A righteous one has fallen đź’”

For you, Lily!

A gem is taken, how can it be?
How dare the world go on
as if nothing has shattered?
The sun still rises —
oblivious to all that’s been lost.
Do they not see
a light has gone out in our generation?

Lily, my sweet cousin, my sister,
you were woven into the fabric of my childhood —
bound by friendship that run deep,
laughter that found us even in the hard times.
We’d look back on those days
and marvel at how far we’d come,
how grace carried us through storms.


You were the best of us, Lily.

You held softness like breath,
kindness like a second skin.
You never raised your voice,
wouldn’t hurt a fly,
and carried everyone else’s burdens
without complaint, or judgement,
as though your heart was made to shelter the world.

You loved Jesus with a fierce, quiet fire.
Not performative. Not loud.
Just deep, real, unshakable.
I’ve known many people,
but few I would call righteous—
you were one of them.
You loved without limits,
cared without keeping score,
gave of yourself and asked for nothing.

With your other half!

You were the Proverbs 31 woman—
for your children, for your home.
Clothed in dignity, love on your tongue,
your life was a sermon they watched daily.
You rose early, gave endlessly,
and your children called you blessed.

And now you leave behind a husband,
beautiful children—
too young to lose their mother,
too young to understand
why love sometimes gets taken too soon. Oh heaven’s gain!
We weren’t ready Lily, we never would be.

Say hi to your aunt—my mom—for me.
What an incredible reunion that must be!
Tell her I miss her every single day.
And tell Papa, Manyike and Nkeke.
Tell them grief still lingers like smoke here.

How I wish this were like Tabitha’s story—
where the widows wept with such aching love,
that life was summoned back from death.

I am weeping.
My soul is heavy.
I have more to say—so much more.
Too much silence between us now,
too much unsaid.

The righteous has left us,
and the earth should tremble in mourning.
I will carry you—
your memory etched in every heartbeat,
until we see each other again,
where no goodbye will ever be needed.

“Well done, good and faithful servant.
Enter into the joy of your Lord.”

(Matthew 25:23)

For My Light that Dimmed in April 1994, I Rise.

The red crosses mark my 4 angels, now watching over me. The only photo of us all together—my Catholic First Communion.

đź’ś

I Rise.

April—the month my world went silent,
laughter stolen, love torn from my grasp.
The embrace of my parents and two siblings—
now a memory I hold but can never touch.

April 1994 did not just take them;
it tried to take me too—
my voice, my light, my innocence, my will to exist.
Darkness swallowed my paradise,
grief clung like a shadow,
but even then, something within refused to fade.

So I Rise.

Not only on April 7th for my little sister Marie Claudine,
or April 17th for Papa,
or April 24th for Mama and my big brother Jean Félix—
I Rise every day.

I rise for forgiveness—I do it for me.
I rise for love; hatred is too heavy a burden to bear.

I rise for my parents’ three surviving gifts,
my first rays of sunshine, whose existence gave my life meaning.

I rise for the little loves they blossomed, —my precious pearls—
treasures my parents never got to hold, spoil or adore.
I rise for their other halves, who cherish and are deeply cherished.

I rise for the scars I bear— a testament to survival.
I rise for the journey I have walked.
For the life I built far from home,
Rooted in love, standing on solid ground.

I rise for the child I once was—
orphaned, lost, abandoned, poor.
Now, a proof that hope survives.

I rise beyond trauma, beyond nightmares.
My story is no longer just my own.
I rise for the children who walk the road I once did,
for those unseen, unheard, alone.

Rising Above the Storms, a whisper:
“You are not alone, your pain does not define you. You are seen, you are worthy, you too can rise.”

I carry wounds neither time nor any human can heal,
yet still, I rise—undefeated.
When strength fails, faith lifts me.
And one day, beyond sorrow,
I will see and hold them again—forever.

For my light that dimmed in April 1994—
I am Here. I Remember. I Grieve. I Speak. I Forgive. I Hope. I Love.

31 Years.

Still. I Rise.

đź’ś

🕊️💜 In loving memory of my four angels perished during the Genocide against the Tutsi in April 1994. May their memories remain a blessing.❤️ 🕊️