My Brother Emmanuel

I grew up with my older brother Emmanuel, just three years apart. We were raised by our grandmother in a small household filled with chickens, a bably sibling, and a whole lot of love. Emmanuel was a foodie before we even knew that word meant. He had an appetite for everything- especially eggs straight from the chicken coop. I still laugh when I think about how he used to eat them raw, right there in the yard.

One of our funniest childhood memories was how he would sneak my newborn baby brother's milk, mix it with sugar, and eat it like treat. It was wild, mischievous, but somehow endearing. What made it even funnier is that he'd never hide the empty containers. We'd only find out something was missing when we tried to use it- usually in front of guests. And yet, no matter how naughty he was, we never stayed mad.

He never grew out of it. When he started cooking, he'd eat from the pot while preparing meals, only to realize later that there wasn't enough food left to serve. It became one of his quirks, something we teased him about endlessly.

But Emmanuel wasn't just funny-he was kind. Deeply kind. He was the most protective big brother I could've asked for. He stood up for me and my mom like a knight in shining amor. He loved her dearly, and she adored him right back. My mother gave him everything she could-he was her pride, her hope and her joy.

He also had a passion for style. Long before brand names became trendy, my brother had flair for fashion. He was just 17, but he carried himself like and old soul. I'll never forget the day he was asked to be a best man at a wedding. He wore a black tuxedo- so sharp and handsome that even now, that image lives rent-free in my mind. That was the last time I saw him, happy, radiant and so full of life.

Shortly after that, tragedy struck . Emmanuel was involved in a hit-and-run accident. He spent 10 days in a coma and didn't survive. That loss broke our family - especially my mother. Losing her only son was something she never recovered from. She followed him after a year later, unable to bear the weight of her grief.

Things were never same for a minute my stop leaving she forgot that she had other kids that needed her I didn't understand back than only when I grew older, I understood that life is not what you see on television it turns sour any second and if you don't have support structure to pick you up, or be in your shoes it not easy and no one can change your fate if it written In your stars that you will leave a certain life, what we break you and what will make you strong that can't be changed if it was not meant to be changed and grief and healing hits different for each and every one of us, it just a matter of acceptance and it doesn't always work out the way we hope for.

What still haunts us it the not knowing. 21 years have passed, and we still don't know who hit him. No justice. No closure. But I've learned to forgive. My brother was too kind-hearted to hold onto anger, and so I choose to honour him that way.

This story isn't just about loss. It's about the joy he brought, the laughter, the stolen eggs, the pot emptied before dinner, the tuxedo, the love. Emmanuel was more than just a brother-he was a symbol of kindness, light, and youth gone too soon.

"Some souls shine so bright that even in their absence, their light the path for those left behind."

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