Catherine Awuor Sylvester. Founder and CEO of Motherland CBO. Mother. A psychologist, a writer, a storyteller, a dancer. A colleague and a friend. For many of us, family.
We are still struggling to accept that she is gone. Vio, who knew her for sixteen years, wrote one sentence that all of us recognise: she is struggling to accept that she now has to tell their story in the past tense. So are we.
When we began gathering memories, one thing became clear very quickly. Each of us knew a part of Cat that nobody else knew in quite the same way. A school friend knew the girl she was in their first year of high school. A colleague knew the boss who kept calling when he was sick. An agronomist knew the woman who danced on the back of his motorbike. Diana knew the person she built Motherland with.
This is not an obituary. We could never tell her whole life. What follows are the pieces of Cat that eleven of us carry, in their own words wherever we could keep them. Side by side, they come closer to her than any one of us could alone.
What she built
Motherland would not exist as it does without Cat. We do not say that as a kindness. It is simply true.
Much of what grew in Siaya grew through her. Through her relationships, her knowledge of the place and its people, and the trust that farmers, families and colleagues placed in her. She was rooted in the region. When the work needed people, she did not look for strangers. She brought in the ones she trusted most: her closest friends, women trained in science and agronomy. Their expertise and commitment became part of Motherland's foundation. Vio is one of them.
Ian, who came to Motherland as an agronomist, describes how determined she was that support should reach every farmer, "the last bottom farmer," as he puts it. Not most of them. All of them, down to the very last one.
Cat held a great deal together, and much of it was never seen from the outside. The people she connected, the responsibilities she carried, the many quiet ways she made this work possible. We want to name that properly now.
And she brought joy. She was generous. She loved good music and had wonderful taste. She was a storyteller and, as Ian will tell you, a dancer. We want to remember that side of her just as much: what made her laugh, the songs she chose, the time we spent together beyond the work.
Vio: "My friend. My sister. My person."
Vio met Cat in their first year of high school. Neither of them could have known what that meeting would become.
"You were more than a friend," Vio writes. "You were my sister, the sister I never had but life so graciously gave me."
Sixteen years of friendship. Vio remembers a woman whose presence alone made everything feel lighter, who was simply impossible to get bored around. "You had a way of making ordinary moments extraordinary. Your imagination, your humour, your stories and your endless creativity could turn even the simplest conversations into beautiful memories."
Cat had a gift with words. Writing was not just something she did. It was part of who she was. Vio was often among the first to read her articles and to watch her thoughts take shape on paper. "I always knew there was something special about your talent. You had stories to tell, worlds to create and so much wisdom to share. Little did I know that one day I would be looking at your unfinished dreams and wishing we had more time to see them come to life."
Cat had begun a book: Unmasking Narcissism: When Love Looks Like Pain. She was writing it for people who suffer silently, to help them recognise pain they have learned to treat as normal, and to remind them that they deserve a love that does not destroy them. "What a beautiful thing to leave behind," Vio writes. "You were not just writing stories; you were creating something that could help someone find themselves again." She hopes the world gets to read it someday.
Cat was a psychologist, and for Vio that meant a friend who knew how to reach her when life became hard. "You listened, guided me, challenged my thinking and reminded me of things I sometimes forgot about myself. There were conversations I never thought I would have to live without. There were moments I would call you simply because I needed to hear your perspective. You became my safe space, my sounding board and my sister."
Their friendship grew into a working partnership. This would have been their fourth year side by side at Motherland, sharing the same vision: helping smallholder farmers build sustainable incomes and stronger communities. "We were not just going to work every day. We were part of something we genuinely believed in."
As a leader, Vio writes, Cat had a rare gift. She made people feel seen, heard and valued. She led with an openness that made people feel they belonged. She was not simply someone who gave direction. She was someone people could trust.
Now Vio keeps thinking about everything they were yet to do. The conversations they were yet to have. The projects they were yet to finish. The laughter they were yet to share. Walking into another year at Motherland together, side by side.
"Sixteen years is a long time to build a friendship, but somehow it still feels too short."
"I don't know how to reconcile the fact that someone who was so full of life, ideas, stories and dreams is no longer physically here. But I know this: your story does not end with your last breath. It lives in the people you loved, the lives you touched, the farmers whose lives became better through the work you helped build, the team you led, the books you started and the words you left behind."
"If I could have one more conversation with you, I would probably tell you everything I have been holding inside. I would thank you for the 16 years."
"Rest peacefully, my friend. My sister. My person."
Kennedy: "The person I could always run to"
"Cat has been my elder sister, my friend and my boss all these years," Kennedy writes.
