I love to dance. So, when the drum started—deep, rhythmic,
spiritual—it didn’t feel strange. It felt ancient. Familiar. Almost like my
body already knew it before my mind could catch up.
I chose to carry her coffin and stand at her feet. Not by
chance but intentionally. She was someone I deeply admired. Through her, I was
born—a seed of her seed. My grandmother, Damara Vukinu, my mother’s
mother, shaped my life long before I could even name it. Her nurture shapes
half of who I am. The other half, perhaps, carries her discipline.
As we moved, two steps forward, two to the side, swaying to
the drum, memories flooded me in microseconds. A whole life compressed into a
few slow meters of walking under the sun.
A wise man once said the best place to be is at a funeral.
I smiled, not because I wasn’t grieving, but because
funerals reveal the truth. About time. About legacy. About the habits we live
without thinking, and the ones that shape us, whether we like it or not. That
day, I didn’t just bury my grandmother. I received a lesson.
Core Message
Life is shaped less by grand moments and more by the quiet
habits we practice daily.
Grief, legacy, and meaning are not managed through motivation—but through
presence, principle, and lived patterns.
Legacy Is Built Quietly, Not Loudly
My grandmother was born into poverty in the 1920s, a time
when poverty wasn’t an exception but a station. Rural life meant stretching a
modest meal to feed many mouths, waking early, sleeping late, and doing it
again without applause.
She was a disciplinarian. A hardworking woman. First on the
farm. Last to leave. What strikes me now is not what she said, but how she
moved. Silent. Firm. Influential.
I later recognized that same quiet strength in my mother.
And suddenly, a question I’d carried for years answered itself: Why do my
mother and her siblings speak so confidently, so openly, so boldly? Because
someone silent had already done the heavy lifting. Legacy is rarely loud.
Habits work the same way.
Most people pursue visible victories, recognition, applause,
and quick results. However, the habits that shape families, character, and
resilience are often invisible. They are done early, repeated daily, and rarely
celebrated. My grandmother didn’t leave us with speeches. She left us with a
pattern. And patterns outlive people.
Grief Reveals How We Relate to Discomfort
In her later years, dementia gradually faded her presence. I
only knew her for a small part of her life. Many times I wanted to talk to her,
only to meet someone experiencing me for the first time again. Those moments
were difficult.
My grandfather, sanguine and engaging, would rescue me with
a walk, a lesson, or a story. But with her, conversation fractured. Language
failed us. Kiswahili mixed with Maragoli. My already-damaged translator
struggled. I misunderstood everything spectacularly. (For the record, I’m
still terrible with languages—but I’m working on it. Eight languages are the
goal. Proper Swahili included.)
At the funeral, as we walked through the field under the
sweltering heat, I realized something uncomfortable about myself: when I care
deeply, I often avoid sitting with my emotions. I greet people, move around,
and stay busy. Grief typically comes later, sometimes days afterward. That
avoidance is not a sign of strength; it's a habit. And grief brutally exposes
our habits.
Some people suppress it. Others spiritualize it away. Some
grow resentful—toward God, toward life, toward fate. But this time, I felt
something different. Neutrality. Gratitude. Not because I loved her less, but
because she had lived fully. Nearly a century. Nine children. Generations
shaped. Grief doesn’t always come with despair. Sometimes it comes with
clarity.
Quality of Life Matters More Than Longevity
As we neared the grave, the rhythm changed. The movement
became animated. We raised the coffin, swayed it, and advanced. For a moment, I
imagined her enjoying the rollercoaster ride. I smiled.
All the men were sweating now. Hot, humid, and careful with
each step. When the coffin was finally laid down, I whispered a prayer—not just
for long life but for quality life. Not just old age, but active age.
The kind where you can still ride a bike in your late nineties, still laugh,
still move, and still think.
Longevity without vitality isn’t truly a blessing. Habits
shape that reality: movement, forgiveness, presence, emotional honesty, and
purpose. On my way back to Nairobi, a phrase echoed in my mind: Trust the
process. Not mindlessly, but with faith. Live by your principles. Interpret
suffering meaningfully. Allow hope to coexist with difficulty.
One of my aunts, truthful and hilariously sharp, urged
parents to remain present. Not to outsource parenting too early. Education
mattered, yes, but presence mattered more. Breaking poverty required schooling.
Breaking emotional distance requires availability.
That, too, is a habit.
Conclusion: Dance Your Own Dance
My grandmother, Damara Vukinu, was laid to rest on
Friday. She left us on New Year’s Day, while others celebrated, we prepared to
let go. Life does not stop its cycles for our convenience. But meaning is not
lost unless we refuse to look for it.
May your suffering—when it comes—carry meaning.
May your forgiveness remain close.
May you see harmony even in endings.
May you trust that God’s love does not expire with breath.
And above all, dance to your own dance. Live fully.
Love sincerely. Fall. Fail. Rise again.
That, too, is a habit worth practicing.
Call to Action
Pause today. Ask yourself:
What habits am I practicing that will speak for me when I’m no longer in the
room?
If this reflection stirred something, reread it slowly—and share it with
someone who needs it.
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