My Story – Part 1 I am Minage Kabaka, born on 25th May 1989 in Nairobi. I am the last-born child and only daughter of Solomon Kabaka. I have a loving brother, Ken Karani Kabaka, the firstborn in our family, who has been my companion through many seasons of life. Due to unavoidable circumstances, my parents separated when we were still young. I was only a little girl, and my brother was about four years old. As a result, my brother and I relocated to Lanet, Nakuru County, where our grandparents opened their home and hearts to us. From what I remember, my father loved me very much. He used to visit us in Nakuru regularly. Then, at some point, he stopped coming. To this day, I do not know exactly what happened, though I sometimes believe my grandparents may have discouraged him from visiting. Despite the separation, my father's love for us never faded. Whenever we visited Nairobi during school holidays, he would secretly take us to spend time with him at his home. My mother did not approve of this, and eventually she stopped bringing us to Nairobi during school breaks. Together with our cousins, Dan and Wairimu, we grew up as one family, sharing both life's joys and its challenges. Lanet became our home. It was there that we began our education and remained until we completed Form Four. Our grandparents were not only our guardians but also our role models. They taught us discipline, respect, and the importance of faith. They faithfully took us to ACK Church, where we were later baptized and confirmed. One of the greatest losses of my childhood came in October 2001 when my grandfather passed away. He had been a father figure, teacher, and mentor to us all. His wisdom, guidance, and love shaped the people we became. I still remember him with love and gratitude. Rest in Peace, Mwalimu Muiruri. After completing Form Four, I relocated to Nairobi to pursue further studies while living with my Aunt Martha. My mother was also living in Nairobi at the time, and being closer to her gave me strength as I worked toward my dreams. In 2008, I was fortunate to secure employment. With my first steps into adulthood came two important missions that I carried deep within my heart: To find my father. To build a home for my mother. For years, the question of my father remained unanswered. Despite his absence, I always believed that one day I would meet him. I imagined the conversations we would have and the opportunity to finally know the man whose name I carried. In 2011, my brother began the journey of searching for our father. He approached our mother and asked about him. Mum directed him to Aunt Phyllis, my father's sister. One Sunday in 2011, my brother met Aunt Phyllis. What was supposed to be a search for answers turned into a moment that would change our lives forever. That afternoon, I was in a matatu heading to Ngara when my phone rang. "Mambo?" my brother asked. "Poa," I replied. There was a brief silence. Then he said words that shattered a dream I had carried for many years: "Unajua dad alikufa mwaka wa 2006..." I froze. My heart broke into pieces. For my entire life, I had held onto the hope that one day I would meet my father alive. In a single moment, that hope disappeared. The dream I had nurtured since childhood suddenly felt impossible. As the matatu continued moving through the busy streets of Nairobi, my mind stood still. Questions flooded my heart: When did he die? How did he die? Why had we never known? What kind of man was he? The search for my father had finally brought us an answer—but not the one I had prayed for. That day marked the beginning of a different journey: a journey to discover who my father was, the life he lived, and the family connections that had been lost for so many years. My Story – Part 2 The news of my father's death left a deep wound in my heart. After finishing what had taken me to Ngara that day, I returned to the place where I was living with my friend, Penina. She had become the sister I never had. Our friendship had begun back in 2004 when we were in Form One, and it has remained strong to this day. When I told Penina what I had discovered about my father, I broke down and cried. The pain was overwhelming. She listened patiently, comforted me, and stood by my side during one of the most difficult moments of my life. One Sunday afternoon, my Aunt Martha asked me to accompany her to Ongata Rongai to visit a friend. On our way, I shared the painful news with her. "Do you know that my dad died a long time ago?" I asked. She was shocked. Aunt Martha knew my father very well because during school holidays she often visited us whenever we came to Nairobi. She could hardly believe that we had only just learned about his death. Aunt Martha informed my Aunt Charity, who is my mother's sister. Because Aunt Charity and I were very close, she invited me to her home the following weekend. We talked at length about my father, and she comforted me greatly. She w

Chapter 6

Legacy and Resilience

Minage completes her mother's home and starts building her own. She has a second son, also named Kabaka. Despite further loss during the pandemic, she reflects on her journey of rebuilding and legacy.

6 min read

The scent of fresh paint and newly laid tiles hung in the air, a testament to promises kept and a future being built. It was 2015, and the house in Lanet, Nakuru, was finally taking shape. This wasn't just a structure of brick and mortar; it was a sanctuary, a symbol of resilience, and the physical manifestation of a vow I’d carried in my heart for years – to build a home for my mother. The land, purchased in 2014, lay close to my shosh’s home, a comforting echo of my childhood, a place where memories of laughter and lessons learned intertwined with the scent of well-loved earth. Being back in Lanet, surrounded by the familiar landscape, felt like a homecoming, a gentle reconnection with the roots that had anchored me through so much.

The construction itself was a whirlwind of focused energy, a blur of activity from October to November. Three months—a blink of an eye in the grand scheme of life, but an eternity of dedicated effort. And then, on November 30th, 2015, my mother moved into her new home. The moment she stepped across the threshold, a profound sense of satisfaction washed over me, a deep exhale of a promise finally fulfilled. Seeing her settle in, the worry lines on her face softening with the comfort of her own space, was a reward beyond measure. I encouraged her to embrace the small joys, to tend to the poultry and the kitchen garden on the land her mother had provided. I wanted her to live in dignity, in stability, and most importantly, in peace.

But life, as it often does, continued its relentless march, weaving threads of joy and sorrow into the fabric of our days. On November 11th, 2016, just shy of my son’s first birthday, a new blessing arrived. At 2:30 a.m., I was awakened by the cries of a newborn, another baby boy. Holding him for the first time, I felt a surge of overwhelming emotion. I named him Kabaka, a deliberate echo of my father, Solomon Kabaka. It felt like a gentle circle closing, a homage to a man I had lost too soon, a way of ensuring his legacy continued, not just in my memory but in the very bloodline of our growing family. Seeing him, so new and full of life, reminded me of my father’s own youthful promise, the strength and handsomeness that had been described to me so often. This second son, named Kabaka, felt like a living tribute, a vibrant continuation of a story that had almost been silenced.

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