Dear Dad, 

I was waiting for it to happen. 

When they took my keys and drove us  home from the hospital,

When we had the meeting around the table with Uncle Kizza, Andrew and Uncle Tony 

to discuss the funeral arrangements, 

When we picked out the coffin at Uganda Funeral Home the next morning, 

Or in the afternoon, after we took your dark navy suit to
A++ funeral mortuary at Mengo Hospital,

I was waiting..

Amongst  the blurriness of my tears, despite what everyone thought,
  I  was alert & waiting. 

When we finally arrived in the village the evening before the burial,

When I sat by you in your open coffin at 9 pm in Jajja's sitting room, 

 Even, the next day, when everyone was gone 

 and John, Paul and  I watched them smooth the concrete over your grave,

I stood by our Jajjas' and Sengas' resting place waiting,

I  remember that conversation we had in the hospital.

The many conversations we had at home.

You were always a master at reading & handling human beings. 

We knew that.

Your children  always knew it.

 We know how to live. 

We  have more than what Malcolm Gladwell calls 10,000 hours of practice.

How many hours is it... if you've  been practicing since childhood?

Anyways.... Stay well Dad
More updates for when i next write again...

photo credit: Unsplash

Dear Dad,

I was meant to write something profound,

 but you know how these things go, words have failed me.

Please excuse all grammatical errors I know how much those things annoy you.  

This is a blog so we don't take these things so seriously here. I write as I would speak it.

I just realized  I never showed  this space to you,

 but I know that you knew that I was always writing.

This is not the usual way we communicate, me and you,

yet I feel like I must write this,

not so sure how to go about it though...

I never mastered the courage to write to Mum;

never knew how best to start.

Once she was gone I realized just how much I needed you both.

So now you have passed,  I am prepared for the widening hole.

I didn't want you to go, but I have accepted because I want you to go peacefully.

Go peacefully with all our love, prayers and support. 

Your loving daughter,

Maria. 

photo credit: unsplash 

Dear Dad,

I delayed waking up.

Took me hours to get dressed,

You had left the house by the time I came down.

I got dressed in a fumble,
Trying to put all of  my adult myself together.

In a midst of organizing my handbag, 

I accused the driver of stealing my smart phone,
a moment of blind stupid panic.

We turned the house upside down, me & my brother,
me & your son.

 I located it two minutes later,
 carelessly placed under a pile of clean clothes 

that should have been hanged in the cupboard a week ago.

Yes... Yes
I know...
 I should stop putting 'the damn thing' on silent.

Alright...since it is painfully obvious,
Let me be honest and  just say,
I really don't want to go..
I really really really don't want to go...
I mean these are all signs,
My style of resistance has not changed since childhood
 taking an unusual number of  hours to put on a decent dress,
misplacing things,
Also I forget to mention
nearly throwing up my breakfast.
Like all those times when I didn't want to go to school.

I am an adult now
You cannot force me to go
But  you're disappointed scrunched-up face from last night in the TV room
 haunted me till the morning hours
You really want us to be there.
It is my duty as your daughter ,
So I  will be there Dad.

My feet are heavy.
But I drag them ,
Into the hired grey beige super-custom.
And we finally depart.

We drive,

past Kingdom Church,

past that place where the road collapsed from the rain some weeks ago,
past Forever Business Finance,
past Faith Drug Store,
past Agar Petrol Station,
past the make shift furniture shacks,
past the shells of future homes,
past the goat imprisoned by a rope attached to a mango tree,
past A Chicken Delight restaurant that also provide wedding cakes,

Past the Equator sign.

White tents and loud speakers blasting the village choir hymns,
ensure us we have reached the right location.
 There is mud is everywhere.
It is that time of year when the rain has no mercy.
We jump over giant tire skid marks in the road as we walk to the house.

I think mass is almost done.
It seems your whole neighborhood is here Dad.
Even the guys who sell those odd calender's with photos of the deceased are here.

You are seated near the alter,
In front of the main house
There are 10 priests settled around you.
You are an important guest.
For sure there is no way I will avoid kneeling while greeting today.
You smile when you see me
I see the surprise in your eyes
I think you had resigned yourself to the fact that my millennial self would let you down
yet I am here Dad.


Uncle brings me a white plastic chair
and we all sit beside you.
You now look a little taller now,
and Dad, you sing the hymns much brighter
Cause your children are by your side.

I see the coffin of your aunt
Your mother's best friend
I see women in bursutis all seated on the mukekas beside it
And every now and them one raises her hand,
to adjust the cloth that keeps sliding off the casket.
They too must do their duty as daughters and granddaughters.

How come you  never brought us to see her while she was alive?
I never knew all this time she was here.

Final announcements are made
Mass is done.
The men of the family lift your Aunty,
and take her away,
down the foot path,
behind the house.
We do not follow.
Uncle says it's not a place we can manage.
Remember the rain has no mercy?


I know the reason for my internal tantrum Dad.
I am not ready.

I want you to be my parent forever Dad
And me forever the child.
We are adults now I know.
We are busying building our lives
But you are the only anchor left.
So I am not ready.
I wasn't ready for Mum to go.
Wasn't prepared for the last five years of her absence
Don't you see how long it's taken me to find my focus, my purpose & my direction?
 Truthfully,
I don't know if I'll ever be ready Dad.

Deep Breath.
I tell myself
Stare away.
I tell myself
Blink the tears back.
I tell myself.
Quick! Quick!
I tell myself.
Blink those tears back,
into the corners of the eyes from which they came.
I tell myself
Deep deep breath.
Don't speak.
 Your voice will betray you
Breath.
Just Breath.
I tell myself.

I am keeping myself together Dad

I know my duty as your daughter
We know our duties as your children

We will be here Dad.


(Btw find me on Twitter @mariajulietrose )