My big brother died on Wednesday 9 July. We didn’t “lose” him. He hasn’t “passed”. He was taken from us: killed in a motorbike accident. It was not his time. There is no higher purpose. I cannot bear these platitudes, well-intentioned as they are. He was 45 years old – a husband, father and grandfather, a son, brother, uncle and friend. He was adored. And we want him with us.
Simeon – Sim, to everyone – was a big brother in every sense. He was loud; he didn’t stop talking. He was cheeky, charming, and had a smile – or, to be more accurate, dimples – that was impossible to forget. He was tall, and strong. “Umple Sim is the strongest man in the world,” according to my youngest. Whenever he’d see her, he would scoop her up, place her on his palm and lift her to the ceiling with one arm. My eldest, he would throw up in the air and catch.
Sim was everything. My ultimate protector – sometimes an over-protector. The sibling bond is like no other. There are experiences that only the two of us shared or will ever know about. We fought a lot as children. We have argued a little as adults. But we were allies, co-conspirators, and I feel utterly lost without him. I cannot accept that I will not see him again. That we will never use the silly phrases we invented together, laugh together, or tease each other about how to correctly cut cheese. Cheese is a big deal in our family.
I have never experienced grief until now. And I don’t know what to do. Life as I knew it ended when I received the news of Sim’s death from my husband, at 21.16 that Wednesday. I wasn’t home, or with anyone I loved or even knew well. I was leaving a journalism awards ceremony and checked my phone. Missed calls from my dad and my husband and a message that I needed to call one of them. Clare Wilson, a journalist from the i Paper, heard me sobbing and waited with me until a taxi came. Thank you, Clare. I sobbed for the hour-long journey home. I am sorry to the driver, Mansour, who said “God bless you” as I got out of the car, before disintegrating into tears himself.
The first few days were a blur of crying. I slept on day three, simply because my eyes could not stay open. Now, the tears come in waves, out of the blue, and make me feel like I am drowning. They come every day. I am restless, in every sense. My bones are tired but I cannot sleep. Yet I also cannot sit still. So, I am going for walks, mainly. Long walks along the river. But these walks can’t stop the thoughts that creep into my head. Memories of the thousands of good times we had, and some of the bad. I turn over the details from the ongoing police investigation into the crash, which play out in my mind in horrific pictures. When I stray from the river I try to pick the quieter roads to try to avoid seeing anyone I know.
I don’t want to be part of regular life. There is no normal any more. For 43 years, normal has been a life as one of two. Sim’s little sister. Things will never be the same again. I am angry. So fucking angry. Angry with the world, with life. How dare Sim be taken from us. He was one of the good guys. He was the best of men. Why not someone else? Anyone else.
I feel guilty. Sim knew I loved him. Ever since we were teenagers, we ended every phone call to each other with, “love you”, and meant it. This used to surprise people. I remember being at university and ending a call with our customary “love you, bye”, when one of my friends walked in. “Who was that?” she asked. My brother. “You tell your brother you love him?” “Of course,” I replied. Why wouldn’t I? But what I didn’t tell Sim enough was that I was proud of him. Of the man he had become. Of the wonderful father he was. Of everything that he’d achieved and how much he gave to others. I feel guilty for the times I didn’t pick up the phone when he called, knowing the conversation would be at least an hour, and that I wanted to go to bed. I would give anything to hear his voice one more time.
My children have been a blessing, as they always are. They give the best cuddles and they’ve forced me to get out of the house, to look after them, to keep going. But it’s also been brutal. My youngest, in particular, doesn’t understand. “Why did Umple Sim die?” she’s asked, one of many questions. “I don’t know, darling.” “So, you don’t have a brother any more?” That hurt the most. I stood outside her room having finished singing to her, as I do every night at bedtime. “No,” I said gathering myself together. “I will always have a brother. I just won’t be able to see him any more.”
Among the many things Sim and I shared was a love of music. Like our dad, we were Bruce Springsteen fans, and saw him perform live together a couple of times, most recently last year, for Dad’s 70th. “Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact,” Springsteen sings in “Atlantic City”. “But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.”
Sim, come back any time you want. We will be here waiting for you.
[See also: What teenagers can teach us about love]
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This article appears in the 23 Jul 2025 issue of the New Statesman, Kemi Isn’t Working