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The Fear of Being Forgotten

If there is one thing I dread the most in life, it is not hell, nor pain or failure. It is the fear that one day I will die and be completely forgotten, as if I never lived. That everything I have done, all that I have built, every effort, every dream, will fade away with time. Even the people I loved will forget my name. Those who once knew me will one day forget my voice and my presence. I dread it, for real!

It is a quiet but haunting fear. The realization dawns that even the greatest among us eventually become dust. They are swallowed by the silence of history. The thought that life, despite all its noise and struggle, might ultimately leave no trace behind, unsettles me deeply.

I once visited the Gede Ruins in Malindi, a place that has never left my mind. I walked through the ancient stones and fallen walls. I tried to imagine the life that once pulsed through that city. The laughter, the trade, the politics, the celebrations. There were leaders and builders, merchants and mothers, thinkers and dreamers. They lived, loved, worked, and probably thought their world would last forever. Yet today, no one remembers their names. No one can say who they were or what their dreams were.

Their city stands in ruins, silent witnesses to their vanished glory.

That visit made me realize something uncomfortable: the world forgets. Time is ruthless. It devours everything: empires, monuments, and memories alike. The people who once shaped our world are now mere shadows of history. Their identities have dissolved into the soil on which we walk.

The fear returned in October 2025, with the news of the sudden death of former Prime Minister Raila Odinga. It is difficult to comprehend how someone so visible, so full of influence and energy, can be silenced by death, that quiet and indiscriminate visitor. His passing made me pause again over the old questions. Why are we born, only to die just as we begin to understand the melody? Perhaps life is not meant to be measured by its length, but by its depth.

We live. We love. We fade. Time washes us away like footprints in sand. But what if we could plant something that never fades?

And so, I ask myself often: how can one immortalize oneself? How can a person live beyond space and time?

I have come to believe that immortality doesn’t come from fame or wealth. Those fade, too. The statues crumble, the books decay, the photographs fade. But perhaps, immortality lies in something simpler and more human: impact. The small ripples of goodness and love we leave behind. The people we nurture, the hearts we heal, the stories we tell.

Maybe immortality is like this tree: planted once, standing strong through generations, even when the planter’s name is forgotten

Because somewhere, someone will remember how you made them feel. And that emotion will live on, passed from heart to heart, long after your name is gone.

Maybe the goal is not to be remembered by everyone, but to be unforgettable to someone.

And perhaps that is how we truly conquer time. We do this not by fighting to be remembered forever. Instead, we live so meaningfully that forgetting becomes impossible for those whose lives we’ve touched.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90:12)

Final Reflection

I have spent years in peacebuilding, where I also tell stories, and join in community work. As I reflect on these experiences, I realize that this desire for immortality is deeply tied to purpose. Every act of kindness forms part of a living legacy. Every story documented adds to this legacy. Every life healed or encouraged becomes a part of it. This legacy outlasts us. In the end, building peace and telling stories of humanity defies oblivion. It whispers to the future: we were here, and we mattered.

We write not to be famous, but to be remembered, to leave a trace of our soul long after we’re gone.
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