Three years later.....

Grief

They say grief comes in waves, but no one warns you about the undertow the way it pulls you under long after the initial crash. When I lost my father during COVID's cruel peak in 2021, the strangest thing happened: I didn't cry. Not at the hospital when they pronounced it. Not during the funeral arrangements. Not even when I stood before our gathered family and friends to speak about the man who had been my compass. People probably thought I was strong. The truth was far more complicated.

In our Kenyan family, when death comes, there's no time for unraveling. Someone has to be the steady one the one who remembers which uncle handles the burial committee, which cousin knows the best tent supplier, which florist won't cheat mourners. By some unspoken decree, that someone became me. There's a particular kind of trauma in being the designated strong one. You become an emotional Swiss Army knife handling logistics with one hand while suppressing your own breaking heart with the other. The tears don't disappear; they just take up residence in your bones, making a home in the spaces between your ribs.

Stoicism teaches that we should meet adversity with composure, but no philosopher prepares you for the quiet violence of being the family anchor. I remember sitting in my father's favorite chair the week after burial, surrounded by his things his half-finished crossword in the standard newspaper, because he got them for free (my sister used to work for them then), the sweater he always forgot to take off before napping. The grief hit me then, not as tears but as a physical weight, as if someone had slipped lead into my bloodstream. Still, I didn't cry. There were forms to complete, accounts to transfer, a mother to reassure. Kenyan funerals don't allow for the luxury of falling apart.

What they don't tell you about being the strong one is how lonely it is. Friends and relatives assume you're handling things well because you're not weeping openly. They lean on you, share their memories, their tears, their "pole sana" never realizing you're drowning in plain sight. The trauma compounds not just from the loss itself, but from the constant self-negation required to keep others afloat. You become fluent in the language of suppressed grief, mastering the art of the tight-lipped smile that says "I'm fine" when your soul is screaming.

But here's what I've learned in these three years of living without my father's physical presence: Strength isn't the absence of emotion it's the courage to keep moving despite it. The trauma of being the rock? It's transformed into a quiet pride the knowledge that I've honored him by becoming what our family needed.

Three years. That’s how long it’s been since my dad left us long enough for the sharp edges of grief to soften, but not so long that I don’t still occasionally pick up my phone to call him before remembering, Ah, huyo jamaa ako kwa WhatsApp premium plan there are no calls allowed there.

At first, I thought I’d be the strong, silent type stoic, unshaken, the kind of guy who could handle anything without flinching. Turns out, grief had other plans. The first time I broke down? it was in the middle of Mulleys supermarket, staring at a crate of his favorite bear. The cashier gave me that look "Wewe, si ununue tu? Usinipigie drama hapa!" but how do you explain that you’re not crying over barley, but over the fact that no one will ever again say "Nipe mbili za raundi ya kwanza!" and then drink them all before you even get a taste of your first beer?

When Dad was alive, he was the one everyone called for "help" whether it was money, advice, or just someone to complain to about how "Leo hii pesa ni shida." Now? That role has been forcefully inherited by me. "Your father would’ve known what to do," my mom will say, handing me a broken phone, a leaking pipe, or a relative’s drama like I’m some kind of "Fix-It Felix" for adulting. Jokes on them half the time, I’m just Googling "How to unclog a sink" while nodding like, "Eh, this is simple."

The other day, I told my cousin "Usinipigie kelele hapa!" in the exact same tone Dad used when they were being too loud. I froze. "Oh no. I’ve become him." It’s happening more and more the way I sigh dramatically at bad drivers ("Hii Kenya ni ya watu wendawazimu ?"), the way I insist on telling long, pointless stories ("Sasa, hii story iko na context…"), even the way I now "rest my eyes" in front of the TV at 9 PM. I used to tease him for it. Now? I am him.

Now when I visit his grave, I don't force tears that won't come. Instead, I tell him about how we're managing how mom has finally learned to use mobile banking, how I still argue with referees during football matches just like he taught me. The stoicism isn't about suppression anymore; it's about channeling the pain into purposeful living.

To those walking this path: Your strength, however messy, however painful, however unseen, matters. The tears you don't shed, the grief you postpone to handle life practicalities they don't make you less human. They make you part of an unspoken fellowship of those who bear the weight so others don't have to. And when the time is right when the accounts are settled and the family is stable may you find space to grieve in your own way, in your own time. Until then, know this: Some of the strongest mourners are the ones who appear dry-eyed, carrying oceans within them.

Those years without my father have taught me that grief is not a wound that heals, but a weight we learn to carry some days with ease, others with shoulders bent low. But in that weight, there is honor. Every time I speak his words, laugh at his jokes, or stand strong when my family needs me, I keep him alive in the only way that matters. The pain of loss never truly leaves, but neither does love. And if love remains, then so does he, not on the ground above, but in the way I live, the way I hold others up, the way I refuse to let death have the final word.

So to anyone walking this road: You are allowed to miss them deeply and still find joy. You are allowed to be strong and still break. You are allowed to carry their memory not as a burden, but as a torch lighting your way forward, reminding you that love does not end where life does. Keep going. Keep living. And when the weight feels heaviest, remember: the ones we lose never truly leave us. They live on in the stories we tell, the lessons we pass down, and the quiet, stubborn courage to wake up each morning and try again. That is their final gift to us and it is enough.