THE LAKE WAS NEVER LOST

When the hum of the ferry carried my grief away into Nam Lolwe

Late 2017, I found myself navigating the raw and unfamiliar terrain of grief. I had just lost my father, and the world felt painfully still and colorless.

That’s when my uncle and cousins decided to take me on a trip—a small act of love they hoped would lift the heavy fog that had settled over me. Our destination was Rusinga Island, a quiet gem nestled on the waters of Nam Lolwe. We set off from Homa Bay, where the air was thick with the scent of lake water and the energy of a small bustling town. The highlight of the trip, they told me, would be the ferry ride.

I didn’t know what to expect—perhaps a small boat or a quiet journey—but what I encountered was far more fascinating. As we approached the dock, the massive ferry came into view. I was stunned by its size. It looked like a floating parking lot, confidently carrying vehicles, motorbikes, people, and cargo all at once. The idea that something so heavy could glide across a lake felt like magic.

We boarded and found a spot near the railing. As the ferry began to move, the hum of the engine blended with the lapping of water against its sides.

A soft breeze played with our hair, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something close to peace. The lake stretched endlessly before us, its surface shimmering under the afternoon sun. Birds skimmed the water, fishermen paddled past in slender canoes, and in the distance, Rusinga Island rose like a promise on the horizon.

The ride wasn’t long—maybe twenty minutes or so—but it was just enough time to breathe, to think, and to feel the comfort of family. My cousins laughed and pointed out different landmarks as we sailed along.

My uncle told us stories about the region—how he’d made this trip many times before, how the lake had a life of its own. Their voices, familiar and warm, wrapped around me like a safety net.

When we arrived on Rusinga Island, we made our way to the Tom Mboya Mausoleum. It was serene and dignified, standing as a quiet tribute to one of Kenya’s most respected sons. Walking through the museum, I was struck by how much history lived on this peaceful island. Mboya’s story was both inspiring and tragic, and somehow it mirrored my own sense of loss and

Resilience.

That trip to Rusinga Island became more than a getaway—it was a turning point. Surrounded by love, history, and nature’s beauty, I felt a tiny crack open up in my grief, letting in the first slivers of light.

The ferry, with all its strength and grace, carried more than just passengers that day. It carried a heart in mourning toward healing. And for that, I will always be grateful.