Life can't be defined by the words in a dictionary. Words can be flattering, but they barely scratch the surface of what life truly is. According to official records, my life began around July 10, twenty-something years ago. That’s what the papers say. But the real beginning? That’s something I had to figure out as I went along.
At five, like many kids, I was taken to kindergarten. I remember the loneliness creeping in, followed by tears. Then came pre-school, primary school, high school, college after college—three grad schools, two high schools, and two colleges later, and I’m still chasing higher learning with a master's in sight. But the real education? That began outside the classroom—in the school of life.
When I was ten, my life shifted dramatically. My family fell apart. My parents separated, and from then on, unity was a memory. I went to live with a strict aunt who ruled with an iron hand. I felt like my world was collapsing. But life doesn't pause for anyone. Mistakes became lessons. My emotions grew wild, but friends insisted, "You're a man now. Learn to survive." That was lesson one.
I wasn’t told when to eat, when to sleep, or even what name to use. My name—Brian Bandi Muduwa Odhiambo—has layers. "Bandi" was given to me by my maternal uncle. It’s not on my birth certificate, but it’s part of me. Life, after all, is more than documents.
Somewhere along the way, my parents introduced me to someone powerful—unseen but ever-present. His name is God. He became my anchor. In every storm, He was my calm. Though I never got all the answers, maybe I asked the wrong questions. Or maybe He answered, and I wasn’t listening. Either way, He added a new dimension to life.
Family taught me that people come in layers—some close, others closer, and some who stand as enemies. Society taught me about tribes—divisions both sacred and harmful. I’m Luo—loud, proud, and bold. I was warned never to marry a Kikuyu—clever and entrepreneurial—because life, I was told, is a competition. But must it be?
Power, privilege, and inequality—these too are parts of life. We’re not equal in the eyes of men because some see clearly, and others squint. If our worth depends on someone else’s sight, then it’s bound to be distorted.
At some point, I asked, “Who am I?” No one could answer, because identity is personal. At 23, I got my first job. I thought it would fix everything. But debts piled up, and reality bit back. I tried to define myself through work, friends, and success—but still felt lost.
Life, they say, is hard. But compared to what? I don’t know—I haven’t died to find out. What I do know is, the struggles make the story worth telling.
Between 23 and 26, I dabbled in relationships—some sweet, others bitter. I learned to love myself. Then, I met Brenda. She was everything I dreamed of—graceful, kind, and real. I asked her, “Are you single?” She said yes. I said, “I love you,” and she replied, “Thanks for your concern.” My heart shattered. I thought it ended before it began. But she was interested—my overthinking nearly ruined it.
Eventually, poor communication drove us apart. At 28, I met someone new. We dated for a year, and I introduced her to my family and friends. I thought she was the one. But she left me—chose someone else and walked away like I was nothing. I hit a low point, nearly sinking into depression. I lost appetite, avoided people, and cried alone on soaked couches.
But I prayed. And God, my eternal Counselor, listened again. He surrounded me with support, restored my strength—and even brought Brenda back into my life. Maybe we’ll write another chapter together. I live in hope, because certainty doesn’t belong to this life. That’s for the next.
