The Man Who Walked Before Me

Every Father’s Day, the world puts on its good shirt and tries to say nice things about dads. Some buy socks. Some post photos with captions like “My king.” Others go the simple route: “Happy Father’s Day, Baba.” But we all, in our own way, try to remember the man who shaped us — sometimes with words, often with silence, always with presence.

But let’s be honest. Not all fathers were perfect. Some of them were hard. Tough like a sugarcane that's not ready. They disciplined with eyebrows and belts. They didn’t ask if you were okay; they told you to be okay. They didn’t do “I love yous” — they did school fees, full tanks, and looked at your broken bicycle then said, “We’ll fix it Saturday.”

And that was love.

My father wasn’t a poet. He didn’t quote Mandela or write in birthday cards. But he knew how to show up. He rose before the rooster. Not once, not sometimes — always. He tuned the radio to KBC like it was a sacred ritual. He didn’t say much, but when he looked at you, you sat up straighter. His voice didn’t need volume. His silence filled the house like incense.

He believed in hard work. In clean shoes. In respect. In discipline, not the motivational meme type. Real discipline. The one that corrected you before the world did. The belt hung behind the door, a prophet of justice. He never used it much, but you always felt its presence, like the Holy Spirit of African parenting.

And now that I’m grown, I understand. I understand why he worked too much. Why he worried in silence. Why his “I’m fine” wasn’t always fine. Why he didn’t play much, but made sure we always had food on the table. Why he didn’t always say the things I wanted to hear, but lived the kind of life I’d want to pass down.

This Father’s Day, I wrote a poem. Not just for him, but for all of them. For the dads who loved with actions. For those who built us with rough hands. For the men who walked before us so we could walk forward without fear. It’s called “The Man Who Walked Before Me.”

You can read it. Or not. I won’t force poetry down your throat. But I will say this — if your father is still alive, call him. Not a WhatsApp forward. A real call. Ask him how he slept. If he mumbles and says “sawa”, just sit there. Let the silence do what silence does between African fathers and their sons. Let it carry something.

If he’s gone, like many fathers are, pour him a glass of memory. Speak his name. Visit his grave if you can. If you can’t, visit it in your heart. Light a candle. Or don’t. But remember him. Because that’s the real Father’s Day gift — memory. Not the overpriced mug with “World’s Best Dad.”

And I know — for some people, Father’s Day is complicated. Maybe your dad wasn’t around. Maybe he hurt more than he healed. That’s part of the story too. That wound is still a form of inheritance. You can choose to carry the good. You can choose to let go of the pain. Or at least, try.

To all the fathers — biological, step, spiritual, present, past, or still figuring it out — I see you. I honour you.

And to the man who walked before me, thank you for the road. Thank you for the rhythm in my walk.

Happy Father’s Day, old man.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
  Sigona: Kenya’s Historic Championship Course If golf courses had mouths, Sigona wouldn’t whisper. It would lean on its putter, sip a gin and tonic, and tell you stories that stretch from elephants and empire to fire and resilience. Stories of a Kikuyu plantation turned into fairways, of tragedy during the Mau Mau era, of inclusivity that cracked colonial walls, and of greens where champions still chase glory. Drive just 20–30 minutes out of Nairobi, along Naivasha Road, and the gates open to a championship parkland course—18 holes of character, kikuyu grass under your spikes, and highland air crisp at 6,600 feet above sea level. Established in 1938, Sigona Golf Club is older than independence itself and wears history like a caddie’s old sweater: a little frayed, but impossible to throw away. The course began as nine holes cut into a wattle plantation by Englishman Jack Berkley-Mathews. He routed fairways around an elephant watering hole because, in 1938, you didn’t argue with ele...
Read more
Image
The Rock That Bleeds: The Legend of Luanda Magere Kenyan Legends  ·  johnodjuma.blogspot.com The Rock That Bleeds The legend of Luanda Magere — the Luo warrior whose body was stone, whose shadow was flesh, and whose shrine is now slowly disappearing Wangowe Village, Muhoroni, Kisumu County — Present Day There is a brownish rock, shaped like the curved back of a human being, partially sunk into the ground at the end of a rough dirt path off the Awasi-Chemelil road. A few indigenous trees lean over it, providing shade. A spear leans against one of them. A shield. A traditional smoking pipe. A man named Petro Obondo, 96 years old, is the only person still caring for this place. The Kisumu County Government allocated Sh1 million to fence and secure it. What arrived were three signposts. No fence. No road. No electricity or water. No caretaker except Obondo himself, on whose private land the shrine sits. "At 96, my days in the world...
Read more
Image
How Nairobi Was Burned to the Ground — And Became a Capital Anyway How Nairobi Was Burned to the Ground — And Became a Capital Anyway It was one year old. One year. And already the British had decided to burn it down. Not by accident. Not in war. By order. The swamp that had become a town was about to become ash. What happened next is the part nobody tells you. You already know how Nairobi was born. A cold, unremarkable swamp. A railway that needed somewhere to breathe. A depot dropped there out of necessity, not ambition. By 1899, it had a name. By 1900, it had a problem. The rats were dying. The Doctor Who Noticed His name was Ribeiro. He had borrowed money from a friend, crossed the ocean from Goa, and set up a small medical practice in Nairobi’s Indian bazaar — a structure built from packing cases, lit by a kerosene lamp. He accepted chickens as payment. He was not a man with much to lose. But he was a man who paid...
Read more