18/02/2026
On a quiet evening,
we were sitting in our home, me and the great Manawa.
Milk tea was in my hands, and everyone knew that my evenings were never complete without it.
And our conversations always had a different taste. They carried something special—
a different tone, a depth unlike any other conversation.
I had just returned from Juba by bus,
a full two-day journey to Nairobi.
Those were hard days.
No money for a flight,
no easy road,
and my feet were swollen from travel, exhaustion, and circumstances far greater than our age back then.
And yet, we laughed.
We were very happy.
In the middle of our conversation, he suddenly looked at me and said,
“You know, boss.”
He loved calling me that.
Then he continued quietly, in a way that unsettled me:
“If death comes now, I wish it would take me and leave you.”
I froze.
His words had nothing to do with the laughter,
nothing to do with the evening,
nothing to do with the tea.
I was silent for a moment, then I asked,
“Why would you say that?”
He said,
“Man Gargouth…”
When he called me that, I knew immediately things had turned serious.
“I’m not as strong as you.”
I didn’t understand him at the time.
I said, surprised,
“How can you say that, boss? I am your student. I learned from you, and I’m still learning.”
He smiled that smile—the one that saw what I could not see—and said,
“I don’t have your strength. If I leave, my home will not close.
You are strong. You are not afraid.
If death must come, I pray it takes me and leaves you to lead this house.”
I cried that day.
But I did not understand.
After his death…
After the wars I fought alone…
After responsibilities opened before me like a shoreless sea…
After I became the mother and the father, the support and the decision…
After I stood in front of life while it tested me with everything it had…
Only today,
I began to understand.
Manawa did not wish to leave.
He knew.
He saw in me a strength I did not recognize in myself.
He was handing me the leadership quietly,
planting in my heart a will I would not understand until I stood alone.
When death finally came,
it did not ask permission.
It did not let me prepare.
We never returned to the laughter over tea again.
I stood in front of that same house,
the house he said would never close.
And truly, it could not close.
I carried the responsibility.
I carried the grief.
I carried the children.
And I carried his name with me.
On many nights, I asked myself:
Did he know?
Did he feel it?
Or did he simply see my strength more clearly than I could?
Some men leave this world
confident that the woman before them
will be able to continue the journey.
Enock