There is a season of silence. Life mocks. Kith and kin desert you. A wandering stranger.

A season so thick, even the clucking of the old clock on the wall hit the eardrums like thunder in an empty room. Laughter had receded, familiar voices had grown distant and the world felt like it was holding its breath. Even the chilly breeze outside seemed to whisper loneliness – that low, haunting kind of silence that doesn’t just sit in the air but seeps quietly into your bones.

It was a silence that filled not just the house, but my chest – pressing heavily against my chest until I could almost hear my inner voice shouting at me.

In that silence, I met myself.

Not the version of me that people smiled at, not the one who cracked jokes or nodded politely in public. No, I met Edgar Amara, the one who wrestled with fear in the dark, with faith and with the question that haunts every dreamer: “Am I up to the task?” the kept gnawing at my fickle confidence

It was in those moments that the smallest voices mattered most – the ones that came not from exterior, but interior. The voices of memory. Of family. Of stubborn love that refused to recede.

There was Rita Mukhwana, the mother in my story – a woman whose faith stood tall against every storm. She was prayer in motion. Her strength was quiet but fierce, her hands soft yet scarred from labour and love.

She would say, “Son, pain is not the enemy – giving up is.” And when she prayed, it felt like heaven paused to listen.

Then there was Michael Baraka, the elder brother – steady as sunrise, calm as still water. He rarely spoke, but when he did, his words cut through confusion like light through fog. “Courage,” he told me once, “is not in shouting. It’s in standing. Even when your knees tremble, if you’re still standing, you’re winning.”

And Eugene Lukhari, the youngest – joy wrapped in human skin. He could laugh at anything, even the chaos of life itself. When we sat in the dim evening light, he would grin wide and say, “Even when the lights go out, we can still glow – we’re built like that.” And somehow, those words kept the flame alive.

Their voices steadied me through the storms of youth – through disappointment that sank like stones, rejection that burned like fire, heartbreak that stole breath, and uncertainty that stretched long into sleepless nights.

Our house was a tiny shack – the walls cracked, the roof sometimes leaking – but our dreams? They were enormous. Our shelves were nearly bare, yet our hearts were full. Each evening, we gathered around a table worn by time, sharing not luxury but laughter.

Rita’s prayers wrapped around us like warm wings of a hen around her chicks. Warm. Protective. Cajoling. Assuring. Snuggling.

Michael’s philosophical silence taught us patience – that wisdom doesn’t always need sound.

And Eugene’s laughter filled the gaps between tears, reminding us that joy is not a privilege of the rich, but a weapon of the resilient. The poor too have their moments. They laugh. A hearty and haling laugh.

We didn’t have much, but we had each other. The old adage that in times of trouble, it behoves to stick together. It was the glue that kept our hopes alive.

We weighed wealth in love, not in silver of or gold.

We counted our progress in terms of peace, not in earthly possessions.

We measured success not by what we owned, but by who we were becoming.

At every stage of our life, there were transitions. The transitions counted.

The world often measures greatness in material possessions – wealth, fame, applause. But in that tiny home, I learned a different definition. True success, I realised, lives in endurance – in choosing to stand after every fall, to forgive even when it hurts, to believe when sight fails you and to keep walking even when the road fizzles into a fog.

Then came a season that tested all of that.

The people I once thought were friends ebbed away. Promises became jeers. Doors I had knocked on for years stayed shut. Messages went unanswered. Some who once laughed with me pretended to forget my name. As the French always say when human relationships become plastic, c’est la vie – that’s life.

There were nights when my prayers felt like message sent to an absent heaven.

There were mornings when I didn’t want to wake up from bed.

There were days when I looked at my image in mirror and barely recognised the man staring back.

But there, in that stillness, I discovered something sacred – solitude is not always punishment. Sometimes, it’s preparation.

For in solitude, the heart begins to respond to its own pulse, summoning thee soul to ebb and flow in the rhythm of the pulse. It is in the absence of noise that purpose whispers clearly. And I learned that sometimes God removes everyone else’s voice so you can finally hear His.

Rita would remind me gently, “You are never alone – even silence has God’s voice in it.”

Michael would nod and say, “Don’t rush what heaven is still building. You are work in progress.”

And Eugene, always the light-bearer, would laugh, “And while He’s building, smile… it makes waiting lighter.”

