The Branch
Branches are a significant part of life’s journey. They represent growth and expansion, a way to overcome the past and become something entirely new. While branches connect to the past, the trunk of the tree, or the subsequent branch, I find they also signify a strong foundation and the expansion of that foundation.
This scar, which resembles a branch breaking away, was acquired through the pursuit of creativity. A young girl reached into an old paint can with a wired rim to scavenge a piece for her collection of trinkets as she created a large sculpture representing a hero from her imagination. Creativity, the ability to produce something new from nothing or to reuse something old to create something new, is a beautiful thing. This scar represents that pursuit.
My Branch Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Branch, 2024, digital image. © the author
But stories are different, and often in life we see binaries in the same symbols. Here lies a truth. Whether or not we choose to believe it, nature again leads us into a new cove, pursuing difference. Nature is endlessly diverse and complex. This story is simple, told from the eyes of a child, unencumbered by the biases and expectations of adulthood. It may yet reveal something unique about this scar, a domestic violence scar on her mother’s lower back.
“I was too young to realise what had happened. All I remember was that my mother had fallen, and that she was unable to get up. I recall laying down beside her, on the floor, with my favourite plush toy in my hands. I remember slipping beneath the coffee table, because she could not move, and I could not leave her. I remember her warm hand about my body, her telling me that it was going to be alright. I remember the coldness of that night, and the edge of the table, foreshadowing the warm light of a filament bulb.
The next day, he took her to hospital. I remember going to see her in hospital several times. Each visit eerily similar to the last. Our little family visited whenever we could, to the large building with huge glass windows and smooth cold floors. We walked infinite halls whose walls were pale and met many strangers dressed in strange clothes. Then there was the silence. It was all too quiet. Pin drop silence. My siblings and I barely understood where we were, for it was never explained in detail, what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen next. But there was the promise that it was going to be alright, and that Mama would come home soon. They would wheel her in, the sounds made by her chair overbearing in this quiet hall, wafting over like the scent of reality. She may never walk again. Mama would smile and talk to us. We tried, but what could we say? I tried but all I could feel was the tightness in my throat, and the lingering uncertainty of an undefined reality. Then, even before her words reached my hardening heart, before the warmth of her hands pierced my clothes, before the tightness of her hug reached my soul, they wheeled her away. And we were taken away, in the hope that we would come back soon, or that she would come home.
Weeks, maybe months later, she came home. She was different, quiet, like that damn place they had her in. Brooding. Cautious. She waited long enough to heal and did the unexpected. She left.
I was confused. Why did she leave me and my siblings behind?
As an adult, I finally understand why, sometimes, you must leave what you love, to find yourself. It took years, but one day, she walked back into our lives. Strong, beautiful, wealthy, with notable grace. A different woman altogether. She had managed to make a life for herself and was finally ready to be a mother again. Maybe one day, she will tell me her version of this story. But I want her to know that I understand and that I love her very much.”
The Thin Branch Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Thin Branch, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Paw
The paw reflects a need to explore, to discover, and to experience newness. Sometimes, seeking something new may be detrimental to us. What is good for the soul may not be good for the body. Through this exploration, newness can lead us into dark places and teach us hard-earned lessons. Paws leave marks behind, reflecting every stride taken and leaving a memory. Those marks may lead deeper into darker places.
These scars were a result of domestic violence. The woman’s spouse attacked her with a pair of scissors and stabbed her several times. She was pregnant at the time. He was mentally ill, and no one noticed until the incident occurred. Consumed by sadness, she did not want people to see her. She also felt that it was her fault. She was afraid to look at herself in the mirror because of her scars, which were constant reminders of what had happened. She went to counselling, and after four years, she finally made peace with herself. Now, she can tell this story without becoming emotional. She has learned to appreciate herself and is at peace.
Although the scars are a constant reminder of the pain, she has overcome by taking the initiative in her journey of healing, she has found peace in the aftermath, allowing the darkness of the past to fade away as she explores brighter places.
The Paw Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Paw, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Root
The root is a vital part of the plant. It grows into the ground or water to seek and store nutrients and water, which are essential for the plant’s growth and development. Without the root, the plant cannot survive. Additionally, without roots, the entire ecosystem is affected, as they provide soil health and environmental stability. Through anchorage, roots hold plants in the soil, supporting the rest of the plant and its environment against harsh conditions such as heavy winds. Roots symbolise origin and serve as a source.
Roots remind me of the brain. I recalled the basics of biology, which led me to explore more complex pursuits related to the wiring of the brain. The study of connectomes, a comprehensive map of neural connections found in the brain, reveals how understanding these ‘wires’ are arranged and how their functions is essential for deciphering brain operations and addressing neurological issues.
