In early 2023, I had many moments of are we going to Malindi or not? Rasna Warah, whose column in the Nation I had occasionally stumbled upon, had been brought into the Debunk fold by Isaac Otidi Amuke, Debunk’s editor-in-chief. We had rolled out an op-ed page, and Rasna was top of the list. Rasna was battling cancer, confronting what she later articulated to me as feelings of general isolation. But much as this transpired, Rasna quickly became our most formidable op-ed writer, sending in two, sometimes three pieces a week. She informed us that she had moved to Malindi, and I thought a visit would do her some good, possibly making the trip with her fellow columnists.
My distant admiration for Rasna had grown when she, alongside a number of other columnists, had walked out of the Nation, citing alleged editorial interference. These men and women reminded me of my journalism professor, Joe Kadhi, who preached a no-compromising journalistic gospel. Publish and be damned. Whether State House or the President himself called was immaterial. Our fidelity, as journalists, was to truth.
That said, it was a surprise that my path and Rasna’s crossed.
In the legacy media world where I came from, I knew of instances where a reporter would be writing for the newspaper and would spend years without ever interacting with their colleague from broadcasting, and vice versa, much as they worked for the same company. If, like in Rasna’s and my case, they worked for different media houses where one wrote for print and another worked for broadcast, then the likelihood of paths crossing became even more slim.
Rasna Warah and her generation had fought the Daniel arap Moi dictatorship with their pens, and won. I, on the other hand, only started reporting when Mwai Kibaki had come to power. Rasna and I also worked in different newsrooms, her writing a weekly column for the Nation and me reporting on TV for the Standard and thereafter Citizen TV. Rasna also belonged to many worlds – being primarily a print writer, with one foot in the mainstream and the other deep in Nairobi’s literati circles – dreaming new realities and imagining new Kenyas from the fringes.
For several weeks, we exchanged emails – Rasna and Isaac leading the way, I remaining in the background, silently cc’d. I would witness as the writer and her editor pushed through the difficulties – Rasna initially struggling with the thought of sustaining a weekly column amidst her cancer treatment, to her gradually sending in a piece, then a second one, before we’d eventually start receiving several of Rasna’s emails in a day, carrying complete pieces, follow-ups, corrections, clarifications.
It was not until one evening several weeks in, when Rasna emailed me privately to follow up on a payment, that the ground was broken for an unlikely friendship. “Let us chat on phone one of these days,” she said. “It can be quite lonely here in Malindi.”
Lonely. That’s where she got me.
I was at the time going through treatment for a chronic condition and as anyone who has managed an illness privately will tell you, loneliness is an all too familiar territory. When I got home that evening, I phoned Rasna. It was the first of about a dozen phone conversations between us, spanning months, all of them lasting no less than three hours, all of them explosive.
At first, we mostly spoke about her condition.
“I’m too tired in the afternoons,” she would say. “I work in the mornings, when I have a surge of energy. That’s when I do my writing for Debunk.”
Her speech would sometimes slur, especially when she spoke of lost relationships, of distant family and missing friends.
“Everyone’s abandoned me, can you believe it Asha?”
There was no way to respond to that.
“But you know, I’ve still got Gray…” The energy would suddenly shift.
“Marry a good one and grow old together,” once sent us into a spell of laughter, hers loud and raspy, mine obviously drowned out. “…but good luck with that with your generation.”
Sometimes, we would speak about Debunk. She wanted to know what projects were running in the background and how we were thinking. Other times, it would be a call to vent about Kenya and as many would know, ask if she was the one going mad. It would end with her announcing her new column, “Tell Isaac I’ll send him something tomorrow morning.”
On some weeks, there would be silence and this seemed to bother Rasna.
“Checking if you are OK,” she would email.
“I don’t want to lose this job.” Of course she wouldn’t.
We were swamped with more work than we could handle. We’d reach out soon, we would promise. One time when I got back to her, she shot me a quick text. “I have some guests. Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. Let me know when’s a good time,” I obliged. I was happy she had company.
Days later, as I drove home from work, Rasna’s call came through.
“I think I’m dying soon,” she said.
It was about 5.30p.m., and I was dashing home to stir up an early dinner and spend most of my evening finishing up on pending work.
“I feel very alone. Where did this cancer come from, Asha?”
Although we had had this conversation a number of times before, on this particular day, my silence felt insufficient. I was completely ill-equipped for this moment and there was an unspoken feeling that Rasna needed more.
Reluctantly, I broke my privacy.
“I am scheduled for surgery next week, Rasna. I have not been too well.”
We were both surprised that the conversation had taken this turn. Until this moment, we had never spoken about me but I needed her to know that she was not alone. It seemed to send her to a different space because for the rest of our call, Rasna’s mind was abuzz with how to help me out of my condition.
“Oh, and before I let you go,” she proclaimed three hours in. “Pick up the book Our Bodies, Ourselves. I’m interviewing one of the authors for Debunk Speaks To. And I’ll send you the doctor’s number tomorrow!”
It was now 8.30p.m.
Weeks after my surgery, on the night before Eid-ul-Adha in 2023, Rasna and I were on the phone again. I had just received the nod from my doctor that I could proceed with normal life. I was easing back to work, where a mountain of emails awaited me, Rasna’s included.
“I haven’t been on the phone much these last few days. You know how it can get when you’re recovering.” I remember explaining to her in our two-hour long conversation. “I’ll be back fully, soon.”
“I completely understand,” she reassured me. The rest of our call was spent discussing all the politics I had missed out on and Rasna wanted to know what I thought about the new writing coming out of Nairobi.
The next day, on the morning of Eid, I walked out of the mosque to a long email from Rasna – ‘advice from a friend’ she’d titled it. It was a ‘you need to change’ type of email, as she expressed her disappointment in my unavailability and signed it off from ‘an older, wiser sister’.
I read the email a few times as I made my way home, where the traditional after Eid prayer-family-breakfast awaited me. It felt like this was about a lot more than the few missed emails and messages that I had promised to respond to. I could not stomach my Eid meal.
Had we not had that two-hour conversation the previous night?
My first instinct was to write back a “hey, are we okay?’’ I couldn’t muster the strength.
“Thank you for your concern. We will address the issues you have raised.”
We were back to the beginning. I was the silent cc’ in Rasna’s emails.
Had I mistaken camaraderie for sisterhood? Was my absence too unbearable? Or maybe, would 2025 be the year that I’d go to Malindi?
There were no other calls between us.
Then Rasna died, and with her goes any hope of reliving our three hour calls.
Illa Liqaa, my older, wiser sister.