That balance – between patience, prayer, and laughter – became the rope that pulled me out of darkness.

I fell. I failed. I doubted.

But I rose again.

Every single time.

I dusted up. I spruced up.

Because something in me – something Amara – refused to die.

Through every trial, I began to see that pain wasn’t interruption; it was instruction. Each challenge was a page in the syllabus of becoming. Faith wasn’t about never feeling afraid – it was about walking straight through fear with jelly knees and a steady heart.

Time passed. Seasons changed. Slowly, things began to bloom. Not suddenly – life never rewards impatience – but gradually, like dawn breaking after a night that had overstayed its welcome.

Opportunities came quietly. A stranger believed in me. A friend returned. Doors opened one by one – not because I knocked harder but because I had learned to wait better.

Wounds healed, not because they stopped hurting, but because I finally understood them. I learned to stop asking, “Why me?” and started asking, “What now?” I reconciled myself with the altruism that life is a mirage; what you see is not what is.

Flips. Flops. Flaps. C’est la vie.

And as I looked back, I saw the beauty of it all – the pattern hidden beneath the pain. It was a rainbow that held all emotions.

The boy who once felt forgotten had become the man who finally rediscovered himself. The house that once ruled by fear and melancholy overflowed with laughter and purpose.

The same tears that once rolled down the cheeks when destiny appeared foggy, had watered strands of regeneration that I didn’t know existed.

And the same prayers that once seemed unanswered had been answered in better, higher, quieter ways. We had risen – not in pride, not in fame, but in gratitude. It felt like a season of renewal. Revamp.

Because gratitude, I’ve learned, is the final stage of healing. It is when you stop wishing the past were different and start thanking it for making you who you are.

We rose because we refused to stay down.

We rose because faith outweighed fear.

We rose because love kept showing up.

We rose because grace – unearned, undeserved, unstoppable – lifted us higher than pain ever pushed us down.

And through it all, I understood that life isn’t about never falling. It’s about learning the rhythm of falling and rising – until rising becomes your reflex.

That’s how we survived. That’s how we grew up. That’s how we became.

And still, we rise.

The becoming 1

There comes a point when the dust of survival settles, and circumstances ask you the hard question: Now that you’ve endured, who will you become?

For years, I had fought simply to stand – to breathe, to believe, to rise again. But now, a new chapter whispered. It wasn’t about surviving anymore. It was about becoming.

Becoming whole.

Becoming purpose.

Becoming peace.

The journey was not smooth. The path of destiny never is. It twisted through heartbreak, through nights of doubt, through prayers that started in faith and ended in tears. But even in the struggle, I felt something divine unfolding – a pattern that pain alone could not destroy.

When I left home for new beginnings – for studies, work, and discovery – the silence followed me like an old friend. There were new faces, new cities and new hopes, yet loneliness sometimes crept in through the smallest cracks.

In lecture halls, surrounded by laughter, I sometimes felt like a ghost drifting between dreams and responsibilities. In crowded streets, I’d catch glimpses of families laughing together and feel the ache of distance – the pull of memories where Rita Mukhwana’s prayers once filled every corner of our home.

But even far from her, I could still hear her words echoing:

“The world is wide, but your faith must be wider.”

Michael Baraka would call occasionally, his calm voice grounding me. He spoke little, but every word carried meaning.

“Don’t let the noise rush you,” he’d say. “Growth is quieter than applause.”

And Eugene Lukhari – his laughter was still medicine. He’d send me messages that made no sense, jokes that made me laugh at 2 a.m., reminding me that even warriors need humour to breathe.

Life outside home was a new battlefield. There were friends who turned into strangers. Promises that turned into lessons. Opportunities that looked like blessings but carried thorns.

I learned that not everyone who walks beside you walks with you. Some are travellers of convenience – there for the sunshine, gone by the storm.

Yet, through betrayal and disappointment, I grew. I learned discernment – the wisdom to love people deeply but hold expectations lightly.

At times, I doubted everything. My purpose. My talent. Even my prayers.

There were nights when I sat alone, staring at a blank page of life or an uncertain future, whispering,

“God, do you still see me? Am I still the small matter that you deposited on the hostile an unsavoury earth?”

And somehow, in the quiet, He always answered – not with thunder but with peace. Not with explanations, but with endurance.

