2025 was more than an annus horribilis

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WHAT’S UP!

What a year! If you had told me, when I was celebrating the coming of the New Year last year, that it would be anywhere like this, I would have called you a big, fat liar. I have seen some very lean years in my life, some very lonely ones, and some when I thought they just could not get any worse. But they did, and 2025 was one of those. It made me question all my life choices, and then fate dealt me a really bad hand.

When 2025 came in, we had moved our father from his beloved farm by the lake in Katosi, back to our family home in Kazo.

We always attributed his longevity (he was 97 years old, although some in the clan insist he was at least 100) to the freshness of the lake air and all the benefits that came with it.

But, by the middle of the year, it became clear he could not get the proper attention he needed and required. Any emergencies (and a 90+ year old has many of those) meant frenzied phone calls and lacklustre behaviour from the people taking care of him.

So, the decision was taken to move him back to Kazo. At first, all was well. His health and demeanour improved dramatically and it was easier for many people to come and see him (going to Katosi meant four hours on the road, plus the stress of Mukono). He seemed to thrive, although dementia meant he could not recognise most of the visitors, but he was happy to receive them.

For a 97-year-old WWII veteran, he was in good shape. Strange, though, that he never talked about his war experiences.

We knew he had served in Burma in the Medical Corps and had seen photos of Japanese POWs in his albums. He had even won service medals, but gave no explanations.

But when the long rains came in March, he caught pneumonia. He was duly treated for it, and seemed to recover well. But then several ailments started cropping up, one after another. Which meant he was in and out of the hospital. I have heard and read many horror stories of the nightmare of Ugandan hospitals, and what happens when you have an ailing patient. Inflated bills, unnecessary tests and treatment – all came to happen.

No one gives 90-year-olds health insurance, so we had to find the money to pay the bills. And how does a patient in a top hospital, with 24-hour care, develop bed sores? On top of the hospital nurses, we hired additional ones.

But it was all to no avail; on May 29, Fred Wilson Kabuye, formerly known as Nakuzambwa, breathed his last.

Some of our siblings were abroad and had to make travel arrangements, so the funeral was not held immediately.

I didn’t know how to deal with it, and truth be told, I still don’t. The coping mechanisms I have developed over the years allow me to compartmentalise stuff, until I can deal with it, and that is what I did. The great Ugandan tradition of ‘lumbe’ (vigil), where people gather to be with the bereaved, really helped, and we were never alone. And of course, we had to make funeral arrangements, and that kept us busy.

I have been to many funerals in my life, but I have never known really what to say to the bereaved. Kitalo, and ‘sorry for your loss’ seemed somewhat bland and routine. I have lost people close to me, and received the customary kitalo nnyo, but this time it struck deep. Each kitalo nnyo seemed to pierce a hole through that compartment, and reminded me that, yes my dad had died. At one time, I almost wanted them to stop, but I knew they meant well, and God knows we needed that company. So, I’m really grateful for everyone who told me kitalo nnyo and extended their condolences.

My family is not very big on sharing emotions and bearing their chests, not sure where that almost Victorian attribute comes from. Each one has dealt with the loss in their own way. In a way, they expected me to write an obituary, as I have done for other family members we have lost. But I found I just couldn’t. Even now, this is not really an obituary. I think it is an acceptance that he is no longer with us. I was not particularly close to him, he was that typical African father who, as long as he provided, felt he had done his duty.

But he made sure we were brought up well, had proper manners (including dining table etiquette), and I think he liked it that most of us enjoyed reading (but not at the dinner table!).

I attended boarding schools throughout, and really just saw him when he picked us up when the term ended, and when he took us back.

It did not help that early on, his job meant he travelled a lot, and by the time he got a ‘steady’ job at Makerere, we were no longer kids.

It is only when I took my turn at farming that we became close. He was sceptical at first, but was impressed when I stuck it out.

It meant I spent more time with him in the last eight years than I had all my life. And when we moved him to Kazo, I saw him every day.

Many years ago, I went to interview Prof. Wangusa, who had just lost his mum. He mentioned that he had just become an orphan, which at that time sounded almost alien to me. But I just realised that in 2025 I, too, became an orphan (my mum did in 1991).