There are moments in life that never quite leave you. They don’t fade with time. They settle deep in your spirit, shaping who you become – quietly, powerfully. One of those moments for me was the night my mother passed away.
She had been in the hospital for several days. Her condition was worsening. Two days before her death, I visited. She could barely speak. But when I reached for her frail hand, something passed between us. It wasn’t words. It was energy, a transfer I still cannot explain. It felt as though she was giving me something for the journey ahead. A blessing. A farewell. A silent torch.
But the next day, I didn’t visit. I went to drink after work. I felt I needed a break, not from her, but from the ache, the slow, helpless watching. Maybe I didn’t know how to say goodbye. Perhaps I didn’t believe I needed to. Maybe part of me was protecting itself. That decision haunted me for years. But with time, I’ve come to hold that memory with compassion. Love doesn’t disappear in a moment of absence. And my mother knew my heart.
That night, I heard a cat cry. Not just any cry—a cry filled with sorrow, almost prophetic. It pierced the night’s silence. I paused, listening, unsettled. It was primal, like the earth itself groaning with knowledge it couldn’t explain. Then, in the early morning, my father cried, a sound I had never heard before. That cry confirmed what the cat’s wail had already whispered. She was gone. But somehow, I knew before I knew.
My mother was my anchor. My greatest cheerleader. She believed in me with a certainty I hadn’t yet earned. “You’re very bright,” she would say, “You should go and work abroad.” And I did. I found myself working with the UN in Geneva, just as she foresaw. But she wasn’t there to witness it. Not in person, at least. Or maybe she was, in ways I can’t explain.
When Faith Shifts, Love Remains
My mother had asked us – begged, really – not to leave religion. She held it like an anchor in her fragile hands, especially toward the end. It gave her language for life’s trials and comfort for the unknown. She wanted that same refuge for us.
And yet, after she passed, I wandered.
Not aimlessly, but searching. Searching for the sacred beyond sermons. For truth not tethered to tradition. For God, if He was still there, in the chaos, in the grief, in the dreams that wouldn’t let me go.
I left religion, not in a loud rebellion or angry defiance. I left quietly, with questions tucked beneath my breath, and a longing for something more real than rules. But I never left my mother’s voice.
Still, I feel her. In my choices. In my purpose. In The Football Foundation for Africa. In the Summit. In the young people we reach. In every bold decision to keep pushing, even when the path is unclear. She walks beside me, invisible but present.
My Mother’s Philosophy, My Life’s Work
I carry her with me in the work I do, gathering the young, building something that heals, dreaming of a continent awake with purpose. Maybe I didn’t abandon faith. Perhaps I’m building it, one act of service, one Summit, one life touched at a time.
Mum used to say, “Go where people are, don’t just laze around. You might find something useful.” She credited this approach to life for helping her purchase her then-rising Kenya Airways shares. It was more than advice; it was her philosophy. Be present. Be curious. Show up. Perhaps that’s why the Africa Football Business Summit exists at all, why I gather people, why I believe in the power of bringing minds together. I’m living her wisdom, even as I chart my own path.
I often wonder what she would think of the Summit. Of the vision, the resilience, the impact. Perhaps she would have worried, even disapproved, that this path doesn’t bring the money a mother might wish for her son’s security. But then again, Mum was the most appreciative of people. I still remember her excitement when I brought her milk from our football trips, such a small thing, yet her joy was boundless. She had a gift for seeing value beyond measure, for celebrating what mattered.
I am pretty sure she would have attended the Summit, especially if I had told her I managed to bring a foreign Minister to the country. I can almost see her there, beaming in the audience. I think she would smile. Proud. Certain. Just like she always was. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what she really wanted.
A Continuing Conversation
Grief is not about forgetting. It’s about remembering with tenderness. About continuing the conversation, even in silence. And so, I do. In every moment of doubt or triumph, I return to her. To her belief in me. To the love that asked for nothing and gave everything.
Rest well, Mum. Your light lives on.
Clementine Mulindi Wesaala
(November 23, 1953 – November 7, 2008)