I realised that God doesn’t always rescue us from the fire; sometimes, He refines us through it. That understanding became my turning point.

Because each challenge wasn’t meant to destroy me; it was shaping something eternal inside. Every closed door redirected me toward a better one. Every delay taught me patience. Every loss reminded me that even emptiness can be holy ground if it pushes you closer to faith.

There was a season of building – a slow, unseen construction of the man I was meant to be. I worked hard, often in silence. I poured into dreams that didn’t yet pay. I prayed for doors to open but they seemed permanently shut.

But looking back, I see that even then, heaven was rearranging things on my behalf.

Rita’s prayers were still working, even from miles away. Michael’s wisdom echoed through every decision. Eugene’s cracking laughter kept my heart alive when stress pressed too hard.

Through it all, I began to understand – purpose doesn’t always shout; sometimes it whispers. And the greatest breakthroughs often arrive disguised as ordinary days.

Then came moments of light – small wins that meant everything. An acceptance letter. A project completed. A stranger who believed in my dream. A door that opened just when I had stopped knocking.

Each victory, no matter how small, felt sacred – like God’s soft way of saying, “See? I was here all along.”

But “becoming” is never a single event. It is daily work – the kind that humbles you.

I had to unlearn pride, replace haste with patience and understand that forgiveness is not weakness but freedom. I had to learn how to pray without words, how to rest without guilt and how to celebrate others without comparing journeys.

The man I was becoming no longer feared storms; he learned to dance in them.

Rita’s voice still guides me – steady, loving, unbroken, “Never let bitterness grow roots in you. It will choke your blessings.”

Michael’s calm wisdom still shapes my choices:

“Peace is the loudest victory.”

And Eugene’s laughter still fills the distance between us:

“We glow, remember? Even in the dark.”

Through their love, I found identity. Through my faith, I found vision. Through hardship, I found voice.

Now, when I look back at the road behind me – the valleys, the fire, the silence – I see not failure but formation. Every loss was instruction. Every heartbreak was pruning. Every delay was divine timing.

The boy who once questioned God became the man who learned to trust Him without needing answers. The young dreamer who once feared being unseen became the man who learned that invisibility is where true strength grows.

The wanderer who once sought approval found instead a calling. And now, when I speak, I speak not from pain, but from purpose. Not from wounds, but from wisdom.

Because becoming is not about changing who you are – it’s about returning to who you were meant to be before fear interrupted. So, to the dreamer still waiting, the believer still struggling, the heart still healing – hear this:

You are not behind. You are being built.

You are not forgotten. You are being refined.

You are not failing. You are becoming.

And when the dust settles, when the silence finally breaks, when faith has done its quiet work – you, too, will rise.

Not as who you were, but as who you were always meant to be. Because purpose does not expire. Grace does not run out. And faith, once lit, never truly goes out.

And still, we rise.

Awakening

There was a moment that was neither loud nor dramatic, when everything shifted. It wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t lightning or thunder. It was quiet, almost invisible. Yet it was the beginning of an awakening.

I had been walking through life half-asleep. Somnambulism of sorts. I chased noise. Music that titillated the ego. Succumbed to peer demands for approval and belong. I mistook movement and acceptability for progress. Then a period of silence ensued. In the silence, I began to see things in a different spectrum.

Pain, I learned, was not punishment; it was preparation. An awakening to the rigours of what lay ahead. Loneliness was not absence; it was invitation. God was not far. He was a whispering distance away, even when I didn’t want to listen.

It was in those early mornings, when dawn stretched its first golden fingers through the curtain that I began to understand: the world had not changed. I had.

Rita Mukhwana, my mother – my warrior cloaked in peace – would always say,

“Son, every seed must die before it grows. Don’t fear the burial; fear forgetting to rise.”

Her words became the compass of my awakening.

Michael Baraka, whose name translates to blessing, maintained silence like armour. He didn’t preach, but his calm presence said enough. I once asked him how he managed to stay so steady when life kept shaking us. He smiled slightly and said,

“You don’t anchor yourself to calm seas, Amara. You anchor yourself to God.”

And Eugene Lukhari, the light-bringer, never lost his laughter. Even when times were hard, he’d toss a joke that cracked the tension like morning sun breaking fog. He had this gift – to find humour where others saw hurt. “See, bro,” he’d say, “joy isn’t what happens to you; it’s what you decide to carry.”