This scar was the result of an accident. A woman was hit by a boda boda while crossing the road. She fell to the ground and hit her head on the tarmac and was run over by a second boda boda. Her physical recovery took a gruesome two months; during that time, she was in a medically induced coma for a week, underwent two head surgeries, and was hospitalised for a month. She had to relearn everything, including speech and expression. During her recovery, when she could speak, doctors, caregivers, and family noted that she had few memories of her own. Her short-term memory was gone, and her long-term memory was limited to vital events and people in her life, leaving much to the wind. The doctors suggested that she might have blocked out the trauma to protect herself from the pain. We are the collection of memories that make up our being; we are what we remember, and without those memories, we cease to be ourselves. Her family noted with love and concern that she was not herself; a strong, independent, and winsome woman. She had been reduced to an invalid, lacking her essence.
The brain, much like the roots of a plant, is a beautiful and mysterious thing. Every day, this woman seeks her origin and purpose in this world. Sometimes she makes a connection to the past; most times, she creates new memories that build her new story. Despite her ordeal, she continues to be a mother, a sister, an aunt, and a friend, because culture dictates that everyone has roots, and family takes care of her. One day, she will return and see all that is, but until then, everyone waits with bated breath. For the wonders of nature are truly infinite.
The Root Labyrinth Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Root Labyrinth, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Seed
The seed is a small structure produced by plants, containing an embryo capable of developing into a new plant. Without a seed, there can be no reproduction. The plant disperses its seeds organically through natural carriers such as wind, water, and animals. Only the strongest seeds germinate when the conditions are right. The seed symbolises a new beginning and the potential for growth. To seed something is to develop something significant that, when nourished and cared for, will grow into something even more substantial.
Cumin is a nutrient-rich seed that contains antioxidants and anti-cancer properties, helping to control blood sugar and fight bacteria and parasites. When dried, it offers a spicy addition to culinary dishes, providing ample value in taste and function in such a small seed. It is interesting that a cut made to protect against disease and ill will would resemble a cumin seed.
This scar was the result of traditional scarification, an ancient protective process among the Bukusu community of the Luhya tribe. This procedure was performed on the young by the elderly in the community, who believed in it and had experience in carrying it out. Typically, a group activity, it was done to children within the same age set. The woman recounted that they used a razor blade or sharp tool along with medicinal substances like burnt ash leaves. The procedure involved a small incision followed by the application of what they called medicine into the wound. Though as small as a cumin seed, she said that the process was painful and bled a lot, leaving a significant mark on her skin.
In her case, this cut was a protective spell against the evil eye. The woman believes that the scar could have been effective because she has never felt ill to the point of needing to see a traditional doctor. When asked whether she would perform the rite on her own daughter, she replied no, as she sees it as a relic of the past, a practice rooted in ancient customs.
Her scar, once considered a gateway to health and vitality, now presents a seed of thought: this woman, living in the modern world, once believed in the mysticism of the ancient world.
The Tiny Seed Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Tiny Seed, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Sky
The sky stretches for miles, each one uniquely brilliant, different and as affecting as the last. I love sunrises, but sunsets even more. A few days ago, I saw the sky in a different light. The sun was rising from behind a bank of clouds, and the sky was riddled with ripples. I had seen this before, but for some reason, this sky fascinated me. Some may say it’s simply science—an atmospheric phenomenon blamed on gravity waves, optical illusions, or even personal delusions. In my eyes, however, I simply see visual poetry, and I equate these ripples in nature to stretch marks.
The Sky on Her Skin, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Sky, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Leaf
I like leaves; they make me smile. Sometimes I enjoy collecting leaves, and at other times, I collect small branches with their leaves. I want to look at the leaves and say something like, “That’s a pretty leaf,” or “I wish I could capture that leaf in an image, or a moving picture as it sways in the wind.” And one day, I do. Leaves are fascinating. They can be needle-like, thin, and long, with sharp edges that can cut. These types of leaves are an adaptation to conserve water, which can be lost into the air if the blade of the leaf, the broad and flat part that captures sunlight, is too wide. Leaves are associated with the cycle of life; a leaf grows, ages, and eventually dies, this is its way of life. Leaves often symbolise renewal. New leaves indicate that a plant is nourished, while dying leaves suggest that a plant is struggling. Even as the seasons change, the leaves of a tree define this transformation.
This scar is thin and long, with a slight fold, much like an Asparagus Fern leaf. It is part of a laparoscopy scar attained after surviving appendicitis. After experiencing abdominal pain for about a year with bouts of tremors, fever, dizziness, fatigue, diminished eyesight, and persistent vomiting episodes lasting up to six hours, this woman sought a diagnosis, believing that her cysts had returned, only to find out that she had necrotic appendicitis.
After exploratory surgery, it was revealed that she had a ruptured appendix and was suffering from sepsis and necrotic effects. Upon realising that she had almost died, she quit her job and sought more fulfilling prospects in the arts. Her scars serve as a reminder, a journey of pain, from physical pain to self-empowerment, highlighting the resilience needed to navigate through life’s challenges. Her scar represents renewal.
