KAMAU

Somewhere in the heavens, I imagine you—playing pickleball with the ancestors, wearing blue jeans and those signature stylish glasses.

Kamau Nazaret- Friend, Father, Pickleball Ambassador

Where are you, brother? And when will I see you again?

You—who always seemed to arrive as if on a casual coffee break, just when we needed a fourth, a fifth, a sixth. I first noticed you at Washington Park. You stood out by not standing out. There was a quiet pleasantness about you, something steady and welcoming. And those eyes—green, gray, maybe brown—uncommon, searching, the kind that let you glimpse a person’s soul. I remember those early days, though I never said a word to you.

You were always something of a mystery. Kamau Nazaret. The name alone carried weight. Your origins, your private life, your journey—largely your own. And then there was your connection to that well-known prosperity preacher, those long editing sessions, the unseen hand shaping messages that reached living rooms and hearts. You were both technical and creative, working behind the scenes to help shape what the world consumed. There was magic in that, and mystery too. But you already know that.

At some point, pickleball became more than fitness for you—it became a quiet mission. You loved the game, yes. But more than that, you made sure others loved it too. No matter how skilled you became, you played with anyone, anywhere. One player said, “He often played down.” Another said, “He let me take my shots.” That was character.

Your approach to pickleball mirrored your approach to life: grounded in respect, free of ego. You mostly avoided tournaments and leagues, anything that might steal the joy from the game. When asked why, you would smile and say, “Why would I bring that kind of stress into my life?” I never had an answer for that. So I let it be.

Now, in reflection, I think I understand.

We were all drawn to pickleball because it was fun. Because it brought together people who otherwise never would have met. Because it built community in a way few things can. Your calling, it seems, was to protect that spirit—to remind us why we came to the game in the first place, and to quietly warn us what we risk losing when joy is replaced by ego.

You had many friendships, each one meaningful. I’m grateful to have been among them. Even in the heat of competition, we never left on the wrong note. I remember the last time we played—just a month ago. We both looked forward to it. I don’t remember if we won or lost. But I do remember this: we had fun.

Your name, Kamau, rooted in the culture of the African country, Kenya, speaks of strength, bravery, and a calm, determined spirit. It suggests someone who acts decisively rather than speaks excessively.

That was you.

Kamau Nazaret.

And so I return to where I began: I imagine you somewhere beyond us, playing pickleball with the ancestors, still in your blue jeans, still wearing those glasses, still bringing quiet joy to everyone around you.

As for me—I’m grateful.

Grateful that you passed through our lives.
Grateful that you left your spirit behind.