Their words became my song. Days became lessons. Nights became prayers. And slowly, the numbness faded.

I began to write again. Bits and pieces of thoughts, whispered prayers, scribbles that no one would ever read and make senses. But they healed me. I began to see beauty in ordinary things: the scent of rain on dusty soil, the way light touched the leaves, the rhythm of crickets after dusk. It was like seeing the world for the first time through new eyes, eyes washed by tears.

That was a powerful awakening – realising that the life I had been waiting for wasn’t somewhere out there. It was here. Inside me. In the quiet strength that had been growing, unseen.

I started to forgive. Myself first. For not knowing better. For breaking down. For caring too much. For staying silent when I should’ve spoken, and for speaking when I should’ve prayed. Forgiveness became the bridge between who I was and who I was becoming.

Rita’s words echoed again.

“When you forgive, you free your hands to receive.”

And I realised I’d been holding onto too much – anger, disappointment, fear of failure. But to rise, I had to release.

One day, as I watched the sunset behind our small home, I whispered,

“Maybe the pain wasn’t the end – maybe it was the beginning.”

And in that whisper, I found peace.

Because awakening isn’t about having everything figured out.

It’s about standing again – still bruised, still uncertain – but with eyes wide open, heart still soft and faith still burning.

It’s about realising that every fall was grace in disguise. Every tear was water for the seed. Every delay was divine timing.

And that somehow, through it all, we were never abandoned – only being refined.

And so, I rose. Not as who I was, but as who I was meant to be.

Becoming 2

Awakening opens your eyes, but becoming teaches your feet to move again.

It was one thing to see light after darkness, but another to walk toward it, carrying the weight of lessons learned. I was no longer the same person who once sat in silence waiting for rescue. I was learning to rebuild, one quiet step at a time.

The days began to take shape again – not perfect, but purposeful. Mornings carried new energy. Even when the world seemed unchanged, something within me had shifted. My thoughts began to align with faith, my prayers turned into plans and my fears began to lose their grip.

Rita Mukhwana still prayed in her gentle way, whispering scriptures over morning tea. “Son,” she’d say, “faith without patience is like planting a seed and digging it up every day to see if it’s growing.”

Those words lingered. I stopped rushing the process. I started embracing it.

Michael Baraka, ever the quiet voice of reason, watched me struggle and learn. He rarely corrected me outright – instead, he’d offer wisdom that stayed long after he left the room.

“You can’t build a future with hands still clutching yesterday,” he said one evening as we fixed the old radio. “Let go, Amara. You’re allowed to start again.”

And Eugene Lukhari, my brother of light, remained the spark. He laughed through the heaviness of life. His optimism wasn’t naïve; it was defiance of unparalleled scope. When the roof leaked, when food ran low, he’d grin and say, “If we survived the worst, this is just a dress rehearsal for the great testimony!”

Through their strength, I began to rebuild my own. I went back to my books, not just to read – but to learn with hunger. I began to write again, not for others – but to understand myself. My pen became my confession. My journal, my mirror.

And with time, I started to dream again. But this time, my dreams were not desperate escapes from pain — they were sacred blueprints for purpose.

I wanted to become more than just someone who survived – I wanted to be someone who inspired. Someone whose scars told a story of endurance and faith.

There were setbacks, yes. Times when hope wavered. Times when doubt crept in, whispering that I wasn’t enough, that my story was too small to matter. But Rita’s prayers kept me grounded, Michael’s wisdom kept me steady and Eugene’s laughter kept me alive.

I realised something profound: becoming isn’t about reaching a destination. It’s about embracing the process of transformation – the slow shaping of your soul through every trial, failure and triumph.

Every stumble became a lesson. Every delay became discipline. Every unanswered prayer became redirection. One night, as I sat outside beneath a wide, star-studded sky, I finally understood:

The fire that once burned me was the same fire that forged me.

And I whispered a prayer of gratitude – not for what I had, but for who I was becoming. Because becoming is not about perfection – it’s about progression. It’s about being better than the version of you that broke yesterday. It’s about walking with your head high, not because life is easy, but because grace still carries you.

Through it all, Rita kept reminding me,

“Son, God doesn’t finish stories halfway. What He starts, He sustains.”

Those words sank deep. So I kept walking – not fast, not flawlessly – but faithfully.

