My memory betrays me when I try to recall exactly when I started living with my mum and little sister, Sweetie. My younger brother William hadn’t been born yet, he’d arrive a year or two later, but Sweetie was already there. My sister. My best friend. The first person I truly bonded with in a way I can only describe as soul-deep.

Sweetie was the kindest person I’ve ever known. She still is, in memory. Her heart? Pure gold. She was generous, fierce, and protective, especially when it came to those she loved. She fought for us with a passion most people only reserve for themselves. I was lucky, very lucky, to grow up beside her.

At one point, mum hired a house help. She was working long hours and needed someone to care for us. But this woman turned out to be cruel. She’d beat us, sometimes for no reason, and deny us food. Worst of all, she would threaten to kill us if we ever told mum what she was doing. I was ten when I first ran away from home because of her. I spent the night in a nearby bush, cold and afraid. When I returned the next morning, I couldn’t bring myself to tell mum the truth. She let it slide.

The second time I ran, mum was less forgiving. She beat me senselessly, confused and overwhelmed by the situation. I remember Sweetie crying harder than I did, pleading with mum to stop. She tried to protect me, but mum locked her outside. That didn’t stop her, she cried through the window, begging for mercy on my behalf. I still have the scar on my thigh from that day. And I still carry the pain of being punished not just for something I didn’t do, but for something I couldn’t say.

Some time later, due to financial hardship, mum sent both of us to live with Grandma again, this time in Mukukuni-Muoyweni region in Machakos. The house was full, about six cousins, an aunt, an uncle, livestock, and dust that danced in sunbeams across the floor. Still, Sweetie and I found space to be close. We were always close.

One day while herding cattle and goats, I found a 50-shilling note. My first instinct? Keep it. Spend it in secret. I bought my favorite mandazi, “nzung’utu”, and didn’t tell anyone, not even my sister. Some months later, Sweetie found a similar note. But she didn’t hide it. She ran home, told me with excitement, and insisted we split it equally. I was struck. That kind of generosity? It humbled me. In her, I saw who I wanted to be.

We shared everything, laughter, fights, silence, plans for the future. When William was born and mum had to work night shifts, Sweetie and I were left to watch him. He cried endlessly. We hated the noise, it caused us so much distress. We also felt like all the attention was going to him, and we only had each other, which drew us even closer.

Sweetie was ambidextrous. She could use both hands with equal ease, but mum, like many people at the time, didn’t like it when she ate with her left. I remember once, she asked me which one was her right hand before eating. I pointed to the one that matched my right, forgetting we were sitting opposite each other. Mum caught her eating “with the wrong hand” and punished her. I was crushed. That was the first time I began to question whether adults really made sense sometimes. What did it matter, as long as she was eating?

Sweetie loved mum more than anyone I’ve ever seen love their parent. Once, during one of our “future dreams” chats, she told me:
“When I grow up, I’ll work very hard and buy mum a Prado. I want her to stop struggling.”

I, on the other hand, didn’t think that far. If we had food and a roof, I was good. But Sweetie had a vision. A drive. Through her, I learned the weight and beauty of love expressed in sacrifice.

One Sunday morning, we were on our way to church when we came upon a flooded river, since it had rained the previous night. I tried to cross first but was quickly swept away by the current. Sweetie screamed. She ran along the bank, found a stick, tried to pull me out, but couldn’t. Somehow, I managed to grab hold of a small shrub growing by the river’s edge and held on for dear life. She helped pull me out. I lost a shoe, but we still went to church, after the currents had died down, me, with one foot bare and a heart full of gratitude.

There’s more I could say about her. Enough to fill a library.

One evening in 2005, around 6 p.m., I was sent to the market to buy items for supper. A strange, heavy feeling came over me. I couldn’t shake it. I thought about Sweetie, our memories, our bond, our laughter. I thought about how much I missed her. I didn’t know that, at that very hour, as she was crossing the road in Makutano Chumvi in Machakos, she was hit by a truck on her way home from school.

She died on the spot.

When Grandma told me the news, something inside me went silent. I couldn’t process it. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just… stopped. That night, I stared at nothing. I waited for it to be untrue.

For weeks, months, I dreamed of her. Us together again. Laughing. Talking. Then I’d wake up, and the pain would return, sharp, hollow, relentless. I didn’t cry in front of anyone, but the grief never left. It clawed at me from the inside.

I remember the first time I truly wept. I was out tending Grandma’s livestock, sitting on a rock as the goats grazed peacefully. The memories rushed in. The weight crushed me. I sobbed uncontrollably for hours, alone with the animals and the sky. It was the safest space I had.

When Sweetie died, I didn’t just lose a sister, a piece of my heart died that day. I lost the one person who understood me completely. The one who would cry louder than I did when I was in pain. The one who gave without hesitation, loved without condition, and lived with a light that touched everyone around her.

No one has come close to being like her. No one ever will.

Hey Sweetie,

I love you more than life itself.

Life has been cruel without you.

But I carry your memory in everything I do.

I’ll buy mum that Prado.

See you soon.

Always,
Your brother.