Tales of my father

The morning was as beautiful as it could be. The iridescent sun rays caressed the sandstone white and pristine blue clouds with such aura. What way to start a day!

I had woken up a little earlier than expected after spending most of the night awake clearing my desk. That day’s work had been easy; deliver all the T-shirts we had worked on the previous night, get done with my errands as soon as possible and start preparing to go home for the Christmas holidays.

It was the 24th day of December, 2017. Christmas Eve.

For the last one week I had promised myself to call my dad and let him know which day I’d be traveling back home for the holidays, I kept failing to come up with a certain date. Every single day had its own unique challenges that kept me in the city. 24th though, was the final lap. I could feel the winds of home blowing my face and smell the freshness of the countryside.

Little did I know that the universe had different plans for me.

I munched my favorite crisps as I worked away. Everything was perfect.

And then a sudden phone call came in. Amidst my preparations, I had placed my phone on charge in a room far away. I could hear the ringing die out before I could even get to it. “Just a few minutes here and I get back to whoever was calling,” so I told myself. I kept on my grind. About 40 minutes later, another call came in. This time I whisked myself to the room without second thought. Aunt Dinah was calling. I hadn’t talked to her in a while, I could only wonder why she’d be calling me on Christmas Eve.

So I picked up. I don’t clearly remember much of what else she said apart from those three words that froze me still. It’s like a bullet had been shot through my heart. Indeed life can shock you at the drop of a hat. All it took was just three words and I hardly could recognize whether I was in a trance or life had just shown me it’s bitter hand. This was totally unbelievable. I didn’t know what to say next or do. I could barely hold the phone in my hand or open my lips to make a whisper.

Daddy had gone to be with Lord.

All the memories started flooding in my brain. I couldn’t believe I’d go back to a home without him. That definitely didn’t feel like home. Lord why!? Why now? Daddy had been sick for a while. In fact the last time I saw him, he was a shadow of the man he used to be. All his strength was gone. He could barely walk without support. This clearly wasn’t the man who used to ride me on the back of his motorcycle from school and neither was he the man who used to wake us up at 5:00am and spend all day in the farm working with us, as we struggled to keep pace. Slowly he was dying away and somehow his time had come to say goodbye to this world.

Like the saying goes, ‘Death is the debt all men pay’. It was time to pay his. We would greatly miss his charisma and passion about life. He was gentle, kind, generous and loving. And he was to be no more. Such a hard pill to take swallow.

Having lived with my dad more than three quarters of my life, describing my dad without talking of his work ethic is a flawed description of the man he was. My dad was the most hardworking person I’ve ever met. A man of integrity, honesty and trustworthiness. The first one to wake up in the morning. He’d be in the farm all day. If you decided to work besides him, you could never keep up. He translated that work ethic into academics.

He was so passionate about education. In fact he believed the impossible. He’d get the most academically challenged person and convince him/her that they can make it to university and not just that but on a degree of Medicine and Surgery on government sponsorship/scholarship.

All you had to do was work hard. Put in the extra hours.

I particularly remember those mornings of reading while our feet were soaked in a basin of water. Then there’s that holiday when he gave us volumes of novels to read and summarize what we’ve read. Or how we used to run to our books whenever we heard his car approach the gate. I’m not surprised that one day he asked, “ahabweki murantina, ndye’kikoko?” [loosely translated as ‘why do you fear me, am I an animal?’ on the realization that we used to run away when we saw him.]

In fact there was one day he came home and gave me a football. I was in shock. This didn’t sound like my dad. I couldn’t even play the ball because that would mean I’m not reading. Till he asked why I was not playing the ball that he gave me. I don’t even remember what I replied.

He was feared and yet loved in equal measure. His family was his everything. He was my biggest encourager. He would tell us, “you can be anything and have everything you want. Just read hard. There’s no limit to what you can do.”

I vividly remember his undiluted Rukiga which is a shock since he lived in a predominantly Hiima/Ankole region for a big part of his life. Sometimes he said Rukiga statements that just sound ridiculous even today. I imagine if he was to see me now he’d be like, “Ego taata, okwe nikwewashaziremu kumwa ishokye?” [translation: is that the fashion you decided to have with your hair?