She was always there. She taught him things he did not know, and made sure he was updated on everything happening around them. "We've shared countless memories. We've laughed, smiled, motivated each other, cried together and found comfort in one another."
And she could make fun out of almost anything. "Her jovial nature, humour and ability to bring laughter into ordinary moments made her special to all of us. Life was never quite the same when she was around."
Now the silence is the hardest part. "Now that she's gone, even crying alone feels so heavy. It's hard to accept that the person I could always run to is no longer here. We've lost more than a sister; we've lost a mother. She was our joy, our strength and our jovial sister who always brought life into our lives."
Kennedy's daughters loved her too. To them she was a very special aunt. Not long ago, they asked their father to call Mum Curtis. They wanted her to come to their Grade One graduation.
"I was left speechless. I simply stared at them in silence, struggling to find the words to explain that the aunt they wanted to see and celebrate with was no longer with us."
"That moment broke something in me. I wish they could have one more opportunity to share their little milestones with her."
"I don't know how to get used to a world without you. Rest well, my dear sister. Your love, lessons and memories will forever live in me."
Jesse: "Jesse!"
Jesse can still hear it. The way Cat called his name, "Jesse!", with that beautiful smile, that friendly nature and that jovial spirit.
"I will forever be grateful for the opportunity you gave me," he writes. "You were more than a boss; you were a friend, a mentor and a source of encouragement." She believed in him. She kept pushing him to work hard, to help make Motherland the best organisation in Siaya and beyond.
When Jesse was sick, Cat called. Then she called again, and again, to check on him. "Your sweet and kind words made me feel like Motherland was home."
That feeling changed his life. Jesse was a teacher. Because of Cat, he left teaching and joined Motherland fully.
He remembers a farm visit. On the way to the fields they found edible fruits growing by the path. Cat stopped and declared that this would be lunch today. And so it was. "Something most bosses can't do," Jesse says.
It is a small story. It is also exactly who she was: someone who could turn an ordinary work day into something you still remember, and who never put herself above the people walking beside her.
"Thank you for believing in me and being part of my journey. Rest peacefully, Cate. Your impact on my life will never be forgotten."
Ian: "My dancer, my storyteller, my companion"
To Ian, Cat was the mother of Motherland CBO.
He came to the work as an agronomist, brought in by Cat so that farmers would have everything it takes for a bumper harvest. He watched her lead the support of farmers across Siaya County, determined that it would reach every last one of them. "Cate, you were more than a boss to us," he writes. "You were a mother and a mentor."
For Ian, the loss is deeply personal. "I have a great loss, as a mother and a friend. All the understanding and the deeds you offered me, none can replace you."
Cat shared almost every part of her life with him. Whenever she was going somewhere, she would let him know the day before. That was their way. And this time, she left without telling him.
"It is so sad that you shared with me almost every part of your life, but you decided to go without informing me a day before, as you have always been doing," he writes. "But I release you, dear friend and mother. May the Almighty provide the best place for you in heaven."
What he cannot let go of is her joy. Cat on the back of his motorbike, dancing to rhumba as he rode. "Your love, your joy and your dance of rhumba on my bike as I ride will never get out of my mind."
She had a name for him: Barber Merlin.
"I have lost my dancer, my storyteller and my company. My family is missing you a lot."
Ian says he owes her a lot. He means to repay it the way she would have wanted: by making her legacy succeed. The seed business. The seed company. The work she believed in.
"Rest easy, Sylvester Awuor Catherine. Mama Curtis, lala salama."
Job: "The Job Oyoo Ochich"
Job worked alongside Cat at Motherland CBO, and he calls it an inspiring journey.
Cat never just called him Job. She used his whole name, with all the ceremony she could put into it: "The Job Oyoo Ochich, what do you think?" And then the laughter. That is what he hears when he thinks of her. Her question, his full name, and the two of them laughing together in Siaya.
Behind the jokes, he saw a visionary leader, a mentor and a steadfast advocate for her community, whose life was defined by selfless service and profound empathy. She did not lead from a distance. She led with hands-on dedication and resilience, and with a deep commitment to lifting up everyone around her. And she asked what he thought.
"Her passing leaves a profound void in our hearts and within Motherland," Job writes. "But her extraordinary spirit, mission and passion for community empowerment live on through the lasting impact of her work."
Edwin: "Ja Adwen"
For Edwin, Cat was his manager, and much more than that.
She had a name for him: Ja Adwen. Whenever she came back to Siaya from Nairobi, she would call him up and tease him. "Ja Adwen, can you bring me roasted maize from your farm?" And they would both laugh.
