ASUNTA WAGURA: My father died with my lofty dreams

This was the real bolt out of the blue. One Monday, early afternoon, dad went and sat on his usual resting bench just by the entrance of the homestead, under a mukinduri tree.

On this day though, he was early, and seemed preoccupied. He asked me to give him a cup of cold water, and then told me that there was something he wanted to tell me. As I ran to the house to get the water, I was excited, sure that it had something to do with my promised travel to the UK for further studies. I wondered whether I would have enough time to say goodbye to all my friends.

I could not wait for dad to give me the good news. However, as I handed him the water, something crossed my mind. For some reason, it suddenly occurred to me that I should brace myself for the worst. 

The big-C

My dad drank the water with what I thought was a rather exaggerated effort. I think I could hear it as it passed through his throat. He took his time, as if he had not drank water in weeks. 

 Maitu, he eventually said, which is Kikuyu for mum. This is how he always addressed me, an endearment I miss to this day.

“Maitu,” dad said, “I have news; not very good news, but don’t worry. I went to see my doctor, Dr Kariuki, and he told that I don’t have long to live.”

For a second, I thought my dad had lost his mind. But he continued.

“I have gastric cancer, which has spread to other parts of my body. At this point, there is nothing that can be done, but they will give me medicine to reduce the pain for the few remaining days that I have.”

Gone too soon

This was the hardest conversation I had with dad. He told me to go ahead and tell my mum and stepmother, because he didn’t want to answer many questions. When evening came, I shared the unfortunate news. We all agreed on one thing: there was no way we were going to let dad die.

We told ourselves that there was a chance that he would beat the cancer. We had prayer warriors in the family, and we would intercede until heaven changed the doctor’s verdict.

That’s exactly what we did for three weeks before dad died. Praying. Hoping against hope. Believing. Putting our faith into action.

Less than 28 days after he shared this information, dad was gone. Gone for good, and, in my estimation, gone way too soon. With him died my dream of going to study in the UK. Every dream that I had died with my dad.

It was a very devastating time for each one of us, but I believe I was the worst hit. Everyone knew I was very close to dad, in fact, I was by his side when he died.

Double whammy

I didn’t know where to start after his death, though I knew I had to start somewhere. I grieved and tried to cope, convinced that this was the worst that life could throw my way.

A nurse who had been looking after dad advised me to apply to study nursing at local institutions. Compared to the opportunity in the UK, this was going to be a humble beginning, but it was at least a new beginning.

Long story short. I applied and joined the then medical college in Nairobi.

Before I had been there for two months, the college principal announced that all students would be tested for STDs and HIV. I didn’t even know what HIV stood for, but when I found out what it meant, I was not concerned, because I knew there was no way I had that terrible virus.

What I didn’t know was that the architect of my 10-year generational curse was listening in on my silent conversation, and was getting ready to complete his double whammy: dad’s death and, (sort of), my death.