My father.
He was a great man. He loved life. He loved his kids. He loved nyama choma.
My father.
He was firm. Never harsh. Books were the one thing he never joked about. And manners.
My father.
He was flawed. He was perfect. He had his moments. Good and bad.
My father.
People say they see my son in him. His forehead. His looks. Everything with the exception of his skin tone.
My father.
The reason for my boldness. My writing.
My father.
The man who kissed me goodnight. Who helped me send an email to Hannah Montana. Who whacked me with a red slipper.
My father.
The man who called every night. Got me pork sausages every Friday because they were my favourite. Was deathly scared of my tears.
My father.
Said he loved my tea even if it was terrible – took every single drop. He believed rice was a snack. Loved my mother’s chapatis, adored her pancakes.
My father.
My first love, certainly not my last.
My father.
Gone but forever in my heart.