She also thought about his future. She encouraged him to invest, to start small and to keep his eyes on what was ahead. And one day she did something Edwin will never forget. Cat came in person to visit his mother, to get to know his home and to see how he was doing as a young son. "It was really amazing to host such a boss in our home," he says.
"It is really sad and unbelievable that she will never visit me again."
"I will always remember you as a manager who guided, encouraged and inspired others," he writes. "Beyond your role as a manager, you were a mentor whose words and actions taught valuable lessons about hard work, discipline, teamwork and respect. There were moments when your advice gave me direction, your encouragement gave me strength, and your presence made work more meaningful."
"These memories have become precious treasures that death cannot take away."
Sebastian: "A homecoming"
Sebastian, a co-founder of Motherland, remembers the day he first arrived in Siaya.
"I felt more of a stranger than ever before in my life," he writes. "Then I saw Cat and instantly felt at home."
One moment, one person, and everything changed. "It felt like a homecoming to Motherland, to the belonging and rootedness I had longed for."
That was her gift, and so many people in this piece describe it in their own way. "Her positive energy and heartfelt warmth made everyone around her feel welcome and embraced."
"Cat will always be part of that feeling of home."
Thomas: "The Big Momma of Motherland"
Thomas, also a co-founder of Motherland, has a name for what Cat was. "Cat perfectly represented Mother-Love," he writes.
He learned it the way you learn it from a mother: by getting told off. One day Cat found out he had been crossing Nairobi on Uber motorbikes. She was upset with him, the way a mother would be.
That was Cat, he says. Taking care of everyone, all the time.
"She was the Big Momma of MOTHERLAND."
Hillary: "Last born"
To Cat, Hillary was the last born of Motherland, the youngest in the family. That is what she called him.
And like a mother with her youngest, she checked in on him. "She used to call me and ask me how I'm doing, almost daily," Hillary writes.
He remembers her as jovial, friendly and caring. "I have lost my mentor, and it will not be easy for me to forget about her. May her soul rest in peace."
Diana: "Mother Nature"
Diana and Cat built Motherland together. Of everyone on the team, Cat was Diana's closest confidante, and Diana loved her as family.
Cat had a name for her: Mother Nature.
What Diana loved most was swimming with her. With Cat and with Curtis, the three of them in the water together. It was something they both did with real passion, again and again, whenever they could.
And they laughed. So much of their friendship happened on the phone, across the distance, and so much of it was laughter. Diana remembers one video call in particular. They both appeared on screen with wild, messy hair, looking completely dishevelled into the camera. Cat took one look and said: "Bad hair day." And the two of them burst out laughing, roaring, unable to stop. "It was so beautiful," Diana says.
Cat was also her anchor. Inside the whole Motherland system, she was the one Diana could hold on to. Cat could translate everything, not just words but meaning, because this was her culture and her home. Without her, so much would have stayed misunderstood. And Diana watched her grow enormously over the years, into the leader so many people in this piece describe.
"Cat, I loved you with all my heart, and I still do.
We built Motherland together, and you were the person with whom I shared so much of what that meant. You were my anchor. You were, and always will be, family to me.
I miss swimming with you and Curtis. I miss laughing with you until neither of us could breathe. I miss hearing you call me Mother Nature.
I struggle to imagine this work, and my life, without you in it. I am so grateful that we found each other.
There is so much I still want to tell you."
For her son
This is for you most of all.
These are the voices of people who knew your mother, loved her, and saw what she meant to everyone around her. A school friend who called her sister. Someone who called her elder sister, and whose little daughters still wanted her at their graduation. A colleague who left teaching because of her kindness. An agronomist who carried her on his motorbike while she danced. A colleague who saw how she led. A young man whose mother she visited at home. A co-founder who arrived a stranger and felt at home the moment he saw her. Another she scolded, like a mother, for riding motorbike taxis across Nairobi. The youngest, the last born, whom she called almost every day. A partner who built Motherland with her, and who swam with the two of you.
Your mother was loved by more people than these words can hold. What she built is still growing in Siaya: in the fields, in the seed, in the people she brought together. We hope that one day these memories will give you something to hold on to.
Cat, we love and miss you.
Thank you for your love, friendship, courage, your generosity, your joy, your stories and your music. Thank you for everything we built together. You will always have a place in our lives and in the story of Motherland.
Until we meet again. Lala salama.
Vio, Kennedy, Bushman, Ian, Jesse, Job, Edwin, Sebastian,Thomas, Hillary and Diana, for all of us at Motherland