RESILIENCE, LIL BRO. RESILIENCE

I looked at my brother one more time. He was my cousin, but having been brought up together since birth, I considered him more of a brother. He was already taller than me, healthy and more masculine. He had what people referred to as athlete body. I then looked at my mum and asked, did that really happen?

She looked at me with tears and quoted what the doctor had said seventeen years ago like it was just yesterday. “Given her abrupt drop in blood pressure and pulse, I diagnosed a placental abruption. We performed a successful emergency C- section. She was having chest pains, shortness of breath, classic symptoms of an amniotic fluid embolism. Her lungs were no longer functioning. I had to get her to a trauma unit. We were losing her. And she went into arrest. I kept her long enough to become a mother…”

That’s enough mum, I said hugging her.

“I should have stayed with her.” She whimpered.

“There is nothing you could have done.” I assured her.

My grandmother looked at him board the matatu and then asked, “was she in pain? At the end?”

“No, she never woke up.” My mother replied.

I wished there was something I could say to stop her tears, to take away the pain of losing her sister but I couldn’t. what I could do was to remind her how lucky we were to have had her in our lives and leave a part of herself… a wonderful baby boy.

“You know, he was so sickly, weak and always crying.” My mother continued. “Despite having given birth to you two years ago, I couldn’t even remember how to swaddle a baby

“I hear bourbon works.” I commented sarcastically and we all laughed.

“Have you ever heard about the speech of an empty grave? About the foundational elements in our lives? People who form the brick and mortar of who we are? How when they are suddenly not there we collapse into rubble? He had already collapsed into rubble when he was born upon her mother’s death.” My grandmother said, her eyes fixed on the disappearing matatu. “When we rushed him to the emergency that night, we didn’t know whether our six-month-old boy would survive.”

I clearly recalled the story like they had continuously told me over time. It had started as a low-grade fever which we managed by reducing his clothes. Over the following days, the fever increased and he became more irritable and fussier. Two days later, his appetite decreased and fed poorly. “Maybe he misses his mummy.” Some people would say. On being taken to the local dispensary, he was given paracetamol syrup which did not relieve his symptoms.

Now came cough, initially intermittent and dry which rapidly progressed to become more severe, accompanied by wheezing and difficulty in breathing. That evening, his breathing became faster and forced with occasional nasal flaring. He then started having retractions and chest wall indrawing. They couldn’t wait any longer and immediately rushed him to the hospital.

He was admitted foe several days while on oxygen. Good news, the fever subsided, the cough improved and he started feeding. He became more active and playful. Two weeks later, he woke up one morning to the smiling face of my mother and smiled back, “mama”.

Over the next years, we brought him up as our own. My younger brother. He had occasional rashes, sickly at times but by the time he was twelve years old, he was stronger than me.

As I watched him board the matatu, his figure growing smaller in the distance, I felt a surge of pride. My mother and grandmother’s sacrifices, the endless nights of worry, and the unwavering love they poured into him had not been in vain.

“You know,” I said softly, turning to my mother and grandmother, “she didn’t leave us empty-handed. She gave us a part of herself—a gift worth every struggle.”

My mother smiled through her tears, and my grandmother nodded. Despite the loss, we had gained something extraordinary: a bond forged in love, resilience, and the unbreakable strength of family.

And for that, I will always be grateful.