Remembering a Beloved Father: Honoring the 20th Anniversary of His Passing.

Today, the 13th of May 2023 marks two decades since I bid farewell to my first love, my father, and my unwavering guide. As I reflect on that fateful day at Mulago Hospital, standing alongside my mother, relatives, and friends, I recall the tears that streamed down their faces. At the time, I couldn't comprehend the depth of their sorrow, but they understood. They were acquainted with the weight of loss, especially when it meant leaving behind a young family. If only I had known then what I understand now, I would have wept an ocean.

My father possessed a unique duality, alternating between spoiling his children when necessary and commanding respect with unwavering firmness. He was a true disciplinarian, epitomizing the archetypal African father figure. Growing up without him proved to be a constant source of pain. Every failure, disappointment, struggle, illness, or frustration I encountered compelled me to mourn his absence, a daily ritual that only ceased recently when I found solace in my faith in Jesus Christ. Daddy was my hero, the embodiment of strength, love, and unparalleled handsomeness (or so I believed until my husband Ben entered the picture with his own charm!). It baffled me how someone who never shied away from a fight could succumb to life's battles.

At the tender age of fifteen, while the NRA liberation struggles consumed conversations at Ntare High School, my father made a bold decision. Defying the expectations placed upon him and leaving behind his studies at Senior Two (S.2), he joined the army—an audacious act that even he would never tolerate from his own children. With my grandfather still alive (how he found the courage remains a mystery), my father vanished from sight, worrying his parents to the brink of heartbreak. Despite their desperate search yielding no results, they chose to return home, resigned to wait until their son would find his way back. It seemed a familiar pattern for young boys who had embarked on the bush war adventure, and suddenly, there he stood, reappearing at their front door.

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The sight of him, dressed immaculately in army uniform, sleeves rolled up, beret carefully perched on his head, and shoes polished to perfection left our extended family in awe. Everyone marveled at his presence, eager to learn where he had been. The elders, who had already labeled him "ekirare"—a wanderer in the Runyankole dialect—were astounded by his return. But for his male cousins, a wandering spirit held a different allure; they admired him, yearning to emulate his footsteps. Sadly, his homecoming was short-lived, much to his parent’s disappointment. They believed he had returned for good, only to have their hopes shattered when my grandmother realized he hadn't come by for his usual 6 pm cup of milk tea—a habit he religiously followed. Yes, he had returned to the army, this time for a while. What transpired during his time there remains a mystery that may never be unveiled. I wish I had the chance to delve into the details of his military experience. Nevertheless, what remains significant is his decision to christen himself with a new name: "Spencer." It gradually supplanted his given name, Patrick, or the affectionate "Patu" by which his family & friends knew him. We eventually discovered that our father’s perceived first name was, in fact, an appellation acquired during the bush war days, inspired by the renowned Italian actor, Bud Spencer, who by the way shared his physique. Interestingly, my elder sister, the least likely to join the army, ended up enlisting in the U.S. Air Force. How close they could have been, two great comrades sharing their military bond.

In a world often blind to its blessings, it takes hearing the tales of shattered dreams, forsaken education, fractured families, and forsaken souls to truly grasp the magnitude of what one has taken for granted. The passage of time has made me realize how fortunate my siblings and I have been, for while God's left hand was leading my father away, His right hand was tirelessly preparing provisions for us. It was as if a divine orchestration unfolded, enveloping us in the loving embrace of relatives and friends who, in their unwavering devotion, sacrificially offered their very lives to ensure our smooth journey through life. Their boundless care and words of encouragement became the pillars upon which we leaned, forging ahead against the stormy winds of adversity.

I shall forever hold dear the wisdom of my paternal Grandma. Her profound words echoed in my heart, reminding us that being orphaned does not inflict mortal wounds; rather, it is the apathy that hollows one's soul (Ebufuzi tibwita, hari heitwa obufa mutima). As I reflect upon the tapestry of the past two decades, I bear witness to the divine hand of God intricately weaving through the fabric of our lives, illuminating our path with radiant glory. Each step I have taken, every decision—be it grand or grievous—has been sculpted by the touch of grace, guided by the gentle whispers of the Holy Spirit. And through it all, I have been sheltered by the unwavering support of family and the unwritten chapters of friendship.

Yet, amidst this tapestry of blessings, one figure stands unrivaled—a champion of unparalleled strength and unwavering love. My Mother, a beacon of resilience, embraced the daunting challenge of assuming the roles of both mother and father with resolute determination. She regales anyone willing to listen with tales of her cherished flock, her brood of chickens and grandchildren. She chose not the path of a formidable "mom-ster," but rather that of an understanding friend, ever-present with sage counsel and an unwavering presence in times of trial. She contains the essence of a true matriarch, the embodiment of love, strength, and steadfast devotion.

As I pen this tribute, my heart overflows with gratitude. Gratitude for the divine grace that has shaped my journey, gratitude for the power of prayer that has sustained me, and above all, gratitude for the indomitable spirit of family and friends who have become pillars of strength in our lives. Today, we stand tall, shaped by their immense support, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of love.

Besides Mum, my Uncles Yustus and Milton, who shared a deep bond with my father during the precious time they spent together before his untimely departure stepped forward with open hearts and embraced the role of father figures in my life, ensuring that I was showered with the very best life had to offer. To you, dear uncles, I wish for God's infinite blessings to rain upon you, multiplying your harvest abundantly and guarding your barns against ever running dry.

This year, as we gather together in Ntungamo village, nestled within the embrace of Nyakabirizi Sub-County, Bushenyi District, known affectionately as Igara, we return to the place where my father's journey began. Here, amidst the fabric of memories he shared with his beloved siblings and cherished mother, we shall honor his memory with a heartfelt meal and a Thanksgiving prayer. In this sacred moment, we also extend our gratitude to God for guiding and sustaining my grandmother through the trials of illness and the immeasurable pain of losing her cherished son. She has emerged as a testament to resilience, defying the odds in and out of intensive care units. Her body, built strong and sturdy, mirrors the indomitable spirit that resides within our family. Through the highs and lows, through every thick and thin, we stand united as a family, bound by an unbreakable bond that time can never erode.

Rest Peacefully. Forever cherished.