Facing Our Giants

What are you afraid of? What scares you to death?

I never knew how challenging transition could be until my sister, with whom I had lived for many years, permanently moved out of Nairobi in November 2015. To better understand this, let me summarize my life journey.

I was born in the 80s on the outskirts of the breathtakingly beautiful Mount Kenya in Nanyuki Military Barracks, where my father, Mr. Simon Masana, served as a serviceman in 1 Kenya Rifles, better known as 1KR. My infancy was marked by challenges, as recounted by my mother, Magdilta Khasiala. I fell ill, and she rushed me to M.R.S. Medical Reception Station, where the medics diagnosed me with Anemia and recommended an emergency blood transfusion.

Since M.R.S. lacked the facilities for the procedure, I had to be immediately transferred to the Armed Forces Memorial Hospital in Nairobi, now known as Defence Forces Memorial Hospital (DFMH), which was 200 km away. The journey to Nairobi was arduous, especially with an ailing infant in tow. As we traveled, my mother held onto hope, and the landscape unfolded before us, showcasing the diverse beauty of Kenya, from the outskirts of Mt. Kenya to the bustling city life of Nairobi.

Upon arriving at the hospital, the urgency of the situation became palpable. The medical team at Defence Forces Memorial Hospital (DFMH) worked tirelessly to provide the emergency blood transfusion I desperately needed. The compassionate care I received left an indelible mark on my family, considering the challenges of navigating an unfamiliar medical crisis.

As I recovered, life continued within the embrace of the military barracks in Nanyuki. The rhythmic cadence of military life shaped my early years, surrounded by the camaraderie and discipline that defined the barracks. My father continued his service with 1 Kenya Rifles, and our family thrived in the unique community that became our home.

Years passed, and life took its course. Nairobi, with its vibrant energy and opportunities, beckoned, and my sister ventured into the city in pursuit of her dreams. Little did we know that her departure in November 2015 would mark a significant transition, a turning point in our family's dynamics.

The bond we shared, forged through years of shared experiences, suddenly faced the challenge of physical separation. The essence of family gatherings, the laughter echoing through the corridors of our home, and the shared moments of joy now took on a different hue. The barracks, once a hub of familial warmth, echoed with a subtle emptiness.

 I never anticipated the depth of this change until the void left by my sister's absence became more pronounced. The barracks, while still familiar, carried the weight of her laughter and the unique vibrancy she added to our lives. What I was afraid of, what scared me to the core, was the realization that transition, even when inevitable, could be overwhelmingly hard to handle.

As I grappled with this new normal, I found solace in the memories we created as a family and in the strength instilled by the military values that shaped my upbringing. The barracks, once a symbol of unwavering unity, became a testament to resilience and adaptation.

Life continued, and so did the echoes of my sister's laughter, albeit in a different setting. The fear of transition transformed into an understanding that change, no matter how daunting, is an integral part of life's journey. It shapes us, molds us, and ultimately, it paves the way for new beginnings.

And so, in the barracks that had witnessed the tapestry of our lives, I learned that while transitions may be formidable, they also carry the promise of growth, resilience, and the unwavering spirit of family, no matter where life's journey takes us.