The Thin Leaf Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Thin Leaf, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Stone
One day, while walking, I saw a beautiful stone. One side slanted at an angle, while the other stood at about 90 degrees, as though by design. The sides of the stone were pitched, as if it had come from the pivoted tip of a mountain. The stone was rough, as though it had seen the worst of terrains, jagged, like it could saw through matter. Though small compared to a mountain, the stone seemed significant. So, I walked over and picked it up. It was heavier than expected, yet I carried it over a kilometre to my home and placed it on my bedroom windowsill.
About three years later, I met a young lady at a clothes shop where she sold children’s clothing. She was pleasant and quite demure. Something about her reminded me of a quiet cousin of mine who is good with kids—patient and kind. She also seemed sated, like the mountain and water, tranquil and serene, much like my stone. When I saw her scar, I could not help but say to her, “I’m collecting scars; may I have yours?” Strange as the words seemed, she smiled and agreed. I explained a little about my project and asked her for context. She told me a simple story: her mother was feeding her when she was a little girl, and she was seated on a stool. She fell off and accidentally landed in a pot of hot water.
I wondered about the impact that the scars had on her life. She remembered little of the pain or what happened, just that she had always had the scar. Did she feel any shame over its formation? No. She became one with the roughness of her skin and accepted the jagged edges of the scar. She welcomed the earthy tones of the scar, which had faded significantly over the years, becoming a part of her own melanated beauty.
Stones often symbolise endurance and resilience. I believe in this woman’s resilience—a valuable trait when enduring our pasts, which is all we have left.
The Stone in a Burn Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Stone, 2024, digital image. © the author
About two years ago, I made a new friend. This is rare in adulthood because someone has misled us into believing that we only make friends when we are young and impressionable. We could have bonded over the trauma of working in a toxic environment, but we formed a connection much deeper than those circumstances. She shared a few stories with me throughout our largely passionate friendship, two of which revealed the origins of her scars. Having grown up in Nairobi, I found her stories rather fascinating since she grew up away from the city.
Her first scar, on her left leg, dates back to 1998. She was in Eldoret, which is 304 km away from Nairobi, when someone shouted, “Bomb blast!” Chaos erupted. Her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her away, and in the fracas, something cut her leg. She believes it was a cassette recorder that made the cut. She was nine at the time. Although 300 km away, her people were still affected by the bomb blast of the American Embassy in Nairobi.
The second scar, on her right leg, resembles a firestone through my lens. She got it in the forest while collecting firewood when her axe slipped and cut her. I quite like firestones. As a child, my siblings and I used to light fires by striking two firestones against each other. I wondered where the name came from, did the namers of the stone know that it could be used to light fires, thus calling it a firestone? Quite recently, I discovered that this stone, which I called a firestone, is actually a sunstone, a type of feldspar gemstone.
You learn something new every day!
The Stone of Fire in her Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Stone, Digital Image, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Grain
This story tells itself; I could only add that for some reason this scar reminded me of rolled oat grains.
“The scars on my hands, on both my thumbs, I did that to myself. I had an argument with my wife, which escalated when I felt ambushed by her family. The trigger was a lie she told, igniting a surge of anger within me. Before leaving the house, I impulsively punched the glass panels of two doors, resulting in injuries to my hand. Initially, I struck the bathroom door, then realised that entering the bathroom to calm down would be counterproductive, as it was a confined space, so I decided to leave. As I was about to leave, I discovered the front door was locked, so I punched the glass in frustration, thereby cutting my other hand. I then retrieved my car keys and exited the house. I drove around for an indeterminate period. Then I noticed the substantial amount of blood inside the car. The closest familiar place I could go to was my sister’s. I called and she did not answer, so I decided to drive there. I knocked on her door, she opened, saw my hands and took me to hospital for stitches. It was an excruciating experience. During the stitching, I remember nothing but thinking how stupid the whole thing was, acknowledging that I had harmed myself in a fit of rage, but on the flip side it was better than actually hurting someone else, if I had hit them. The recovery kept me out of work for about a month until both my thumbs regained functionality. I could not drive for about a week. Nearly 8 months on, I still experience slight numbness and limited flexibility in my thumbs, I can’t bend them fully. These lingering effects serve as a constant reminder to handle my anger more constructively and take good care of my hands because that’s how I provide for my family.”
The Grain Scar, 2024, digital image. © the author
The Grain, 2024, digital image. © the author
About the Author
Faithsandra Nekhonga Masibo (Sandra Nekh) is a writer and filmmaker who consults in research, publishing, documentary filmmaking, and photography. She has published four novels as Sandra Nekh, with Eastern Butterfly included in the Library of Congress and Ophelia among Nuria’s top 100 books since 2024. Devoted to multimedia storytelling and mentorship, she has taught at Kenyatta University and Aga Khan Academy Nairobi and led the 20-Film-Portfolio mentorship program, where two of her mentees’ films gained international recognition: Kikulacho, awarded Best Art House Film at the Nickel Independent Film Festival and featured on CBC Canada’s On the Go, and Paint the Spectrum, selected for the Lift-Off First-Time Filmmaker Selection.
