I dropped my son off at the airport a few days ago as he reported back to school after what was an eventful summer break. On the ride home, I tried my best to hold in tears as the weight of separation pressed down on me. That’s when the title of this article came to mind: Catching Feelings and Flights.
Someone once said that some of the most genuine emotions are usually witnessed at airports. Goodbyes, reunions, promises whispered, tears shed, laughter breaking the silence—it all unfolds there. Looking back on the past eight years, my life has been filled with both. Lots of feelings. Lots of flights.
Of Feelings
On the evening of 28th January 2021, I was in Limbe, a beautiful coastal city in Cameroon. After a long day, I joined colleagues for sundowners and music. Limbe had a way of reminding me of home—the laughter, the shared stories, the simple joy of unwinding after work. Back home we’d say, “Baada ya kazi, kunywa Tusker.” In Limbe, it became “Baada ya kazi, kunywa 33 Export.”
The one thing I wasn’t prepared for was the pepper. Coming from Western Kenya, where our food is kinder on the tongue, Cameroonian spice had me making trips to the toilet that I will spare you the details of. Let’s just say curiosity—and pepper—nearly killed me.
That night, as music filled the air, someone decided karaoke didn’t have to wait for karaoke night so I sang my heart out. My colleagues cheered, some joined in, and in that moment, I felt alive. Music has always been my safe place—a space of freedom, visibility, and power.
This was not new. In high school, I was the girl who grabbed the mic at rap battles, poetry recitals, and drama festivals. Entertainment was my domain so much so that I finished high school having served as entertainment prefect, which had both some good and bad but that is a story for another day. My classmates would have sworn I was headed for a career in the arts. Yet, fifteen years later, there I was—eight years into a career in sports, doing work I never would have imagined but wouldn’t trade for anything.
Because for me, sports isn’t just work. Sports has always been the language of my family. My dad played football, my mum volleyball, my three brothers and I played basketball. Now my son plays football, basketball, and rugby in high school. Some families bond over Sunday dinners; ours bonded over sports. Whether watching games at Bukhungu Stadium in Kakamega, huddled around the TV, or kicking a ball in the front yard, sports was our heartbeat. Looking back now, it feels almost poetic that my work in football became a continuation of the bond my father and I shared, and the glue that tied our family together.
Of Flights
The next morning, 29th January 2021, I received the news that my father had passed away. My world shifted instantly. He had been unwell, and the last time I saw him alive, he was in the ICU, hooked up to machines. I had told him about my new job with the Confederation of African Football—how, after years of watching football together on TV, I was finally going to be in the middle of it all. I told him that soon he would be cheering for me as much as he did for the game itself. The doctors had been hopeful, and I truly believed he would recover. His death was not sudden, just painfully unexpected.
That same day, I boarded the first of the three flights to my hometown, Kakamega. The thing about flights; they force you to confront your emotions. The ascent reminds you just how small you are, how life continues even as your own world feels paused. Up there, above the clouds, there is no escape. No internet. No noise. Just you, your thoughts, and the hum of the engines.
And for me, grief came like a tidal wave. Grief is one emotions you cannot manufacture, cannot fake. It’s raw, it’s stubborn, and it lingers. Ironing my shirts for work, I’d be reminded of my father—he loved his suits and ties, and he taught me how to iron. My love for neatness, for sharp dressing, is a reflection of him. He never looked like his income—he always looked like a man of means. That was his pride. That was his lesson to me.
Learning to Sit with Grief
After his funeral, life pulled me back into work. I moved countries, hopping from one tournament to another—Mauritania, Morocco—and eventually settled in Egypt, my new home. I was left with the silence when the stadium lights dimmed and the crowds went home. Alone in my hotel room, far from the familiarity of Kenya, I had no choice but to sit with my emotions.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t hide behind music, or laughter, or even a drink. I sat on the floor and faced the grief head-on. And in doing so, I discovered something life-changing: grief is another form of love. It stretched my emotional intelligence, teaching me that feelings aren’t enemies to run from. They are messengers. They are proof that we have loved, that we have lived.
A Tribute to My Father
My father called me “a force to be reckoned with.” He was my biggest cheerleader. The man I called before every flight, before every stadium stint, after every long day at work. He bought me new uniforms before my trips to drama and music festivals, new shoes before basketball tournaments, and always believed in my potential—even before I believed in it myself.
Sports was our shared language, but love was our foundation. Losing him broke me open, but it also freed me. I no longer fear emotions—whether joy, sadness, hope, or love. I embrace them fully, because to feel deeply is to live fully.
This blog is for him.
✨ For my father—my first coach, my biggest cheerleader, and the man who taught me that sports, like life, are best lived with heart.
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