Those two months after dad’s second stroke paralyzed him, we’d sit him by where he could see the farm, and then mum would feed him small spoonfuls of honey – the one thing he hadn’t lost a taste of.
Later on I would have to clean the floor because her hands kept shaking with emotion and spilling it as she updated him on the latest church gossip, family issues and neighbourhood news.
After he died, mum avoided that section of the house like it never existed, but, up to date , on random afternoons, I inexplicably find the floor sticky with honey drippings.
‘Phory’ – A photo and a story speaking of and from each other.
Photography – Kimani Wandaka
Story – Ngartia
In Coherence. 