I have been thinking a lot about you lately dad. It’s now six years since you were gone. It’s not been easy; we have cried, laughed, been pained and we lost again when Dessy died. But through it all, we are still here; strong, resilient and still fighting.
Sometimes, I smile knowing that you are watching us from above. Other times, I really wish you were here. Yet other times still, I look back and laugh and cry at the same time because of the memories. But always, I carry you in my heart.
My dad was a powerhouse in his own right, an enigma. However, despite all his shortcomings and his own demons, my dad was a good father. He gave us the best life could offer. And because of that, we are who we are today and where we are.
Ooh, of the memories we had. The memories of my father and I are both good and bad. But I have learned that everything that happens in our lives is a dot connecting to something; even the ugly. But today, I choose to pay homage to the good memories my dad and I had.
I remember the ice creams, the visits to the park, the laughter’s, the quarrels, the fights, the music, the dancing, the parties, the last supper meal tradition. Our childhood was all rounded, full of all kinds of experiences.
My dad didn’t attend much of the parent’s meetings when I was in primary school because of his job. My mum did that. But in high school, he never missed any of the parent’s meetings or my visiting days. He always came with my mum and brother in tow. The only time they visited me separately was when I was in Form Four and they had separated temporarily. I even remember one time, he showed up on one of the visiting days drunk. That man was committed. That was the funniest visiting day because he kept apologizing to everyone the way drunkards do. Instead of being embarrassed, we ended up laughing throughout the day.
And for the four years I was in campus, he visited me religiously, sometimes accompanied with my mum, other times alone. And we would go shopping together, go to the market and then come back to my room and share a meal. Then we would see each other off as he went back home and I went to class. One time, we forgot the shopping in a matatu. He followed up the matatu and came back with the shopping smiling.
Looking back, I treasure these memories and all the times we had together. I didn’t know then that we were making memories that would last me a lifetime.
On my last day, both in high school and in campus, my dad came to pick me up.
My dad was not much of a cane person when it came to discipline like my mum was. But he had his way of disciplining that worked wonders like crazy; his eyes. When you made a mistake, he would give you this eyes that would pierce right through you heart and do more than what my mum’s cane would do. And you would never make that mistake again. He won’t even have to talk to you about it. His eyes were a done deal.
He loved education and believed in the power of education. That was his biggest legacy he left us. He used to declare, even when drunk, “My children must go to school”. Considering that all parents were number one, you had to do your best in school. If you didn’t, he won’t cane you but his facial expressions would tell you that he was disappointed and you had to work hard because you wouldn’t want to disappoint him again or see that expression on his face again.
My dad wasn’t much of a talker but when he talked, you listened. Whether he was giving advice or just hanging out with us. He would talk to us about serious stuff like death, property and even showed us documents and talked us of the procedures to follow in the event that he was to die. But we really didn’t pay too much attention then because we thought he would always be here.
And when he was pissed or really mad and he talked to you in a sentence or two in mother tongue, then you would know you were in big trouble. Now, my dad rarely spoke in his mother tongue, whether we were in the village or when my grandparents and relatives came over, he always talked to them in Kiswahili. So, for him to talk to you in his mother tongue, you must have really pissed him off.
When I joined campus, my dad was “scared”. If he would, he would have stayed with me in that campus for 4 years to keep an eye on me. He was scared of the “corrupted” ways of the youth. That night before I left home, my dad sat me down and talked to me in a way I won’t forget. It was a dad-daughter talk but you could tell, he was afraid that I was not just going away from home but I was also going to meet a totally different environment. The next morning, both my parents drove me to campus. And the next day after, he showed up for orientation despite him being sick.
He was a terrible instructor when he tried teaching us how to drive. He had very little patience for us because we didn’t get his instructions. And we stopped trying. Only my brother succeeded with him. Even when I went to a driving school, the instructor was just terrible at it like my dad and I quit after one week. My dad was furious!
Most of the things I love doing I learned from my dad.
And he had this aura of confidence and bravery mixed with some arrogance. He wore his arrogance like Tony Soprano in The Sopranos.
For the past few months, I have listened to and sung Luther Vandross song, “Dance with my father again”, more times than I have ever done before. If I had just one day with you dad, I will embrace you and tell you two things; thank you for being my dad and giving this fatherhood job your best shot and that I am proud of you.
Salute dad, you were one hell of a dad!
