"Relative calm had returned after violent political skirmishes in Kenya. Although it was the 25th day of January 2008 no Kenyan had wished the other “Happy New Year” yet. Every Kenyan looked injured – physically or emotionally – thus the sign for even more calm.

My ten year old daughter had two weeks before been released by the doctor after seven weeks of attending the Nairobi hospital due to an enlarged spleen. Two weeks after release was time enough to recuperate – or so I thought. My daughter thought so too as she could now play around, run small errands and even go to church on her own. She was eager to go back home. She missed her friends. This morning we walked confidently to the Nairobi city centre, together with my 19 year old daughter (my last born now) to catch a country bus for Kisii. Even the exorbitant fare of 1000sh per seat did not seem to matter. The young one said “mami twende tu” (mummy let’s just go). She took a seat next to mine while her sister sat behind us. The little girl kept us chatting until she fell asleep on my lap just around Naivasha, more than an hour’s drive from Nairobi.

Further on and before Nakuru was a rough stretch of the road still under construction. It was bumpy. She told me to ask the driver to slow down. I chatted to her and she fell asleep on me again. I felt her heavy body on me and even placed her properly but she became even heavier. I tried even to wake her up so she could see Nakuru town but she was “too asleep”. I felt parts of her body going cold. Her eyes were open but she could not see. She responded no more. We entered Nakuru town and decided to alight to rush her to hospital to find out what could have happened. I lifted 29kg of her – that was what she weighed when she left hospital. Where did I get that strength?

Tension was high in the town with groups of men determined to revenge the killings of their tribal people in the Rift Valley. People had to identify themselves. Without proper identification, you were in grave danger.

We sat on the grass next to the road in the middle of the town. My elder daughter insisted that her young sister was just fast asleep and that I should not try to say she has passed on. She rang my brother-in-law who lives in Nakuru and he sent a local taxi driver friend to pick us. We met him at the hospital. My baby was medically declared dead. We took the body to the morgue. It was the only body there. The place was clean. My face was dry and bare as I had just seen so many deaths a few minutes before. We had seen crying children next to dead mothers, burning vehicles with people wailing inside. I was more confused than sad.

My brother in law rang home for me. The people at home could not travel to Nakuru. Neither could we leave Nakuru. Even my father-in-law, who is a traditionalist, surrendered his tribal belief in coming home to be buried and asked us to bury her in Nakuru. The driver was at hand on 26th to assist to get burial documentation. When we went to collect the body we had to skip past new dead bodies to reach the cold room shelves where my daughter’s body was. Bodies were everywhere but my daughter was safe in the shelves, spotlessly clean. Who was I to cry? Who was more sad than the other? Was it the dead? The living? The killers? Who? Who? Who?

The driver took us to the cemetery at 11am. Many other bodies had been buried before we came that morning. We had even manoeuvered to find wreaths of flowers to place on her grave, against all the odds. I was afraid, but I wasn’t afraid. I was more concerned of what could harm my daughter (in death) than what could happen to us who were still alive. My living daughter was by my side all through. I wept whenever my eyes met hers, yet I kept wanting to show her that I was strong so that she did not break down. I sympathized with her and we laid our baby to rest just before noon.

Then the official Kenyan Army were brought in to bring calm into the town. That’s when we were able to travel home on 27th January, without my baby.

I still have a lot of un-cried tears because I wasn’t able to while it was all happening. Many times I put on a strong face, but sometimes I fail, especially when I am alone.
I have been an encourager of women, so I think “will they have confidence in me if I let grief overtake me?” Even taking in an orphaned girl of her age has healed me only a little. I still let my daughter’s former friends play on my verandah where they all used to. It gives me a feeling of her presence.

Why am I still alive when I was in the middle of it all?"

name withheld
to protect the writer

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