By Mark Wamai
The sound of the phone vibrating against the open-shelf nightstand felt so distant as I drifted between sleep’s deep clutches. The persistent vibrations at first gently roused me and then, suddenly, as my eyelids flicked open, shoved me roughly to full alertness. Frantically groping for the phone as reality dawned that it wasn’t a dream after all, I glanced at the time – a few minutes to 7 a.m. I quickly cleared my voice and answered, “Hello.”
It was my sister on the other end. After a few pleasantries, she got straight to the point. Dad had had a rough night but was stubbornly refusing to take his medicine, instead asking for the whereabouts of his phone. She requested that I talk to him, or rather try to talk him out of switching on his phone that early, so that he could get some much-needed rest.
The weeks prior had been hard and only seemed to be getting rougher. The man whom I’d looked up to all my life, for his unwavering steadfastness and stoic independence, had in the last few weeks become wholly dependent on others. Having been one to always meticulously iron his clothes and go anywhere he set his mind to, even if it meant walking there, I could tell that this new state of watching helplessly as his ironed clothes were brought over and his inability to move about unaided was crushing him.
What had started as a swollen foot broke out into a little sore that didn’t seem to respond to any medication. Worse still, Dad’s previously well-managed diabetes had also started spiralling out of control. We would later learn that these were the early stages of “diabetic foot.” The walking stick that had previously only been used as an accessory now became a necessity, and when he could no longer balance his body well as his strength waned, it was replaced with crutches. This assisted mobility, although practical, was very devastating to a man who had since childhood regaled us with tales of how many miles he walked daily.
As the days progressed into weeks, so grew the once little sore and with it, the pain. The painkillers he had to take had to be upped in strength. Eventually, Dad had to be put on morphine, possibly the strongest painkiller on the market, and with it came the hallucinations. During those last few weeks, as we boys took turns to stay over and assist with bathroom breaks, it wasn’t rare to be woken up by Dad calling out in the middle of the night, not to use the toilet, but to ask if you could see and hear the “people” walking about the room. The heartache in such moments was only doused by the exhaustion from days upon days of intermittent sleep. We, his minders, often found ourselves dead to the world the moment we put our heads down to sleep.
And so Dad’s phone had become his solace for the long, arduous days and nights. The endless calls he made and received momentarily stole him away from his anguish. As good as this seemed, the callers on the other end, mostly a bunch of young people in the village that he supported, never really got told the extent of his declining health. His friends too never got told the full story as he chatted with them, and as they kept making appointments to come visit.
That rousing phone call on Thursday, 22nd May 2014, would be my last with Dad. Once my sister had handed him the phone, I couldn’t help but notice that his voice sounded more distressed than usual. Dad admitted that he wasn’t feeling so well and had hope that once we had talked and prayed, he would feel better as he trusted the “Pastor” in me to do a good job, as usual. Touched by his comment, I quickly had to figure out how to get him to take his medicine before his compliments totally disarmed me. Instinctively, I proposed that he could take his medicine as one would Holy Communion – the tablets representing the bread, and the water, the blood. He obliged and when he was done, we chatted some more. The edge in his voice seemed to wear off. Before I signed off that morning, I promised to leave work early and check on him. Unfortunately, it was never meant to be. That was the last time I heard Dad’s voice.
It was mid-morning when my elder brother’s call came through. “You need to come home,” he said after a hasty greeting. Still caught up with my office work, I absentmindedly asked him why, as I continued reading something on my computer’s monitor before he impatiently retorted, this time half-shouting, “You need to come home now!” summarily adding, “I’ve asked Junior to come home too,” in reference to my younger brother.
A bit taken aback, I quickly called Junior to compare notes and, after learning that he too had received the same “orders,” asked him to pick me up. I quickly shut down my computer. Suddenly, the skies opened up and as the rain came down, it dawned on me what the cause of the urgency could have been. That day, as I stared out of the window at the rain coming down in sheets, I instinctively knew that Dad was gone.
Unexpectedly, a knot began to form in my throat as I felt the heat creep up my face and tears start to well in my eyes. Mind racing, I felt the knot in my throat tighten even harder, and in desperation asked God for strength, a song, just anything to free me from the tightening grip of anguish. I know God heard my desperate mumbling, for at that very moment, a line in a Christian song came to mind, “Thanks, thanks, I give You thanks.”
Bewildered, I asked God, “Really, of all songs?” Of course, I didn’t get a response. But as the song continued to play over and over in my head, I felt the anguish dissipate and the knot that threatened to choke me loosen, eventually letting go. I regained my composure in time to hear a car coming into the parking lot. When I checked who it was, I saw that it was Junior. The downpour had at this point reduced to a drizzle as I made my way to the car. Upon entry, we began our long silent drive home.
I will never forget the sight that welcomed us when we arrived. The gate was ajar, the house eerily quiet. We stepped into the sitting room and there he was, laid on his back, covered with a sheet, finally pain free, a voice gone silent, forever.
In the moments that followed, waves upon waves of anguished cries broke out as relatives, neighbors, and friends arrived and laid eyes on him. It was hard to believe that Dad was gone so suddenly, another harsh reminder of the fragility of life. Soon, however, a few of us had to get a hold of ourselves as the elders arrived and help with planning. Requiem masses had to be booked, caterers had to be hired, radio announcements had to be drafted and sent out, tents had to be hired and erected, burial sites had to be prepared and a funeral service provider had to be selected.
