as if my whole world just crampled. The sad part is when you don’t have anyone to pick you up when you fall because you are the eldest and you got siblings who depend and look up to you. I don’t think mother’s are supposed to die and leave young ones the pain is unbearable.

  104. Man! I totally feel you. My Mum passed away in 2021. Everything you have described is so real.

    Thank you for helping me. And don’t ask how!!

  105. My mother passed on 25 years years ago and I have not been able to get over it. I’m reading this in a public area and I didn’t realise that at some point tears were streaming out. She was the glue that held our family intact and I know it because a lot of things went wrong in the advent of her death. I miss her so much. I’ve made peace with myself that she isn’t coming back.

  106. It’s 22 years today since mum left. Some anniversaries have gone by with a sweet memory of her but this entire month has been rough. Grief isn’t a straight line… it’s a graph drawn by a beating heart that bleeds.

    Thank you for the post Biko.