I was proud to call him father
Nov 03, 2003
Exactly five years ago I received an e-mail at work that informed me that my father had passed away. Despite knowing that he had been ailing, after all I had made countless trips to the hospital with him, I don’t think anything ever fully prepares one for such an eventuality. That day I was in cha
By Paul Bakibinga
Exactly five years ago I received an e-mail at work that informed me that my father had passed away. Despite knowing that he had been ailing, after all I had made countless trips to the hospital with him, I don’t think anything ever fully prepares one for such an eventuality. That day I was in charge of producing the programme – Focus on Africa on the BBC World Service.
When I explained to the editor what had transpired I half expected him to tell me what to do. However all he said was, “Whatever you decide its up to you.†How I would respond then to the situation rested on this criterion: “What would Dad have done?†Should I rightfully abandon ship to mourn or did I owe my duty to the millions of listeners around Africa and the Diaspora who would be tuning in to the programme at the end of the day?
In the end I chose to stay. It was not that my father had harped on about having a sense and commitment to duty, but simply because he had lived that.
When I landed in Uganda the following morning, one of my brothers cryptically mentioned a saying to the effect that a “The length of a tall tree can never be properly measured (appreciated) until it’s lying down.†Oh yes, I’ve had a few short five years to contemplate — to measure and dad seems to grow in stature by the year not diminish.
True he was the son of the renown Regent Chief, Daudi Kintu Mutekanga, he studied at King’s College, Budo, was a pioneer among land surveyors in Uganda subsequently becoming a Fellow of the Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors. From his tales and possibly because of work he seemed to know every nook and cranny of the country. By a quirk of fate he became a government minister who pursued and executed the purchase of the building now housing the Ministry of Lands.
Yes he could be stern – a disciplinarian of sorts. Tight with his pennies as well. I think with a large family this comes with the territory. However I also seem to recall more his self depreciating humour and turns of phrase which now mystically seem to turn up in conversations with my siblings.
He retained that common touch that allowed him to mingle freely with people less well off than himself, lived simply and possessed a sense of disquiet with opulence.
I now think that his sometimes stern demeanour hid somebody whose kindness knew no bounds. The numbers of people who testify to his amazing charity grows by the day.
The lessons were so many. We learnt how to make the best of any unfavourable situation. He had wanted to be a lawyer until when his father said he could not meet the fees. He pursued the profession of surveying with zeal. I remember once how he went to purchase spare parts in Kenya and some customs officer decided Christmas had come early and relieved him of everything save a maths textbook for me. He came back and whistled as though nothing had happened. I only learnt from my mother what happened days later.
He was lucky he did not lose his life, as hundreds of thousands did, but bayonet aimed at his jugular missed. He had to be stitched up at Kawolo Hospital without anaesthesia.
I always wondered why he persisted with duty. Sometimes when I travel on assignment and I meet people who want to make my journey uncomfortable on account of ignorance or because of the colour of my skin, I remind myself that this is child’s play.
Yes, there was the stubbornness that made him persist in repairing a taxi that we all advised was a money hole. Or wearing a certain avocado green shirt that my mum detested.
I think it’s only my mother’s feminine wiles that got the shirt retired. In his last days he got us together and said that my mother was the secret behind his success.
What more can I say, his addiction to listening to radio and his cross examination and debate at dinner table of matters pertaining to politics and current affairs. I recall struggling to print a school paper we had edited. He sent us reams of paper because the school couldn’t provide any then. Were the seeds of journalism sown then? Or the fact that he used to quote Shakespeare; “As you like it – The Seven stages of man†did this create the desire to tread the boards?
Yes almost each day a fresh memory is resurrected of the man I was proud to call father and friend.
A poem of encouragement often quoted at funerals comes to mind:
He is Gone
You can shed tears that he is gone
or you can smile because he has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that he’ll come back
or you can open your eyes and see all he’s left.
Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember him and only that he’s gone
or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
or you can do what he’d want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.
By Anonymous
journalist Senior producer and presenter with the BBC Africa English Service
Exactly five years ago I received an e-mail at work that informed me that my father had passed away. Despite knowing that he had been ailing, after all I had made countless trips to the hospital with him, I don’t think anything ever fully prepares one for such an eventuality. That day I was in charge of producing the programme – Focus on Africa on the BBC World Service.
When I explained to the editor what had transpired I half expected him to tell me what to do. However all he said was, “Whatever you decide its up to you.†How I would respond then to the situation rested on this criterion: “What would Dad have done?†Should I rightfully abandon ship to mourn or did I owe my duty to the millions of listeners around Africa and the Diaspora who would be tuning in to the programme at the end of the day?
In the end I chose to stay. It was not that my father had harped on about having a sense and commitment to duty, but simply because he had lived that.
When I landed in Uganda the following morning, one of my brothers cryptically mentioned a saying to the effect that a “The length of a tall tree can never be properly measured (appreciated) until it’s lying down.†Oh yes, I’ve had a few short five years to contemplate — to measure and dad seems to grow in stature by the year not diminish.
True he was the son of the renown Regent Chief, Daudi Kintu Mutekanga, he studied at King’s College, Budo, was a pioneer among land surveyors in Uganda subsequently becoming a Fellow of the Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors. From his tales and possibly because of work he seemed to know every nook and cranny of the country. By a quirk of fate he became a government minister who pursued and executed the purchase of the building now housing the Ministry of Lands.
Yes he could be stern – a disciplinarian of sorts. Tight with his pennies as well. I think with a large family this comes with the territory. However I also seem to recall more his self depreciating humour and turns of phrase which now mystically seem to turn up in conversations with my siblings.
He retained that common touch that allowed him to mingle freely with people less well off than himself, lived simply and possessed a sense of disquiet with opulence.
I now think that his sometimes stern demeanour hid somebody whose kindness knew no bounds. The numbers of people who testify to his amazing charity grows by the day.
The lessons were so many. We learnt how to make the best of any unfavourable situation. He had wanted to be a lawyer until when his father said he could not meet the fees. He pursued the profession of surveying with zeal. I remember once how he went to purchase spare parts in Kenya and some customs officer decided Christmas had come early and relieved him of everything save a maths textbook for me. He came back and whistled as though nothing had happened. I only learnt from my mother what happened days later.
He was lucky he did not lose his life, as hundreds of thousands did, but bayonet aimed at his jugular missed. He had to be stitched up at Kawolo Hospital without anaesthesia.
I always wondered why he persisted with duty. Sometimes when I travel on assignment and I meet people who want to make my journey uncomfortable on account of ignorance or because of the colour of my skin, I remind myself that this is child’s play.
Yes, there was the stubbornness that made him persist in repairing a taxi that we all advised was a money hole. Or wearing a certain avocado green shirt that my mum detested.
I think it’s only my mother’s feminine wiles that got the shirt retired. In his last days he got us together and said that my mother was the secret behind his success.
What more can I say, his addiction to listening to radio and his cross examination and debate at dinner table of matters pertaining to politics and current affairs. I recall struggling to print a school paper we had edited. He sent us reams of paper because the school couldn’t provide any then. Were the seeds of journalism sown then? Or the fact that he used to quote Shakespeare; “As you like it – The Seven stages of man†did this create the desire to tread the boards?
Yes almost each day a fresh memory is resurrected of the man I was proud to call father and friend.
A poem of encouragement often quoted at funerals comes to mind:
He is Gone
You can shed tears that he is gone
or you can smile because he has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that he’ll come back
or you can open your eyes and see all he’s left.
Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember him and only that he’s gone
or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
or you can do what he’d want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.
By Anonymous