DAD STORIES: Baba, you would be proud of the man I've become

I wish I knew that the last supper I had with my father Absolom Chagusia would be the final one we would have together.

I arrived home from school one evening in 2009 ready to take black tea and some leftover ugali, but Baba called me to his side.

He sent me to buy milk for tea and some bread instead. Then we sat down and had a man to man talk.

"Collins as you can see, my health is failing. I have tried to hold on to this life but my hands have become feeble and my optimism has become faint. But when I am no more, you will be responsible for your younger siblings. You have such a big heart, [and] under your care I am certain they will not suffer,” baba said to me as we shared a meal. I was 18.

FRIGHTENED

As I sat basking in the morning sun a week later, I watched my dad as he walked weakly to the bathroom. His illness was evident now more than ever. My stomach churned with worry at the sight of how much my father had changed. The illness did not spare his once robust frame. His muscles were slowly wasting away.

A whirlpool of dreary thoughts flooded my mind.

“What would happen to us if we lost him?” I shook my head in an effort to sanitise my mind from the disturbing thoughts. The mere thought of life without Baba shook me to the core and numbed my entire body with fright. He then left the compound.

Later that Sunday afternoon I spotted from a distance a black mamba bicycle approaching our old wooden gate. Franco, the famous tailor from Nanale, rode the bicycle; Baba was hunched on the carrier seat. He seemed unsteady and feeble, as though he was tipsy. I thought Baba had taken one too many from the local centre – but he had kicked the habit when he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. I was disappointed.

But as they drew closer, I realised that my father looked rather pale.  I felt something was amiss. Disease had ravaged him for the better part of the year but that day, as he clung on to Franco, his condition seemed to have worsened over the last few hours. I stood transfixed at the entrance of our compound, enveloped by a heavy dark cloud of impending doom.

We had shared a light moment with Baba the previous day as he joked about the whispers that were going round in our area regarding his deteriorating health. He brushed them off casually as my heart leaped for joy. Baba was defying the illness, I thought to myself. He was putting up a fight against death. My optimism for Baba’s full recovery kicked a notch higher as I watched him laugh and smiled warmly; he seemed so happy.

But the man sitting on that bicycle as it entered our compound was a distant cry from the man who had seemed so happy the previous day. Sick with worry, I felt an urgent need to relieve myself and hurried to the toilet.

BABA’S FINAL MOMENTS

When I entered the living room, I found Baba writhing in pain as he lay on the sofa. I paced up and down frantically as I watched him clutch his stomach. My mother and sister joined us in the living room. Then Baba raised himself from the sofa, agony clouding his face, and staggered to the bedroom.

A deathly silence suffocated us.

He collapsed onto the bed, still clutching his midriff as weak grunts escaped from his mouth. We stood around the bed helplessly staring at him. My mouth was dry as I tried in vain to speak. I reached out to hold his hand but he brushed it off. My eyes stung with unshed tears.

Suddenly, Baba twisted his head to one side and fixed his eyes on mine. He held the gaze for what felt like eternity as a cloud of froth formed on the corner of his lips. In a split second, he let out a short deep sigh, breathing his last.

Nine years later, I am yet to come to terms with the fact that Baba is gone for good. Sometimes I see him in my imagination and dreams.

Over the years, I have clung to memories of the moments we shared and his wise counsel. Some of the things that he used to tell me have turned out to be a reality, shaping the person I have become.

No can replace his courage and determination. I like to think that Baba would be pleased to see the man I have become. He would probably make a huge fuss on how much I have grown. He would be proud that I kept the promise to be a responsible role model for my siblings. It would flatter him greatly to see that I inherited his fearlessness and determination to shape my life.

Happy Father’s Day Baba.

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