Time has moved fast and slow in the past few weeks. I count the days since dad went to his Heavenly Home and they appear plenty. Concurrently, I look back at the same period and memories are as fresh as can be. There are a few snippets that I seem to have forgotten. Perhaps they were too traumatic and my brain is trying to prevent me from re-living the trauma each waking moment. As I scan back through the happenings of the past few weeks, I have slowly started peeling back memories of what was before all of this happened. With this, the question that has been coming to mind is, who was dad?

African funerals, at least in rural Zambia, are very different from what I see in Europe. People tend to be more expressive and their cries are audible from afar. When dad’s funeral service was done and we were walking out to escort dad to his resting place, the cries of one woman stood out for me. She bemoaned the loss of the person who would make sure she was attended to even if she was late for her appointment at the clinic. She cried, “who is going to give me medicine when I come late to the clinic?” Some days after the funeral, I joked about this with my brothers. But thinking about it now, that was an example of who dad was. He was a health worker who had a heart for his patients. He was not highly ranked at the facility he worked but was respected. That is why for people who came late, they would go to “Ba Samukulu” and he would help them receive the medical help they needed. No one had to go home unattended to on his watch. So when he died, the community lost a dedicated worker and people mourned him for that.

When I was back home in October last year, dad told me that his term to serve as an elder at his Church had come to an end but the district leaders had come to him and persuaded him to serve another term. He obliged. He served as the head of three elders so all matters relating to the church and its members came to him. I have heard many testimonies of his service to his local church. He loved to serve his saviour. When he died, the church lost an elder and people mourned him for that.

He was the second born in a family of seven but having lost his dad when he was only in fourth grade, dad would soon become the head of the family he was supposed to be a son in. He supported his siblings, looked after his mother and united his family. When he died, the family lost a unifying and kind member.

Dad had friends. After his burial, his best friend was devastated. I remember meeting him one day and he looked like a shadow of the man I used to see with dad. He was loss for words and his countenance was low. When dad died, someone lost a best friend.

 Dad was also a husband, father and grandfather. He was the head of our house. He was our protector and shelter. He was our counsellor and leader. He was our God-given gift to help us navigate through life.  When he died, we lost all this and we grieve because of that.

Sometimes I wish my heart can stop there to save me from more heartache. But it can’t. I can’t help but wonder who dad was to me, personally. Once my mind enters this wondering state, I get lost in a maze of thoughts with no escape route.

Dad loved sending WhatsApp voice notes. We usually communicated this way. On February 6^th, He sent one voice note to “check-up” on me. He had heard about the earthquake in Türkiye and wanted to make sure I was okay. In my mind, my thoughts were “dad, that happened in Türkiye. I am in Germany. Of course I am okay.” He checked up on me not because his Geography was so bad that he could not tell how far apart Germany and Türkiye are. Rather, he was someone who was generally concerned about me and my safety in Europe. Whenever he heard news of something happening in Europe or near Europe, his thoughts would rush to his son. I may have left home years ago, but I knew I was always in his heart and he remained my protector. That was dad.

In the complexity of grief, I have found more glimpses of who dad was to me. I recall a father who loved me and made it known to me that he did. I remember a father who provided and protected me. I recount moments when we would sit like friends and talk for hours. My mind flushes back to a man who was genuinely interested in my life in Europe – the way of life and everything I did. I am reminded of someone who encouraged me to continue pursuing my studies even though he was as proud as can be for what I had already achieved. He would even call me “my president.” I think back to someone who respected me as if I was older than him yet cared for me as though I was learning to take my first step. And, I remember the face that almost always would be found smiling.

Still, who was dad? When I think about him, most times, it is not one of aspect of dad that comes to mind. I find myself in tears without knowing the exact thing I miss about him. With all that was and meant to other people, I am content recalling dad as an ordinary man who loved me. I know for a fact that he loved me and that is all I need to describe dad. So, who was dad? He was a man who truly loved me. For not having his love in my life, I miss him deeply and wish that just as time has moved fast in the past few weeks, it would move even faster so that I meet him again. Until then, I pray for the man who calmed the sea of Galilee to calm the sea of emotions in my heart.