[After posting the Walt Whitman poem, some of you asked whether I would mind posting the tribute itself. I do not. It follows in its entirety]
In this period of political uncertainty I must thank you all for taking the time to be with us this day.
My tribute will not be to tell you who my father was. I can save you time by telling you if you know my mum, or myself, or any of my brothers – then you know my father.
I will however share some memories and thoughts of what my father meant personally to me. I may struggle at some points during this tribute but I beg you to allow me to finish.
There is a poem by the American poet Will Whitman that goes a little something like this:
O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
This past Saturday a Great Man left us. A man I considered a hero. A mentor. A teacher. A friend. A role model.
My father.
I was there at the very end as dad breathed his last. Never have I ever felt so broken.
For every boy, it is said, his relationship with his father as he grows transitions as follows
- Dad knows everything
- Dad knows many things
- Dad knows nothing (generally around the teenage years)
- Dad knows many things
- Dad knows everything
Those of us who have ever been boys (which statistically should be half of you) can verify the accuracy of this.
Those of you who knew my father will totally understand me when I say I skipped straight through to the fifth stage. Dad knows everything. I can say this with every confidence because as of 2nd March 2013, he has yet to prove otherwise.
In addition to the usual things a man is meant to know, my father added to that list Karate, the mouth organ, the guitar, smoking meat, carpentry, plumbing, Kiswahili literature, Arabic, football …
Kids today have the luxury of Google and Wikipedia. Me? I asked my father.
Also, again for those of us who used to be small boys, in the playground the universal argument would begin: “My father can beat your father.”
Me? I would clear my throat smugly and that debate would end upon my entry. For my father besides being a tall man (taller than me, as a matter of fact) was also broad of shoulder. And a Karate Black Belt.
However he was as gentle a man as you will ever meet, and in fact my friends used to call him the Gentle Giant.
And while mum was away, this Giant would wake me up, wash me while politely listening to my 6 year old wisdom, make me breakfast and take me to school.
My father was also a man of the people. Those of us here who knew him can attest to that. To this date I remain fascinated at the number of people my dad seemed to know. And those who seemed to know him.
“Dad, I need to get an ID.”
“I think I know a fellow at the Chief’s office …”
“Dad, I am meant to travel to Botswana on Wednesday and I don’t have a passport!”
“I think I know a fellow at Immigration …”
“Dad, I have been admitted to University at Egerton. But that will mean I lose my job. What do I do?”
“I think I know a fellow at the Joint Admissions Board… “
There was even a time when dad was taking us home from school when a police officer waved him down.
As the officer approached, looking very serious my dad smiled and said “…. I know this fellow!”
But the event I remember most was one day when heading home from school, former President Moi happened to be passing by. The last car had swept past when to my horror my dad put the car in gear and promptly joined the convoy.
My life flashed before my eyes. (It doesn’t take long when you are 15).
“Is it safe to join the president’s convoy?” I asked.
“We are not joining the president’s convoy,” dad replied cheerfully. “We just happen to be going in the same direction. Besides … “- he pointed at the faces looking back from the last chase car – “… I know those fellows!”
Wole Soyinka said “A tiger does not proclaim its tigritude. He pounces.”
That statement always reminds me of my father’s wisdom. My father’ imparted his wisdom very subtly. So subtly at times that I understand suddenly things he told me decades ago.
Like the time when I was a boy I asked him if he could be my friend.
I remember he looked at me like I had asked him the most outrageous thing in the world and told me emphatically “Oh no no no! Now that I cannot be. Friends you have many. Fathers you don’t have that many. So no, my son. I cannot be your friend because your friends will not cane your bottom! However there will come a time when we will. And we will both know it.”
Of course at the time this went in one ear and out the other. But how true his words came to be some decades later!
Or the time in High School when I was to select a university course, and I asked him whether I should be an engineer.
My father told me “It does not matter what I want! A career is something you will be stuck with for life. So think long and hard what it is you love. Even if it is Animal Husbandry. Let me know and I will organize.”
I can talk your ears off telling you stories of the colossus that is my father. But time will not allow me to do justice.
Walt Whitman’s poem ends thus
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Shortly after Dad breathed his last, mum said the following to me
“Your father was a wonderful man. He was a good father and he made me very happy. I have no regrets. None at all.”
And that, my friends, is how you clock out.
I find myself in the position of having to fill the enormous shoes my father left behind. For when people now say Mr, they will mean me.
But what better way to honour the legacy of a colossus than try and live the example he set.
[Interlude: at this point I was struggling to finish reading. A burst of intense sadness filled my chest and throat]
This past Saturday a Great Man left us. A man I considered a hero. A mentor. A teacher. A friend. A role model.
Captain, my Captain!
[And here I could contain myself no more. But I had completed reading the tribute to the colossus that was my father]