My primary role was to interface with the funeral service provider. I was their contact for anything they needed. The most daunting tasks during our interactions were filling out the template for the requiem mass booklet and choosing Dad’s final resting clothes. For the former, I thank God that in our last months spent together, I had had the sense to record our conversations about Dad’s life. The latter though was a bit harder. Would it be the suit he rarely wore, one of his casual checkered shirts and matching pants or the traditional kanzu? The elders reined in on my dilemma and the kanzu took the day.
The support that came through for us in our time of grief was amazing. Hundreds attended the vigils and services, and thousands the burial. People freely gave of their time, money, advice and comforting words. Dad, who had been large in life, appeared even larger in death, not least because of how selfless he was. Our home in Kampala had always been a stopover for relatives and friends, especially from the village on their way to other destinations. It wasn’t rare for us as children to go to sleep with just a few family members in the house only to wake up to a few more relatives that had arrived in the night. If we had not seen an appreciation of this generosity while younger, it was most evident then. These occasional and regular visitors all rallied behind us at our time of grief and continue to do so. Their presence clearly showed that the seeds of love we sow will go on to benefit our loved ones long after we are gone.
Most burials come with their fair share of drama, and Dad’s was not without some. He had always made it clear where he wished to be buried, but upon learning of this little detail, the clan leaders were not happy. So there we were, two opposing sides – we, his family, only too pleased to execute his wishes, and the clan leaders stressing that he ought to have chosen otherwise. In the end, they grudgingly respected his wish. Had Dad not openly and clearly stated his wishes, it would have been hard to convince them. Our wishes, I realised at that moment, cannot be defended in our absence if we do not specifically and clearly share them with others.
When the burial and other activities surrounding it were done, it was time to put away Dad’s clothes and other personal effects. As we did so, it was hard not to debate when we had last seen him wear particular items. Ironically, nothing paints a more vivid picture of the vanity of life than death. It dawned on me at that moment that I too had a number of items that I hadn’t worn in years. “Why did I still have them in my possession?” I wondered. The truth is, despite our rich collections of attires and accessories, we can only wear one of them at a time, and ought to learn to force ourselves to hand down or give away all that we no longer have use of, however dear.
The same can be said of even more expensive property such as cars or land. When he had retired, Dad started to spend more time upcountry, only occasionally returning to the city. With each return, however, he had found it harder to drive in the crazy traffic; the taxis suddenly stopped in the middle of the road without any warning and the marauding boda bodas seemed to come at him from all directions. After careful consideration, he decided to give away his cars to those he thought could make better use of them. This was humbling, but thereafter, the relaxed look Dad had after returning home with public transport or having received a ride was unmistakable. This might not be a very palatable lesson. To know when we can no longer keep up or when to give up that which we once treasured may be hard to discern, but persisting where we can no longer thrive may be costly, or worse still, detrimental to our mental health. Who knows the accidents Dad could have caused or experienced had he insisted on driving despite feeling overwhelmed?
Dad also had several pieces of land, something he was most likely respected for. The culture in our part of the world tends to make those who have no land holding to their name feel inferior. It is why many derive pleasure or importance from amassing land by the hectare or square mile. The truth, however, is that when we are finally laid to rest, it won’t be in the entirety of those tracts of land but rather in a tiny portion, on average no deeper than six feet. The sight of Dad’s coffin being lowered into a small corner of just one of the pieces of land he owned, his several holdings notwithstanding, was defining for me. As I reflected on countless stories of people who had killed each other over a few feet of land in boundary skirmishes, I couldn’t help but resolve never to hold more land than I can make meaningful use of.
Dad’s life as well as death birthed in me a fresh appreciation for the most precious gift we each have – our time. As I witnessed the heartache that struck relatives and friends who hadn’t seen him in a long time as they glanced upon his still body, I silently thanked God that I had managed to spend a lot of time with Dad, especially in the last weeks before he departed. Suddenly the sleepless nights, hours spent bickering with him to take his medicine, or listening to some stories get told over and over were no longer bothersome. On the contrary, they became priceless treasures I will forever cherish.
We each have our fair share of quarrels and fights, or arguments we feel we ought to win, regardless of the emotional toll it takes on others. It is also not rare for us to spend time carefully selecting which words or insults will hurt or ridicule someone the most. The bitter truth is that it’s all not worth it. Each moment or minute spent plotting, hurting, or causing harm is one less spent on enjoying our most precious resource. Tomorrow, especially for those we long to see or hear from, might never come. We ought to make that time, make that call or mend that fence now, lest we never recover from an encounter with a voice gone silent, forever.
Mark Wamai is an IT professional who is passionate about writing. He has over 10 years’ experience in meeting the online communication needs of Higher Education Institutions as well as ICT requirements of Television Broadcasting and Internet Service Provider (ISP) industries. He has worked in various Information Technology, Computer and Network Engineering and Systems Administration capacities at Computer Facilities Uganda, ONE2NET Limited, WBS TV and NTV Uganda.
Mark currently works as Web Manager in the Public Relations Office, Office of the Vice Chancellor, Makerere University. He writes, edits and publishes content for the university’s online platforms as well as contributes to various institutional publications. He has published over 3,000 articles on the University News platform since 2008.
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