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Anyone who knows me knows this is my favourite photo.
President Frederick Titus Jacob Chiluba leaned in, I stood tall, and my mother watched as power shook hands.
It was one of those fully parent driven events. I just knew my mum was excited that the Zambian president was coming to Kenya. This was in the early 1990s, not long after Chiluba had succeeded Kenneth Kaunda. At that time he represented hope, a fresh chapter for Zambia after nearly three decades of one party rule. For Zambians living in Nairobi it was a moment of pride, a chance to meet the new leader who carried so much promise. My mum, working at the British Council, insisted I be there. She had come to Kenya for further studies, met my dad, and built a life here, but her roots and her pride in Zambia’s future carried her to the airport that day with me in tow.
I did not grasp the gravity. I was just a child being taken to meet a visiting head of state. Yet today, when I look back, I see more. I see posture, symbolism, and history in a single frame. Chiluba leans forward, extending authority. I stand upright, unintimidated, hand outstretched. My mum looks on, smiling, the bridge between heritage, identity, and a moment of recognition.
This photo reminds me that we rarely understand the weight of moments while we are in them. Their meaning unfolds years later when life teaches us how to see.
For my mother, this was pride. For me, it became perspective. Power bends, youth rises, and the witness in the background holds both stories together.
Sometimes leadership is exactly that: recognising when to lean in, when to stand tall, and when to simply bear witness so that others can remember.
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