Oh, death.

How you sneak in uninvited, cold and ruthless, and steal the brightest lights from us.

I remember that day clearly  it started as an ordinary morning. My mom, dad, and I were preparing to attend a wedding. I stopped a keke, humming quietly in the background. I hopped in, ready to enjoy the day, my mind filled with thoughts of dancing, laughter,  celebration, and how to secure the bag..... (I mean food).

Two guys were sitting with me in the Keke, chatting casually. I wasn’t paying much attention at first  until I heard one of them say,

“Did you hear that Otiwa died?”

Immediately, my heart skipped.

"Which Otiwa?" I asked, praying it wasn’t who I thought.

They answered,

“We don't know her department, but we heard Otiwa.”

My heart raced. I couldn’t sit still. Right there in the Keke, I quickly pulled out my phone and called my friend Sammy a course mate of  Otiwa I knew. My hands shook as the phone rang.

When Sammy answered, her voice was heavy. She confirmed it.

Rosemary Otiwa was no more.

It felt like someone poured a bucket of ice water over me right there in the Keke. I froze. I couldn't hear anything else. I couldn't focus. Even when we got to the wedding, I was physically present but my mind  my heart  was lost. We couldn't even stay till the end of the wedding. I needed to go home. I needed space to cry, to grieve, to understand.

I couldn’t help but flash back to when I first met Rosemary Otiwa.

Rosemary was more than a friend she was a blessing. Even when I didn’t ask for help, she was always there, pushing me to be better. I remember how she would walk into my room with that bright smile and tell me,

“Delight, read. Read your books.”

Over and over again, she reminded me that my dreams were within reach  if only I worked for them.

Because of her encouragement, my 200 level results were some of the best I'd ever had. She made me believe I could do more, that I could be more. She checked on me — my academics, my health, my well-being. She gave her heart so freely.

And now... she's gone.

Sometimes, I sit in my room and look at her final year class group photo. I see her face among her mates, bright and full of dreams. And then it hits me again  she won't be graduating with them. Her journey stopped too soon.

Death doesn't care.

It doesn't ask for permission.

It doesn't knock.

It just comes  snatching joy, leaving cold spaces where laughter used to be.

As I think about all the deaths I've seen around me, I'm forced to realize: death is no respecter of dreams, of age, or of plans.

So what do we do as we await our own time?

We must live right.

We must live prepared.

Because death never announces itself  it only arrives.