He was a man full of joy and peace.

He found joy in the simplest of things.

I remember this particular day when he had just bought a TV set and a DVD player. It was around that time when people were switching from VCR to DVD players. The glimmer on his face was unbelievable. It was like a 10 year old who’s just got a new toy. No one and nothing could take him away from his seat that night.

It was really hard to make him laugh but what amused me is his sense of humor at the most weird of times. I can forget my birthdate but not that day when Allan and Abdul got burnt with hot ground-nut sauce and daddy looked them in the eye and said with a wry smile, “Kamusye, Kamusye, okujabirira kwanyu (translated as, you are always panicking so you deserved to get burnt.). Of all my childhood memories, nothing beats that.

The longest hour with him was always the journey to school. He’d tell you how you had to read, how hard the world is and how you couldn’t make it if you didn’t work hard. All the things he could have told you in the holidays were said then. An experience we dubbed ‘The Talk’. There was absolutely no way you’d go to school without having The Talk. You dared not reply a single statement in defense or else all hell broke loose. You couldn’t wait for that moment when you saw the school signpost.

Little did we know those were the most important hours with daddy because those words built us. They nurtured us. They gave us a broader perspective of what life is about. How I wish I would hear his voice again. How I wish I would see his face once more and say ‘thank you’.

What I’ll never forget though and I feel it’s something I remember from him most, is persistence. Being strong headed in the wake of adversity. In fact it’s this trait that got me most in trouble with him. A ginormous clash of egos.

If he decided to do something, you’d never convince him otherwise. He’d rather move heaven and earth till it’s done. He was the master of innovation and creativity. Our home speaks volumes of his creativity.

I look at my life and clearly apples don’t fall far from the tree. I was thinking to myself, if daddy was here no one would have issues with directions to home. He’d come up with some rare form of unique signpost. He left us his name though as the guiding light that will lead anyone home.
All one has to say is ‘I am going to Dr. Tibyabakwe’s home’. And they’d find themselves home.

That’s not all though. Daddy the name you spent a lifetime building will open doors for us and create networks of people that genuinely care about us. You gave us an identity. Bridged friendships and relationships. You showed us the biggest treasure we have is people and the most excellent gift we can give is love. The Bible is indeed right, ‘a good name is more desirable than great riches’.
How I pray we’ll always bring honor to your name.

What I’m thankful for is that daddy gave his whole for whoever he could. None of us can stand up and say he didn’t do this for me. He gave till he had nothing left to give. Most importantly, we celebrate his generosity. He’s the most humble and yet resourceful man I ever encountered. He’d give with no holding back. Even when he didn’t have enough. He’d share the little he had.
In particular he had a way of passing on some of his clothes to us. They were just ridiculously huge. I have this trouser my friends say is like the most ancient trouser they’ve seen in a while. So big and so outdated.
Then there’s this shirt he gave me in 2012. It was so huge that I had to reduce it like three times before I could fit in it. I wore it on my graduation. I don’t think he even noticed.

How would I have found out about a certain raggamuffin from South Africa called Lucky Dube, if it wasn’t you giving us Lucky Dube cassette tapes to play and the accompanying lyrics to sing along. Your obsession for that guy made us even nickname you “Omurasta” [translation: Rastafarian] a nickname I highly doubt you ever got to know about.

We’ll miss you daddy. This hole can never be filled. These shoes are too big for anyone to fit in.
But we are your legacy now. You made us who we are. We are your greatest masterpiece. Together we can make a difference.

My prayer is that we make you proud. Live like you did, give like you did and more importantly love like you did. How you left this world is how I want to go out too. When everyone is celebrating, a life well lived.

You’re gone but not forgotten, lost but your words and love will still remain. We wish we’d have you here much longer but God calls his very best home. And he picked you this time. I know you’re in a better place now. Till we meet again. You’ll forever be my hero, mentor and greatest source of inspiration. Rest in eternal peace daddy.

Love, your dearest son A.B.Kevin.