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May 10, 2026
There are questions that arrive
silently. They do not knock. They do not announce themselves
with urgency. They slip in through old photographs, through
yellowing memories, through the glow of a computer screen late
at night, through a name remembered, through a face no longer
here.
And lately,
one question has been sitting beside me with unsettling
nostalgia. Am I losing Kasisi?
For
twenty-nine years, I have sat behind a keyboard as the webmaster
of Kasisi Children’s Home website. Twenty-nine years of
uploading Kasisi stories, photographs, correcting broken links,
answering questions from strangers who somehow became family and
trying, often inadequately, to tell the world that somewhere in
Zambia there exists a place where love became an institution
long before technology ever found it.
Twenty-nine
years. Long enough for children to become parents. Long enough
for benefactors to become memories. Long enough for voices once
familiar to become silence.
And perhaps
long enough for a man to wonder whether he is still holding
Kasisi. Or whether Kasisi is slowly slipping through his
fingers.
I think back
to
the articles I wrote in the years gone by.
A
postcard from Fiji.
Thousands of
kilometres away from home, on an island surrounded by waters so
blue they seemed unreal, I discovered something I had not
expected. Which is that Kasisi travels.
It is not
confined to brick walls, jacaranda trees, chapel bells, or the
laughter of innocent children playing in the corridors. It lives
in memory. It follows you into airports, hotels, foreign
streets, and lonely evenings.
Even there,
Kasisi found me. Or perhaps I found that I could never truly
leave it.
Footprints in the Sands of History.
Some
footprints are fresh, sharp, unmistakable. Others are fading,
almost erased by time. I have spent years walking through
Kasisi’s history, tracing the lives of those who built what many
I inherited – a love beyond self.
Sisters
whose sacrifices were never meant for applause. Children whose
names have slowly faded from my memory. Workers who arrived
before sunrise and left after sunset. Donors who gave quietly.
Priests who prayed faithfully. Each left a footprint of love.
And I have
often asked myself. What right do I have to walk among them? I
am not a founder. I am simply the man who built a website. And
yet, somehow, history allowed me to become its witness.
Sometimes its storyteller. Sometimes its mourner. And sometimes,
painfully, its archivist.
There are
stories that still ache.
Peter! I
am sorry.
This was a
lesson of love beyond self. Some names never leave you. Some
regrets never completely fade. There are moments in life when
words arrive too late, when understanding comes after goodbye,
when apology becomes less about being heard and more about
honouring the truth.
Peter taught
me that love is not always neat. That service is not always
victorious. That memory can be both blessing and burden. And if
I am honest, there are still conversations with Peter that I
continue in silence.
My father
and the picture on my wall.
A picture
that has become more than paper and frame. It has become a
mirror.
As the years
have passed, through Kasisi Children’s Home, I have begun to
understand him in ways youth never allowed. His silences. His
sacrifices. His stubbornness. His quiet dignity.
And
sometimes, as I look at Kasisi, I wonder whether my relationship
with this home has begun to resemble my relationship with that
picture. Something I deeply love. Something I cannot fully
possess. Something that shaped me. Something I fear one day I
may only look at from a distance.
Then came
Susan.
A world
without Susan.
There are
some people whose absence becomes louder than their presence
ever was. Susan was one of those.
Her
departure left a silence that words could not fill. And yet,
strangely, her absence also taught me that Kasisi was never
built around individuals. It was built around something larger.
Something divine. Something that survives funerals. Something
that survives tears. Something that survives us.
And then
there was Francis.
Without
fear, he walked with us.
Some people
carry courage so naturally that you forget how rare it is.
Francis walked not as a hero seeking recognition, but as a
servant who understood that love often requires bravery.
He reminded
me that fear is not the absence of danger. It is the refusal to
let danger define your mission.
And now I
ask myself. Am I still walking with that same courage? Or am I
slowly becoming a spectator to the very story I once helped
tell?
And finally…
Where
angels walk among us.
Perhaps that
article was never really about angels. Perhaps it was about
recognising grace in ordinary people. A sister folding laundry.
A child sharing bread. A caregiver staying awake through the
night. A donor remembering birthdays. A volunteer holding a
frightened hand.
Angels.
Not with
wings. But with worn shoes. And tired eyes. And faithful hearts.
I have met
many of them at Kasisi. More than I deserve. More than I can
count.
And now, as
Kasisi Children’s Home approaches its centenary Thanksgiving
Celebration on December 5, 2026, one hundred years since the
first seeds of love were planted on that sacred ground, I find
myself standing at a strange crossroads.
One hundred
years. A century of children. A century of prayers. A century of
tears. A century of laughter. A century of miracles disguised as
ordinary days. A century of love beyond self.
And I ask
again. Am I losing Kasisi? Or is Kasisi preparing to
teach me one final lesson?
That Kasisi
was never mine to hold. Not in 1997 when I first became its
webmaster. Not through the stories. Not through the photographs.
Not through the names of Peter, Susan, Francis, or the countless
others who shaped my soul.
Kasisi was
never something to own. It was always something to serve.
Something to witness. Something to remember. Something to pass
on.
Perhaps what
I am losing is not Kasisi. Perhaps what I am losing is the
illusion that I could ever keep it for myself.
And perhaps
that is exactly how centenaries work. They remind us that
institutions built on love do not belong to one generation. They
belong to every footprint. Every angel. Every child. Every
prayer.
Ora pro
nobis. |
