How to Write to a Brother

Dear Swes,

I woke up last night calling out your name. Sweeeeeeeeees…

The world knew you as Binya, but for me, you will always be my beloved big brother whom we nicknamed Sweswe—though to this day, I am not sure who started it or why.

My childish voice traveled noisily everywhere seeking you. It was just the way we used to do it when we were kids—shouting to the rafters, like I was trying to reach you somewhere far off in that huge, expansive setup that was home in Naks growing up. I wanted my voice to meet you, to embrace you, and to shove you—in that specific way in which siblings love and irritate each other in one sweeping movement.

Last evening, I spoke to an acquaintance who lost her brother in December 2022. She told me that she only managed to breathe calmly again in December 2025, when her friends and loved ones marked her birthday by spoiling her with love and gifts. I quietly told her: I can relate.

There is nothing as horrible as losing a sibling. You miss them, you fiercely love them, and you are angry with them for something or other—and they are simply not there. I watch siblings who look like us, and a sad smile forms on my lips. A small, unshed tear threatens, too. I miss the banter. The resemblance. The finishing of each other's sentences.

It’s not often I sit in the pools of regret, but because the world went way crazier than you left it so I do loads of meditation now. Part of mindful meditation is acknowledging what is here, right here in the moment. And in this moment, I am finally mustering the courage to ask why you had to go. Why you remain so misunderstood. Why I find it so hard to read your work—because your voice reverberates through every single word.

I regret all the fights. I regret setting you up with Baba during that Mombasa holiday where the car kept stalling. We spent more time pushing the car to fundi garages and sitting inside as they figured out why the carburetor engine went on vacation. Remember when Baba bought us each a chocolate bar? I finished mine in minutes and wanted more, so I falsely accused you of snatching mine. Baba believed me and made you hand yours to me. I regret taking the chocolate and being the most annoying last-born baby sister—the one you loved anyway. 

If I give back the stolen chocolate ten-fold, will you please come back?

I am so sorry for all the pain you went through, and how you lacked a channel to process it. If I could, I would take all the hurt away.

Your birthday is coming up in a week. I quietly celebrate you, because the short but intense life you had meant so much to me. The one good thing you may want to know is that, as fucked up as the world is right now, there are so many wonderful African writers regaling us with their stories. We keep warm by the fireside and keep our spirits going with their words. I am so glad to know that your dream to see more African writers in the world is unfolding.

I hope that makes you laugh and smile. The cloud above me just cleared, and so I think that it worked—that you are smiling down at me as I say: Happy Birthday, dearest, dearest Swes.

With love,

Chiqy