My brain is broken.

I've been trying to jumpstart my brain for 2 years. It’s not working.

I have a deep love for stories. Always have. I credit my childhood and upbringing for that - growing up largely without electricity made it such that my primary source of entertainment were books. With that, writing became a natural fit for me. At one point in my primary school life, an English teacher called me into the staff room for an interrogation straight out of the Law & Order Vincent D'Onofrio playbook, seeking to establish where I copied my composition from.

I didn’t. Which, in hindsight, I now deem to be a deeply offensive allegation. How dare you question my nascent abilities, sir. How dare you.

Writing has been a core part of my being all my life. My livelihood as an adult has been closely tied to this ability to weave letters and words into emotion and conviction. Stories have been my playground, a natural extension of which has been my foray into photography. Scripting for brands, chiselling light with my camera lens, connecting with people’s hearts and souls… That has been me.

So imagine what it feels like to have such a core part of who you are incapacitated at its very root.

For a little over 2 years now, I stare at my notebook and see… nothing. Blank pages glaring back at me. And I stare right back, wondering where the magic went. My camera? I can still hoist it, point, shoot. Muscle memory, mostly. But that spark - the one that lit up the story behind every written piece? Gone. Like the flame of a candle snuffed out in the wind.

My brain is broken.

—

It just keeps turning.

It’s a dark joke, really: The day he was found dead and those leading up to it are etched with brutal clarity. Every moment until the soil covered his coffin is in 8K, 4320p. Everything after, a hazy puzzle with so many missing pieces. But those 39 days? Oh, I could paint you every detail. Not today though. Some other day. Maybe.

“Give it time,” is a common thing that’s said, or some variation thereof. “It is well,” is another frequent flier. I remember trying to hold it together, thinking, “Yes, they’re right. This is normal.” But as the months continued, I realised I was drifting farther and farther away from normal. Every day was a copy-paste iteration of the last, and I wasn’t healing - I was eroding.

Simple tasks became colossal. Paying bills, responding to emails… I’d forget. I’d literally lose hours at my desk, blinking at the screen with no clue how I got there or what I was supposed to be doing. My mind was stuck, replaying my mom’s guttural scream when she saw his body for the first time. Replaying her efforts to recompose herself in that day and in the days that followed. Replaying that unmistakeable scent of strong bleach and disinfectant that colours the air in and around the morgue… Replaying it all, like a haunted record skipping in the background.

Meanwhile, the world? It just kept moving. “We’re so sorry,” people said. “Is there anything we can do?” But soon they moved on. It’s not their fault, really. Nobody can live in your grief forever. They’ve got their own lives, their own stories. If anything, I recognise the intention behind their words, and God bless them for it. Yet the world keeps turning.

But that’s when the isolation sets in. I felt like I was watching everyone from behind a thick pane of glass - hearing their muffled voices but not quite part of the conversation.

—

Brain smog.

“Brain fog.” Cute phrase, right? Conjures an image of an early morning Limuru mist that burns off by 9 am. But what I’m in is more like a dense smog that never lifts, that stings your eyes and coats your lungs. I couldn’t see two steps ahead, constantly disoriented, trying to remember what I was doing five minutes prior.

I’d sometimes sit at my computer, open a fresh document, and think, “Today’s the day I’ll write again.” Yet… nothing. The ideas are there, somewhere in the gloom, just out of reach. But I can’t catch them. The second I try, they vanish. My vocabulary, once so robust, feels stunted, as if half my dictionary got deleted overnight. Yet my notes are chock-full with collections of thoughts and threads, just waiting to be woven together.

Photography has been, to this point, my lifeline. I pick up my camera and let muscle memory do the talking. Click, click, click. Later, I scroll through the shots on my laptop. The images are often beautiful - moments of color, frames that might even be worthy of a print portfolio. And in those slices of time, sparks of joy and pride re-emerge. But what’s a spark without fuel to feed the fire?

—

Heavy boots.

I grew up in Ruai. Back then (he says, as though sitting in a chair with a thermos full of tea, reminiscing to his grandchildren), Ruai wasn’t Nairobi. And if you know Ruai, you know the black cotton soil, with its notorious ability to gum up whatever boots you’re walking in. And with that buildup of soil on your gumboots - or wellingtons, if you’re feeling fancy - comes the weight, making each step more difficult than the last.

That’s what everyday tasks have felt like. Even the more menial, routine stuff. More weight, more exhaustion, a soul-deep weariness that makes every action a monumental effort.

Work calls, responsibilities pile up. But I can’t just say, “Sorry, I’m grieving, call back next year.” Life demands I keep going, so I do. But each step feels heavier than the last, guilt piling on top of exhaustion.

