My Brother Loved Morocco, I Couldn’t Bring Myself To Visit It After He Died

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ed in my subconscious. They were of a depth and authenticity that we had only ever rarely engaged in. They were conversations that I will remember for the rest of my life.He talked about his dreams and what he planned to do once he was discharged. It was during this time he told me about his upcoming trip to Morocco. He and his wife Agnès had planned to visit during the upcoming Fall break.My brother Boris had often transited through Casablanca on his way to our home country, Sierra Leone, but this time, he was planning on staying a week in the country to get to know it more. He loved Morocco and spoke fondly of the place, it made me want to visit too. He spoke endearingly about the kindness of Moroccans, about the time he spent lost in the numerous magic and enchanted souks, taking in the vibrant colors, the aromas of spices and incense, and the sounds of the market.He spoke of the delicious food, the lamb and chicken tagines, the typical sugared Moroccan mint tea, the beautiful Atlas Mountains, and the feeling that he always had when he landed there that he was back on his continent, back in his beloved Africa.He had fallen in love with Morocco and spoke so highly of the country that when he died, I was afraid to visit, because I didn’t know if I had it in me, to be in a place he loved so much. I was afraid it would make me extremely sad. And the question I thought would keep coming back was this: Why do I have the right to be here? Why can’t it be him?When my brother died, my sister-in-law decided to give away a few of his things. One day, she approached me and said she wanted to gift me t

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he travel guides he had bought for their trip to Morocco.“Of everyone in the family, he would have wanted you to have these”, she said.I became emotional and was moved to tears by her kind words.“He always told me how much you loved to travel. And I know, he knew you would make good use of these”, she said.I hugged and profoundly thanked her. The books were precious to me, he had read through them, his fingers had touched each page, and his imagination had been put into delicate motion by the journeys and adventures he had envisaged in Morocco. By owning these books, I felt I had a little piece of him right there with me.I’ve missed my brother a lot, and over the last months, the realization that I will never see him again has hit me hard. A few weeks ago, amid the rain and cold in Switzerland, I decided I needed some sunlight to start the New Year which I believe will be a challenging one. Morocco immediately came to mind, and as I read through Boris’ travel guides, I knew I had to go.The minute the plane landed in Marrakech, I immediately understood why Boris loved Morocco so much. Everything about the place is magical. I write this seated on a rooftop with the sun setting and a mesmerizing view of the majestic Atlas Mountains in the distance. I am in awe, fascinated by the beauty of this place, the absolute and genuine kindness of the people, and the feeling that I am back on my continent, back home in Africa. I fully understand why Boris felt at home here, and as I sit here, I feel him close to me.Thank you for reading my perspective.</article></body>

That was until today

Photo credit: The Author’s daughter collection — Me in Morocco

It was October 2016. My brother Boris had just been admitted to hospital. He was in the intensive care unit, but he was big and strong and we thought he wouldn’t be there for long. What we thought couldn’t be that serious went from bad to worse. My brother died 11 weeks later on December 6th, 2016. It all went so fast, too damn fast.

Some days, I still think that his illness and passing were all a dream. I still think he’s simply gone on a long trip and that he’s soon going to show up at my place with his larger-than-life personality and lion-roar-like laughter. When I wake up from those dreams, I am often very sad, faced with the immutable and inescapable reality that he is gone forever.

I remember those first days he was in the hospital. I didn’t live too far away and would usually visit at the end of my day. I’d gotten into the habit of hopping on the tram and taking the minibus to the Hôpitaux Universitaires Genevois (HUG). It was during those visits that I had the deepest, most genuine, and wholesome conversations with my older brother.

I don’t know if it’s because at that stage he knew something I didn’t. I don’t know if he felt there was no more time left to lose with superficial conversations or small talk. The talks we had during that week remain engraved in my subconscious. They were of a depth and authenticity that we had only ever rarely engaged in. They were conversations that I will remember for the rest of my life.

He talked about his dreams and what he planned to do once he was discharged. It was during this time he told me about his upcoming trip to Morocco. He and his wife Agnès had planned to visit during the upcoming Fall break.

My brother Boris had often transited through Casablanca on his way to our home country, Sierra Leone, but this time, he was planning on staying a week in the country to get to know it more. He loved Morocco and spoke fondly of the place, it made me want to visit too. He spoke endearingly about the kindness of Moroccans, about the time he spent lost in the numerous magic and enchanted souks, taking in the vibrant colors, the aromas of spices and incense, and the sounds of the market.

He spoke of the delicious food, the lamb and chicken tagines, the typical sugared Moroccan mint tea, the beautiful Atlas Mountains, and the feeling that he always had when he landed there that he was back on his continent, back in his beloved Africa.

He had fallen in love with Morocco and spoke so highly of the country that when he died, I was afraid to visit, because I didn’t know if I had it in me, to be in a place he loved so much. I was afraid it would make me extremely sad. And the question I thought would keep coming back was this: Why do I have the right to be here? Why can’t it be him?

When my brother died, my sister-in-law decided to give away a few of his things. One day, she approached me and said she wanted to gift me the travel guides he had bought for their trip to Morocco.

“Of everyone in the family, he would have wanted you to have these”, she said.

I became emotional and was moved to tears by her kind words.

“He always told me how much you loved to travel. And I know, he knew you would make good use of these”, she said.

I hugged and profoundly thanked her. The books were precious to me, he had read through them, his fingers had touched each page, and his imagination had been put into delicate motion by the journeys and adventures he had envisaged in Morocco. By owning these books, I felt I had a little piece of him right there with me.

I’ve missed my brother a lot, and over the last months, the realization that I will never see him again has hit me hard. A few weeks ago, amid the rain and cold in Switzerland, I decided I needed some sunlight to start the New Year which I believe will be a challenging one. Morocco immediately came to mind, and as I read through Boris’ travel guides, I knew I had to go.

The minute the plane landed in Marrakech, I immediately understood why Boris loved Morocco so much. Everything about the place is magical. I write this seated on a rooftop with the sun setting and a mesmerizing view of the majestic Atlas Mountains in the distance. I am in awe, fascinated by the beauty of this place, the absolute and genuine kindness of the people, and the feeling that I am back on my continent, back home in Africa. I fully understand why Boris felt at home here, and as I sit here, I feel him close to me.

Thank you for reading my perspective.