Crying For My Father.

Happy New Month folks. Another social media salams. May your labour not be in vain this month. That sounds appropriate to mention now that May 1^st was labour day. Maybe next year even storytellers like myself should march before the president in the stadium just like other labourers in the country ama hehe.

May has been a sad month for my family as it’s the month that we lost our dad two years ago. He was admitted into hospital on May 3^rd then passed away five days later. I still remember him waving at my sister and me from his ICU bed the day before we got that dreaded call usiku. We were happy that he was coming back to life kumbe he was bidding us farewell.

I remember May 7^th vividly. After visiting him in the hospital I went to run in Karura forest. I guess running, climbing mountains and photographing animals in the bush are how I get my balance in life. I got to Karura mid-morning and it was chilly. My heart was too. I was tense and scared, wondering if I could handle what would happen next.

I parked my car and got onto the running track. Soon after I started jogging it started drizzling heavily. It was chilly yet I wasn’t cold. I know that sounds confusing but maybe that’s the heat that transitions generate because I sensed I was about to lose my father any time then. I’m glad it started raining because I began crying soon after. At least I would camouflage my tears in the rain and other walkers or runners wouldn’t look at me strangely. I was a crying runner.

I remember making (more like crying out) two requests to Sir God. I asked him to heal my father and secondly that our family will not be put to shame. Not sure why those two petitions formed in my mind. I got back after my run and remained restless for the rest of the day. We spent the afternoon at Coptic Hospital, keeping vigil and praying Mzee will turn around. Nothing changed and so we left for home at about 7 pm.

I sat alone at our dining table with a plate of food and my phone as my company. After a few bites, my phone rang. It was Mum saying she had received a call from the hospital requesting us to go back. That’s when my food turned into soil. I lost all taste. I got Mummy Shark and we met at the hospital with the rest of the family. I had such a tense and horrific feeling approaching ICU and heading to Dad’s bed.

I couldn’t hear the beeping sounds of machines by his bed as I approached. That’s when I confirmed that Sir God had answered my first prayer. He healed my father at about 8 pm on the 8^th day of May 2021 by giving him eternal rest. Though that wasn’t my preferred choice. We surrounded his bed and stared at him silently hoping he would wake up. Death is funny. At first, it feels like a hoax when it happens. Like it’s a bad short dream that we will wake up from. We all reacted differently as shock and grief subdued us like the thick Limuru fog.

We left the hospital at about midnight to go home and gather ourselves for the transition ahead. It was during curfew times and I recall meeting three police roadblocks. The first one was on Kindaruma Road. We were stopped by an eager cop. He asked me where I was coming from. I stared at him blankly for a moment then mentioned why we are going home late. He quickly let us go, almost regretting why he had stopped us. I took no offence. He was just doing his job.

The week that followed was a roller coaster. God does give us strength to weather some of the storms that come our way because when I look back I can’t tell you how we got through that period. Ni Mungu tu. Friends and family rallied behind us as we Africans do. There is a saying in my mother tongue that says, “One buries themselves when they are alive”. That was evident by the reactions of people and how they showed up. My father served the church for many years and people eulogised him in a way that made me feel like I didn’t know the man they were talking about.

I guess that’s the hallmark of a good life. Where we are all things to all men, driven by the singular purpose of leaving them better than we found them. We laid him to rest on the 17^th of May and I wore a suit. Yes, that’s major for me because I didn’t have a suit to my name. I even put on a tie he gave me long ago. He wore it on his wedding day in 1972.

Funny how I can now write about that period of losing my father two years later. I guess we heal in bits. Or maybe we don’t heal at all. We just grow around the pain and vacuum left behind. Whatever the reason I’m glad that we were able to give him a befitting send-off. And that was the answer to my second prayer made while running in Karura forest. We were not put to shame. Everything was sorted and nothing was left hanging. Just as Mzee would have wanted.

Maybe next week I can share what I was planning to share this week until my heart took over and I followed it. There is a place for that I suppose. Continue resting in peace Mzee. We had many plans as a family but heaven had only one. I miss you often.