I tried the usual hustle: Push through, soldier on, keep busy. But it’s like trying to sprint with a broken leg. I only hurt myself more, which triggers guilt. Guilt for not performing like I used to. Guilt for letting people down. Guilt for failing to be the me that I was before. Ending up caught in this savage loop - exhaustion leads to guilt, guilt leads to deeper exhaustion, on and on, until you’re too drained to fight back.

—

Time traveller.

If I could just deal with the fatigue, maybe I’d manage. But the memory glitches? Man, that really sucks. That’s what scares me the most. This isn’t your routine “Where did I put those keys?” brand of forgetfulness. This is entire chunks of time vanishing. I’ll be in the middle of a conversation, and suddenly I lose the thread, like the name of the person I’m speaking with, or what we were passionately discussing just seconds ago. As though I was the Doctor’s companion, and he dropped me off the TARDIS back into my timeline a few minutes - sometimes a few days - later than he was supposed to.

In desperation, I started plastering my desktop and phone with reminders and notes apps. Shopping lists, meeting reminders, to-do tasks. My phone is full of voice memos from me reminding me to do something. You know when a show buffers online, how the screen sometimes pixelates before jumping ahead? That’s my brain.

—

Echoes in silence.

Grief can be a fortress. Not just a moat of sadness, but a towering wall that cuts you off from the world. I believe I’ve always been something of a people-person, the type who can comfortably instigate and sustain conversation, who connects folks through stories. But now, it’s a lonely vantage point. I watch friends and family with their dinners, birthdays, weddings… The seasons actually changing for them.

I see them rediscover joy, laughing about silly things, complaining about Monday commutes, and how this government has turned everyone into budget hawks and online sleuths. And I’m there, physically, but not really there. Sometimes I’d ask myself if I’m choosing this isolation - but perhaps grief chose it for me. I’m living behind glass. I can see everyone clearly, but I can’t tap on the window and let them hear what’s really going on in my head.

People try, they do. The cliches, the half-hugs, or that awkward tilt of the head that says, “I’m sorry for your loss, but I have no idea how to help you.” And how could anyone help? I barely know how to help myself.

“Time heals all wounds,” they say. Except I’ve discovered that for some wounds, time just deepens the scar if you don’t address what’s feeding the pain.

—

The tax of the logistician.

It’s not just the emotional toll of losing Dad - it’s everything that happened right before, and the even more everything that came in the aftermath. Blindsided by the legal stumbling blocks, the financial shortfalls, the procedures for repatriating a loved one’s remains… It’s a side of grief that few talk about: In the midst of heartbreak, you have to push your own grief aside, shove it into a cupboard under the sink, and become a logistical wizard, dealing with embassies and funeral homes, police stations and morgues, all while trying to forget that the cupboard exists.

I remember making calls to relatives, acquaintances, even strangers who “know someone”. Stuck in some labyrinth of paperwork and bureaucracy, navigating the politics of institutions, governments, and long-lost suddenly-reemerged relatives, trying to get Dad’s body on the next flight home. Anxiety tearing at your insides, but outwardly effusing calm, efficiency, and the occasional charm. The unspoken pressure was monstrous: Don’t cry in front of the official. You need to have this conversation with the attendant. Stand tall, answer questions, fill out the forms, hold steady… But how do you keep composure with your heart in shards? How do you keep together the pieces of a broken bottle, expecting the bottle to keep holding water?

It took days that felt like eons to get him back to Kenya. We shared a flight back home with him - us in the pressurised passenger cabin, him in cargo.

I collapsed into tears as soon as we cleared arrivals. A relief of sorts - there’s something very heavy about bearing grief away from the system of support you know.

—

Unspoken.

Perhaps the worst part is all the things we never got to say. I replay them in my head sometimes - a highlight reel of ongoing conversations never to be completed, of future conversations to never happen.

I sometimes relive childhood memories, hoping they’ll offer comfort. Feeling the safety of a parent’s hug is truly an underappreciated priviledge in this life. Hearing his laugh boom through the room whenever he’d crack one of those oh-so-bad jokes.

It’s a self-replicating paradox: These recollections are like flickers of sunshine in an otherwise grey sky. Yet sometimes, they also intensify the agony, because they are a reminder of what’s lost. Of who has been lost. At at the very same time, that very absence serves as a reminder of what’s here, what’s present, what’s now.

—

“It’s complicated.”

The last two years have been a treasure hunt for healing. I devoured self-help guides, from the ones promising eternal positivity to those delving into the “steps to overcoming grief.” I tried therapy - perhaps I haven’t tried hard enough.

You see, grief can morph into many shapes, including what’s sometimes called “complicated grief”, as my therapist referred to it. It’s the kind that doesn’t fade at the one-year mark or even the two-year mark. It’s that long-term strangling feeling that creeps into every corner of your life, making you wonder if you’ll ever function normally again. The worst part is, you’re aware you’re stuck, but you can’t simply will yourself out of it.

