Rest in peace, my dear brother

Death whence do you hide? How do you choose those you snatch from us? You strike where it hurts most. You leave us shaken, teary and feeble at heart and weak. Death where do you take those you grasp? Yes, they say the answer is in religious books, but still it is too painful to part forever.

My brother Kibet, you who comes after me, we mourn you. Thursday, November 12, 9:30am. Just a night in hospital. Doctors diagnosed a condition hard to pronounce. But even if it was as easy as saying ABCD it would not be any less cruel.

The lab tests finally came and they say if they arrived any earlier you would probably be alive for they would have periodically drained your blood, easing complications of excess production of red blood cells.

We were left holding pieces of scripted papers. Apart from medical jargon, they tell us more about our own mortality. Yours has taught us we are just transiting this world.

Brother, we have cried. We have asked questions. We have looked back at years shared. We have held and assured the young family you left. We have also been condoled by our friends, including many we never knew were that close to you.

They spoke about a strong, focused, sincere and hardworking, selfless teacher, religious community mobiliser and role-model. Within your space you fought for the poor and disadvantaged, and won respect. They too are crying.

Dad and our mothers feel lost and their grief can’t be told in words. Your in-laws and your nephews and nieces too, are stunned.

We are advised to leave everything to God and we abide. But not without tears and heartache. Because for me, over the last 44 years you have been a part of my life, from the days we played hide-and-seek, to hunting rodents. We ran errands for our parents. We fetched water and firewood. We shared everything; cowhide skin for bedding, agweng’a (aluminium), plastic cups and clothes. We navigated the education and career ladders together.

The siblings who came after us, we welcomed and held their hands. I recall, you liked reaching out to us on Sundays afternoon. Those calls will never come again.

Not that I have deleted your phone number. No, even if I had the energy, it lives in my memory. But I can’t reach you on it. It is just a reminder of the life we shared.

On Thursday November 19, surrounded by family and friends, we laid you to rest. The eulogies spoke sweetly about you. Though gone, your spirit lingered through memories of great moments shared in your compound.

The memories of the day were captured in still and moving pictures. I don’t know how many years it will take me to watch them. I may never. But what was recorded will never eclipse the joyous you, your radiant smile, the willingness to help and the great host you were to us at home in Chemogoch. During Christmas especially, and the 2014 fete for the new initiates you took through the journey to adulthood.

It was a ‘wedding’ of sorts, full of prayer, song, dance and wise counsel.  Ironically, the same preacher who presided over it, who gave it the sacred momentum befitting that day, Bishop Jackson Kosgey, was the one who oversaw your final rites.

Ironic because we know he was to come back for a thanksgiving ceremony for you, laid out by your friends whose sons you chaperoned into adulthood through the path of Christ. The kind words we had for you, the treasured memories we remain with, will forever keep you in us. For you remain in us our departed brother, father and son.

You taught us high standards for everything we set out to do. You upheld the virtues of honesty and hard work. You put a premium on education few have, and the cost didn’t matter for you always explained investment in ignorance is more expensive.

In your children, Kiplimo, Jepng’eno and Jepkalya, we promised before God and with His help, we shall bring you out in them. The pillar of your family, your love since childhood, your wife Sally, misses you and is pained.

But her hand we shall hold, she will not slip into despair. For if it were any of us in the family, you would have done the same.

You were a dedicated teacher. You told friends you would only find time to seek treatment for a persistent ache after your Molo Sirwe Primary School sat their KCPE. On the last day of the exam you were overwhelmed and the final journey of your life began; a journey to hospital began that Wednesday.

The next morning, you slipped away. We pray that your candidates do well in their exams, and that their results will make you smile with contentment.

They say time heals but we ask how and when this grief will end. We have no answer because it simply has no end. Go in peace brother; Reuben Kibet Cheploen. Born May 7, 1970.