Just Like That — A letter to my father.

Dear Baba,

Shikamoo! I’ve been dreading this day because this time last year, you left us, just like that. None of us saw this coming.

I remember Herbo calling me from the hospital and saying, “Kevo, Baba has left us.” I let out a howl, threw my phone, collapsed to the ground, and wept. Somehow, I managed to call Anna-Marie, and I remember also calling Eva in the States to make sure Mwach was not alone. I also wanted to be teleported immediately to Kenyatta Hospital and be with the Aunty, Nico, and the rest of the family. There and then, I was enrolled in Grief 101. A mandatory no credit course.

The pain I felt, my guy. There was no shame in my ugly crying then. I was gasping for air. I felt like I was drowning in my own tears. I have never hated the curfew so much. Those ten hours until six in the morning were a mess. The phone blew up with calls and messages. As a family, we were shook. And you were gone, just like that.

I admit I have been angry with you this past year because your unexpected departure felt like abandonment. But there have been so many other emotions that I have also had to deal with. This grief trip doesn’t have an end and is full of twists, turns, and unexpected tears.

Baba, to use a word that I learnt only recently, your departure and most 2021 was, weuh! 2021 showed me and many other folks things. We were moving from one poleni sana to another. We were either consoling or being consoled. Whatsapp invites for burial fundraisers were popping up like notifications. I logged onto Facebook with caution, expecting to see the phrase, ‘Fly with the angels’ or ‘God loved you more…’ Weuh!

Just like that, Baba. That evening we wished you a good night, but you responded with a goodbye. Why lie? We were not ready.

Baba, it has not been easy. The tears have reduced, but you can’t trust grief when the pain is still tender and close to the skin. There are many times I have reflected on the type of relationship that we had. It was a uniquely, Baba-Kevo relationship. We knew how we showed up for each other. It worked. You saw me, and I saw you, and we gave one another the space to be.

A few days ago, a friend who lost her dad last year too said grief has given her the gift of joy. I thought that was a beautiful way of looking at loss. I believe I was gifted gratitude by grief because I had to dig deep to find a reason to give thanks every day during those endless grey days following your death. Eventually, I found myself grateful for the 48 years that I had you as my father, and thank you for that.

I’ve also been baffled by the fact that there was so much of you that I didn’t know. So many people, even my own friends, have come up and told me that they had a story about you. You were Baba to me or us, your boys, but you were also Leslie, Les, Mwachiro, Babu, Babu Big, uncle or BeTawa in a world where you were reigned supreme. As children, we forget that our parents are not only just parents. You were an individual in your own right, ambitious, flawed, complex, caring, loving, opinionated, and strong-willed. You were human.

I’m learning that grief unearths, unsettles and unfurls us as humans. It is non-discriminatory. However, it also offers the gift of kindness that balms pain. A compassion that is speechless, exhibited by touch or a look or simple presence and even the mountains of bread and packets of milk are languages of kindness. Baba, that kindness steadied us as we wobbled through the initial days and months after your death.

There have also been many firsts throughout last year, and your silence during those moments has been loud. I need to get used to not hearing your voice on my birthday. There are no more Christmas or New Year’s messages or one-minute calls from you to check on my health or to find out about the weather in Kilifi.

It is what is it. I’m healing, though. Your absence is so present. However, I’m more than grateful that you are forever seared in my heart.

Kevo.