Mindfulness apps. Journalling. Audio journalling, when that last one seemingly failed. Following my breath. Walking the dog. In it all, that sense of disconnection stubbornly persisted. Almost as though it knows how stubborn I too can be.

—

Radio voice.

I always believed words could solve anything. That if I could just articulate the pain, put it into a coherent sentence, I’d diffuse its power. Not this time. When I try to explain what’s happening inside me, it comes out fractured.

People ask, “How are you?” and … Let me share a secret you too may be familiar with: Radio voice. My friend, my time on radio taught me exactly what inflections to deploy when I don’t want anyone digging any deeper. And it’s an easy switch. Just close your eyes, take a slow breath, and we’re on. It’s a performance that can win awards every time.

“I’m good! And you?”

Because there's really no way to sum up the conflagration of confusion and despair in a passing conversation. And no need to have acquaintances giving that sad look - like they’re stepping on eggshells. No need to belabour them with that.

But the cost of that performance? Time. I need time to recover, to collect myself after every interaction. Cocooning. Which ironically, only cements the loneliness. Even the best of intentions can’t penetrate the fortress of grief when you yourself can’t open the gate.

—

Flickers.

There are fleeting moments where I sense a trace of hope. Some days, I wake up after a decent night’s sleep and I feel… lighter. I’ll make my complicated cup of tea (yes, it’s really a complicated cup, almost ritualistic at this point), watch the sun crawl across the sky, and think, “Maybe I’ll try writing just one paragraph today.” I can count the number of times I’ve manage that on my toes. Oftentimes it escapes as a tweet, tapping out a few lines, because the state of the nation doesn’t afford us the luxury of silence.

Those lines can feel like gold, tiny glimmers of who I used to be. And then, inevitably, the exhaustion returns like a tide, washing away those precious sparks. But still, for a moment I allow myself to believe in the possibility of re-invention. That maybe, just maybe, this puzzle doesn’t require me to find all the old pieces, but to create new ones.

Photography, too, often surprises me. It’s perhaps the one space where my own mind finds both refuge and pride. I’ll look through a set of images and notice some intangible thread of emotion. Maybe it’s the rays of a sunset colourfully striding across a tea plantation in Tigoni, or the portrait of a client during a headshot session along Riverside Drive, or the sight of Table Mountain towering above the Capetonian cityscape, or the picture of a newborn nephew… Something about those compositions, accidental or by design, hints at a soul stirring. I cling to these moments, trying to remind myself they’re evidence that I’m not completely gone - that some part of me still understands beauty.

—

“Mannerless.”

Let’s talk about vulnerability. Folks love that word.

“Be vulnerable, open up.”

If you’ve ever walked through a storm of grief, you know vulnerability is a double-edged sword. Yes, it allows connections to form, allows people to see your raw truth. But it also exposes you to more hurt, more misunderstanding, more heartbreak.

Most people respond with compassion. A few find it within them to share how they’ve lost their own loved ones and are struggling, too. A beloved friend spoke of how more than 10 years later, the grief of losing her mother to cancer is still a living, breathing thing. Another shared how she looks at her children and sometimes sees her own mother, closing on three decades on. Or, as she succinctly put it: “Grief is mannerless.”

Yet, for some reason, the cliches cut deep. I still don’t understand why. “Have you tried just focusing on the good times?” or “He’s in a better place now.”

I know they mean well. Truly, I do. But it reminds me how grief is a labyrinth only you can truly explore. People can visit you at the entrance, hand you a flashlight, but they can’t walk it for you. In the end, it’s your journey, your fear, your tears splitting into splashes on the cold, jagged floor.

—

The quiet parts.

The deeper side of complicated grief is how it can affect your willingness to care for yourself. The phone calls you miss, the messages you leave unanswered, the emails you forget to come back to - part of me wonders if I’m self-sabotaging because I feel unworthy of success or joy while Dad is no longer around.

I lose track of days. I might skip meals because I’m too numb to notice hunger. Some nights, insomnia keeps me up until late, mind racing with images of Dad just… lying there, in the clothes he last dressed himself in. Other nights, I pass out at 10pm, from sheer emotional exhaustion. My internal equilibrium is all over the place, and attempts at normalcy - like cooking a balanced meal or maintaining a consistent schedule - feel as challenging as walking a forest trail in shorts and worn-out shoes, stones and thafai casually seeing to keeping those nerves in your feet very active.

Naturally, finances then take a beating. Writing jobs, consulting gigs, brand storytelling sessions - they all suffer. Hard to pitch compelling copy when your mind repeatedly short-circuits, or when you’re fighting your rage at your own brain for not doing the thing that brains are supposed to do.

—

Tangled doodles.

So here I am, two and a half years later, still taking baby steps.

