When the Clock Stops Ticking - Ft Leakey Ochola

About noon, on one of those days in the year 2004—a leap year, in fact, a time that usually evokes excitement among solar system enthusiasts—one would hope that the extra day in February would be a sign of good tidings. But was it? I recall my early childhood when our science teacher would gather us outside, mount broken pieces of transparent glass, and let us watch the eclipse—whether it was lunar or solar, darkness always followed. That day, I wasn’t just watching an eclipse. Darkness was falling in my own world, and it wasn't a mere celestial event.

I had never been so unsettled as I was that afternoon. My instincts allowed no rest. You see, in the preceding weeks, mama had been hospitalized. She had spent two or three weeks walking in and out of the hospital, with no sign of improvement, until the doctors finally insisted she stay admitted. Our home, school, and the hospital formed a sort of triangle—a tripod of proximity. If the house aid was deep-frying fish at home, we could catch the smell or even hear the sizzle. So, it was no surprise that the piercing wails reached our classroom. My instincts aligned with the cries of mourning—mama had rested. Like the analogy of the eclipse—darkness had arrived, darkness at noon.

Mama was a soft-spoken gem. Polite and humble are the two focal adjectives that attempt to capture the essence of who she was. In her early thirties, she lived with a quiet strength. She wasn’t a disciplinarian; my aunts often teased her for her inability to punish us when we misbehaved. But the most profound example of her shyness came when my sister and I visited her at the hospital for the last time. She could barely look us in the eye. It was as if Nyalego knew she was leaving us. That afternoon, she did. Her departure marked the beginning of my relationship with loss and grief.

The news spread quickly, as it always does. People began arriving at our home almost immediately, some by foot, others by bus, from every corner of the community. In the old days, they would have sounded the openga drum to signal death, but now, the word traveled by phone, and by mouth. The mourning, or tero buru, began the moment the news was confirmed. Relatives and friends gathered at our home, wailing and expressing their grief openly. It wasn’t just crying—it was a deep, raw release of pain that came from the soul. I had never seen anything like it before.

The next few days were filled with constant activity. We had to prepare for the burial, or liel, and it wasn’t something that could be rushed. Meetings were held to plan every detail. Family members contributed money for the funeral costs, and the men in the homestead slaughtered a bull to feed the mourners. The meat was shared amongst us, a symbol of unity and the life that continued even in the face of death.

The night before the burial, we held a budho, the night vigil. I remember it so clearly—the fires burning around the homestead, the shadows of people moving in and out, and the voices that filled the air, singing songs of loss and love. The elders sat together, recounting stories of Mama, offering prayers, and calling upon our ancestors to receive her spirit. It was long, stretching into the early hours of the morning, but there was something comforting about it. Despite the sadness, I felt Mama's presence lingering around us.

The burial itself was something I’ll never forget. As we approached the grave, I watched as the elders prepared the site with care. They had dug it near the house, where Mama would be laid to rest, her body positioned with her head facing west, toward the setting sun. It was a small but significant gesture, marking the end of her journey. I stood there, silent, as the prayers were said, and the rituals were performed. When they began lowering her into the grave, everyone was invited to throw a handful of soil over the coffin. It was my final goodbye.

Days passed, and the mourning continued. In some ways, the mourning for Mama would last a lifetime, but for now, we had to complete the formal rites. A month after the burial, we gathered again for mito, the final cleansing of the grave. We cleaned the tomb, offered more prayers, and shared a small meal. It was a quieter, more intimate ceremony, but it felt like the closing of a chapter.

Grief doesn’t follow a schedule. It lingers, much like the heavy rains that hang in the sky long after the clouds have cleared. Even as life began to return to normal, Mama's memory was kept alive. In the stories we told about her, in the names we gave to the children born after her passing, and in the way we lived. We honored her in the small, quiet ways—through our prayers, through our remembrance of her, and in moments of reflection.

At one point, I lost my relationship and in the struggles of trying to find closure and healing, a friend of mine said to me, ‘Your greatest undoing Leakey, is that you’re trying to find your mother in another woman. Make peace with the fact that she is indispensable and you can never find her in another woman however hard you look.’ And so, I echo that to anyone who may have fallen victim to the vulnerability that comes with the loss of a parent, whatever it be, embrace that reality.

True to his words, Mama still is irreplaceable.

Somethings we know, somethings we do not know, but this one we know – that mitigating grief begins with an acknowledgment of the pain and deliberately allowing oneself to be emotionally vulnerable rather than a defeatist approach that suppresses them. It is in this note that I assert, we must collectively rescind any form of social dispensation that doesn’t allow men to be emotionally vulnerable. Along with this goes the subject of mental health. People, we must make use of support systems and seek help when we truly need it.

Vanity Jamboree # 011

In the wake of loss, we often find ourselves asking, "What is life?" This question emerges with a profound urgency as we grapple with the absence of those we hold dear. It’s in these moments of grief that we confront the fragility of our existence and are reminded of the need to live fully and cherish the time we have. While we may only ask this question when faced with death, the challenge is to carry its meaning into our everyday lives, finding purpose and appreciation in each moment.