Gone too soon

Muni Maina — Forever in our hearts❤️

In loving memory of my (adopted) sister Muni Maina. Gone way too soon, but forever in our hearts

It’s been 10 years and 3 months. Now, I can visit your grave and not weep. I remember the first time I visited, I was a hot mess! Tears flowed freely and I wondered if I would ever be able to visit again. It felt too raw. But I did, time and again. Now when I visit, I do not cry. Instead, I stand there in quiet contemplation. Sometimes I have a silent conversation (or perhaps monologue?) with you. I tell you that I hope you’re happy wherever you are, I hope you are at peace, and that I miss you. The wound is still there, it just doesn’t feel as raw. I guess time really does make things better.

It’s Christmas Day and the year is 2013. After my usual morning routine, I start off the day by coming to Mombasa hospital to visit you. I’d bought you a Christmas card and I wanted to make sure that I dropped it off that morning, as I wished you a “Merry” Christmas. As merry as it could be given the circumstances. I speak to you for a little while, then head off to church to meet the rest of the family, promising you that I would visit again soon. I felt hopeful leaving the hospital. For starters, you had been moved from the ICU to the general ward. Your personal nurse who we had hired to give you additional care (beyond the general care from the hospital nurses), also said that you were doing well. That you’d had a good night. All positive signs.

I knew you would not be able to read my card — you were barely conscious; but I believed that you felt my presence and heard my voice. Why? I remember the very first time I came to visit you in hospital. I’d been away for work in the U.K. for three months. Your health deteriorated while I was away, and all I knew about your condition was based on the regular updates from other family members. So, when I landed back home, one of the first things I did, was to come and see you. You were still in the ICU at the time. I walked into your room. I had been told you were semi-conscious. To me, it seemed like you were calmly sleeping. Then I said: “Hi Muni, it’s Kui”, and all hell broke loose! You started kicking hard, your arms were flailing, making incomprehensible sounds, machines were beeping everywhere, I burst out crying, nurses ran in and removed me from your room, urging me to calm myself down. It was all very dramatic. But later I thought, “she must have recognized my voice.” Why else the dramatic reaction? So since then, when I visited, I was convinced that you felt my presence and heard my voice. Maybe there was a medical explanation for it all, but I cling to that hope. Because then I know that you heard me tell you over and over, how loved and cherished you were.

Christmas day passed without much ado. It was happy and full of family warmth, but there was a looming cloud with you in the hospital. The following day (Boxing Day), Dad drove to Nairobi/upcountry. This time round, Mum refused to accompany him. She decided to stay back on account of you being in the hospital. Dad was to be back in a few days anyway. Later that day Mum came to visit you in the hospital. I stayed home and said that I would visit you the following day. That visit was not to be. It was late at night and I was just starting to doze off, when Mum knocked on my bedroom door. The hospital had called and wanted us to go in immediately. “Why?” I asked her. “They didn’t say,” she replied. But we both knew. A part of me was holding on to the hope that perhaps your condition had just deteriorated, but the worst had not happened. Yet deep down I knew. It was a very quiet drive to the hospital. At the hospital parking lot, we met Tracy. She had gotten the call too. This confirmed my fears. And when we walked into the ward and I saw the look on your personal carer’s face, I knew. I was gutted. I had really thought you would pull through.

The days that followed were a blur. There was so much to do to give you a befitting funeral. Guests from far and wide were coming home at all hours to comfort us; but I was just tired, overwhelmed, sleep-deprived, and in ‘automatic pilot mode’. Things had to get done. I had never ever imagined having to help pick out your coffin, or the dress that you would be buried in; yet there I was. After that night at the hospital, the night you left us, the next time I truly cried for you again, was during your burial. I finally broke after days of being on ‘autopilot’. The next time I wept for you was when I had to go to your rental house and pack up your stuff. Undoubtedly one of the hardest things that I’ve had to do. I had been fine for most of it, diligently packing things into boxes, until I stepped into your bedroom. Then I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t believe that you were really gone. Just like that, your light had dimmed and then completely vanished and you were only 32.

I have written elsewhere that even in the darkness of your passing on, I learnt some valuable lessons. For example, I do not moan about growing older (as many women often do). I know how precious it is, to see another year. You were only one year older than me. When I celebrated my 32nd birthday the year after your death, I was pained by how young you were when you left us. It felt so unjust. I remember one of our last conversations just before I left for the UK. You asked me to bring you back a top. I jokingly said that nowadays I only bring back gifts for the tiny tots, and not the adults. And you went like “aii wooooiye” in your high-pitched voice. I did bring you back a top, three tops in fact. But you never got to wear them. Had I known that would be our last in-person conversation, I would have said so much more.

You were such a kind soul. Always willing to help. Like when our sister’s (Tracy’s) nanny did the thing, and she had to go to work, and had no one to leave the baby with. You jumped in to help her with childcare without a second thought. Speaking of the “baby”, you wouldn’t believe that he is now a grown 13-year-old boy. Taller than all of us, and with a deep voice! I remember how dearly you loved him. How you loved carrying him on your back. It saddens me that he doesn’t remember you. But how could he? He was only three when you left us. In my tribute to you, I promised you that I would tell him about you. I have kept that promise. Like when we went home last Christmas, I pointed to your photo that’s placed on the living room cabinet, and asked him if he knew who you were. He didn’t. So, I explained as best as I could. As he grows, I will tell him more about you. You’d be proud of him. He has turned out to be a good kid.

Muni, you left such a void in our lives. Such emptiness. Whilst time has made it easier to deal with, we still miss you every day. It is my sincere hope that you are happy wherever you are. Lord knows that life wasn’t always kind to you, having been orphaned so young. I hope you found rest. We deeply cherish the memories of you and the time we shared together. Until we meet again, rest well with the angels my darling sister.