Fuck. Two and a half years.

I’ve learned a few things, though. First, healing doesn’t have a tidy schedule. Grief doesn’t read the clock, nor does it travel a straight line. It’s not like, “18 months are up, you’re good to go!”

Second, you can’t rush creativity when your heart’s in mourning. The best you can do is show up and do what you can. Maybe it’s just a paragraph today, a single photograph tomorrow. Maybe next week, you’ll manage some client work that doesn’t end with you burying your face in your hands.

Third, I realised the memories of the ones we love aren't things we want to “get over.” We want to carry them forward. The spirits of both parents who created an environment in which I learnt to find stories in the everyday are still within me, urging me to see color in the cracks of the pavement, to find light in the corners of a gloomy house. If I can harness even a fraction of that spirit, maybe I can coax my brain back to life - like jumpstarting an old VW Golf that just needs a bit more time to warm up.

—

Rehab.

There’s no triumphant ending here. Not yet. My brain’s still on the fritz, still refusing to function at 100%. Memory lapses continue to ambush me during the day, and nights are occasionally rough. But I find small anchors - a friend’s hug, a brief moment of feeling present during a photography shoot, or a line of prose that actually rings true when I read it back.

I’ve started being a little more present to some of the stories I’m involved in telling. Takes a lot more effort than before, but even physical rehab is a monumental task on the path to healing. And that’s exactly what this is - rehabilitation. Because sudden loss also causes actual trauma to the brain. I was surprised that this is genuine scientific fact. And that repair needs the time, the attention, and the work.

Yet perhaps the key lies elsewhere: In letting go of the rush to be who I was, and allow myself to be who I am in this moment, and to become who I’m going to be. Not who I want to be, not who I need to be… Simply who I’m going to be. Reacquainting myself with the stranger in the mirror, discovering him anew. That means acknowledging that his death and everything surrounding that changed me, rewriting my sense of identity with major pieces missing. It doesn’t mean blocking out the pain. It means accepting that pain is now part of my story.

A plot twist in the story, perhaps.

—

“Hope.”

I never used to think of “hope” as a strategy. I was all about practicality and planning, bullet points and measurable goals. Yet in this prolonged darkness, hope has become my main lifeline, which my photography acting as its paragon. It’s the faint candle flicker that keeps me from succumbing to total despair. Hope that one day, my writing will make me feel something again, just as my photos do. Hope that I’ll assemble enough coherent thoughts to write something I’m proud of. Hope that I’ll eventually rebuild some semblance of normalcy in my own mind, albeit a different one than I had before.

Is hope guaranteed to pay off? No. But it’s far better than the alternative, which is resignation. Because once you surrender to the fog, that’s when it becomes permanent. And I can’t let that be my end. I’m a little too stubborn for that.

—

Next Chapter?

My brain is still broken. Google Photos occasionally brings up those photos as memories, including the ones… You know the ones, by now. Except now, I can look at them, accept them for what they are, and not crumble into a puddle. The rest of the time, it brings up the other photos - the ones with every other part of life that’s worth living. The ones that bring a smile to my face. Because life is the good, the bad, the mundane, and all the nuance in between.

Maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe that’s all we can ask of ourselves: Keep breathing, keep walking, keep snapping that shutter, keep typing out those words even if the mental image looks dull at that moment. Because every click, every keystroke, every attempt to string words together is a small rebellion against the fog.

Grief isn’t the end of any story. It’s a brutal, stumbling chapter that seems to go on and on, but I feel it deep in my gut - there’s another chapter ahead. Maybe it’ll arrive quietly, or maybe it’ll burst in with an epiphany. I don’t know. But I’m still listening, still hoping. And if my days alive have taught me anything, it’s that stories can surprise us in the most unexpected moments.

For anyone reading or hearing these words, maybe you’re fighting your own unseen battles - memory issues, heartbreak, confusion, that dull ache in your chest that no one else can name. I can’t promise a quick fix. But I can say you’re not alone. I don’t know if that statement means much right now, but perhaps someday, these words will come back to you, a crack of light breaking into a dark room.

And who knows? Somewhere further down this path, maybe we’ll both find that the VW Golf engine finally turns over, that our minds sputter back to life, and we can accelerate into a new horizon - changed, yes, but still pressing forward. Because that’s what resilience is, right? Living in the messy in-between, forging a future even when you can’t see one on the horizon.

So we’ll take a breath, right here, now. Close our eyes. Listen for that faint drumbeat in our chests that says we’re alive. And then, for my part, I’ll open my eyes, stare at the lens of my camera, and realise it’s been waiting for me all along, waiting for me to say, “Okay, let’s try again”. Because grief might be stubborn, but so is my will to keep going. It may be strong, but I remain ungovernable.

—

Huh.

Look at that.

I wrote something.

I finally wrote something.

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