Every day, a little more courage.

Every failure, a little more wisdom.

Every prayer, a little more peace.

And as I walked through that journey, I realised something even more powerful –

I was no longer waiting for life to change.

Life was waiting for me to show up.

Climb

Becoming is quiet. Climbing is loud.

After awakening and rebuilding, I realised that life would not hand me purpose. I had to reach for it. And reaching was not easy. It demanded courage I didn’t know I had, patience I sometimes lacked, and faith I had only just begun to fully trust.

The climb began slowly. It started with small steps – early mornings, late nights, books that demanded comprehension I sometimes resisted, work that tested my stamina, and conversations that demanded honesty I feared. Each step was weighted, like walking uphill on uneven ground, yet the higher I went, the more I understood the value of the ascent.

Rita Mukhwana’s prayers were my first foothold. Her voice, steady and unwavering, echoed in my ears:

“The mountain is high, but you were made to climb it.”

Michael Baraka’s calm wisdom guided me when fear threatened to paralyse me.

“Don’t race the summit. One careful step at a time, Amara. That is how men endure.”

And Eugene Lukhari, ever radiant, reminded me that joy is essential, even on steep paths.

“If we can laugh while the storm pours, we can climb without losing heart.”

The climb was more than effort – it was transformation. Every challenge reshaped me. Every disappointment humbled me. Every small victory gave me confidence to keep ascending.

I met resistance along the way. People who doubted, opportunities that faltered, friendships that frayed, doors that closed when I thought they would open. Each obstacle threatened to push me backward, but I learned to see every barrier as a teacher rather than a punishment.

Faith became my rope. Discipline became my staff. Courage became my boots. And slowly, the climb became less about the mountain and more about the man ascending it.

In classrooms, I realised knowledge was not just for grades but for understanding life. In workplaces, I discovered that integrity often came with loneliness, yet it carried the greatest reward. In friendships, I learned to value hearts over hands, presence over promises.

There were nights I would lie awake and question everything – my path, my choices, my worth. And yet, the mountain called. It called not in words but in purpose, in the quiet insistence that the view from the top is worth every blistered step.

Sometimes, I stumbled. Sometimes, I lost balance. But each time, I remembered what had carried me before: the prayers of Rita, the guidance of Michael, the laughter of Eugene and a God who never turned away.

And so, I climbed.

I climbed through fear. I climbed through doubt. I climbed through the shadows of my own hesitation. And with each step, I became stronger, more certain, more alive.

Along the way, I began to notice others also climbing – souls struggling beneath burdens I could relate to. And slowly, the climb became a calling. It was no longer only about reaching the summit; it was about carrying others with me, offering handholds where I could, sharing lessons learned through my own stumbles.

Leadership, I realised, is born not from titles but from the courage to rise while lifting others. Influence is measured not in applause but in the strength you instill in those behind you. Purpose is not a peak to conquer but a path to illuminate.

And so, the climb transformed me yet again. The boy who had once cowered in silence became the man who could speak, who could guide, who could hope out loud. The boy who had been afraid to fail learned that failure was simply part of the ascent – a lesson in disguise, a step in disguise, a teacher disguised as hardship.

By the time I reached the plateau – not the summit, for climbing never truly ends – I looked back and saw the journey itself as the prize. Every fall, every tear, every quiet victory was etched into the terrain of my life, making the view behind me as glorious as the path ahead.

And in that moment, I understood a truth as old as time:

“The climb is never just about reaching the top. It is about becoming strong enough to carry the weight, brave enough to persist, and wise enough to help others rise along with you.

I had risen. And still, the climb continues — each day, each decision, each step. Because life is never truly still, and neither are those who choose to rise.

Summit

The summit is not merely a place – it is a perspective.

After the climb, when hands are blistered, knees are sore, and breath comes in ragged gasps, the summit teaches a quiet truth: the mountain does not exist to punish you, but to reveal you.

I had walked through valleys of silence, through nights heavy with doubt, through fires meant to break me, yet I stood. My steps were steady, not because the path had become easy, but because my heart had grown strong.

Rita Mukhwana’s prayers had carved a channel of faith in my life that no storm could wash away. Her quiet persistence, her unyielding belief in me, had become the roots of my endurance. I understood now what she meant when she whispered,

“Son, a mountain tests your faith so that your faith may carry others.”

Michael Baraka’s steady counsel had become a compass I carried inside me. His words – few, measured, precise – guided me through decisions that could have derailed me:

“Strength without wisdom is like climbing without grip. Hold steady, Amara.”

And Eugene Lukhari, the eternal light-bearer, reminded me always to laugh, to find joy, to dance even when the path was steep. “The summit is brighter when you carry laughter in your pack,” he said once, grinning like mischief itself.

It was their love, their faith, their laughter that had built me. Not just to reach the top, but to stand there and see the horizon clearly.

At the summit, I saw the journey – every hardship, every fall, every silent struggle – like threads in a tapestry. And I understood something profound: the summit was never about arriving first. It was about becoming capable of standing firm and shining your light so others can follow.

I began to see the faces of those I had left behind – those who doubted me, those who abandoned me, those who had once been my anchors. I no longer carried anger. I carried compassion. Because the summit teaches humility: no victory is complete without understanding the journey beneath it.

I turned to look outward – toward the world below, sprawling and chaotic, beautiful and unpredictable. And I realised my calling had grown larger than me. It was no longer enough to rise alone. The summit demanded stewardship: to lift others, to mentor those still climbing, to offer hope to those still lost in the valley.

Every word I spoke, every choice I made, every hand I extended became a testament to the climb. I had learned that purpose is not kept – it is shared. It is multiplied by love, magnified by faith and carried by courage.

At the summit, I laughed and I wept. I whispered gratitude to God for every tear, every moment of fear, every night of uncertainty. For each had been a teacher.

I finally understood that life’s mountains are not meant to keep you from joy, but to prepare you for it. And standing there, I knew: the summit is not the end. It is the vantage point from which you see how far you’ve come, and how many still need your hand.

I had risen. I had climbed. And now, at the summit, I understood – the journey continues.

I reached down, extended my hand to those still on the path, and said:

“Rise. You are capable. You are guided. You are not alone.”

And in that moment, I realized: a summit is only meaningful when it becomes a beacon. When it becomes a place that illuminates the path for others.

Rita, Michael, Eugene – their love, their faith, their laughter – had brought me here. And now, it was time for me to carry it forward. Because life is never meant to be conquered alone.

It is meant to be shared.

It is meant to be a journey of rising – and still rising.

And still, we rise.

Benediction: Light that endures

May these words find you in your quiet moments, when the world seems heavy and hope feels distant.

Remember this: silence is not absence. Heartbreak is not failure. Struggle is not the end. Every trial is a teacher, every delay is divine timing, every fall is a step toward rising.

Rita Mukhwana’s prayers, Michael Baraka’s wisdom and Eugene Lukhari’s laughter remind us that love and faith endure beyond fear. They are the unseen currents that lift us when the mountain seems too steep, when the night feels too long, and when the path ahead is unclear.

Even when life seems to whisper “you are alone,” remember: you are held by the hands of grace, steadied by quiet courage, and carried by the hope that never fades.

And as you rise, may you carry light into the lives of others – extend your hand, share your story, and remember that a summit is only meaningful when it becomes a beacon for those still climbing.

We rose to become

The story of Edgar Amara is the story of all who have endured.

We have been tested by silence. We have been refined by fire. We have been stretched by pain and shaped by love. Each stage – awakening, becoming, climbing and summiting – has shown that resilience is forged in the quiet moments, and purpose is revealed in perseverance.

We rise not because life is easy, but because we were made to rise. Not because we always succeed, but because hope refuses to die. Not because the journey is without scars, but because our scars become the roadmaps for others.

Edgar Amara’s journey shows that true victory lies not in reaching a destination, but in embracing the process — in learning patience, carrying faith, extending love, and living with integrity.

Rita, Michael, and Eugene – the anchors, the lights, the quiet forces – remind us that no one rises alone. Family, friends, mentors, and faith are the winds beneath our wings.

We have risen.

We have endured.

We have become more than we ever imagined.

And so, we stand at the summit – not to linger in pride, but to look outward, to offer guidance, and to carry forward the lessons learned.

Life will continue to challenge, to test, to call forth courage. But the one who has climbed knows: every mountain is an opportunity, every struggle a teacher, every day a chance to rise anew.

And still, we rise.

To be continued…..

• A Tell Media report / By Edgar Nyongesa – the author is writing a book on faith.