The father i’m still writing about.

There are men who speak with thunder, and there are men who speak with silence. My father was the latter, his voice, when it did come, felt like both a command and a comfort. He was not soft in the way the world defines softness, but there was a steadiness about him that held me, even when I didn’t realize I needed holding.

He belongs to a generation of men carved from duty. A man of Kagara, of tradition, of legacy. A man who wore his title like a second skin but never used it to intimidate those beneath him. He believed in structure, in responsibility, in respect. Sometimes I wondered if he believed in dreams, too, especially when mine didn’t look like the ones he had imagined for me.

But the truth is, he supported every single one of them. When I said I wanted to learn makeup, he paid for the classes. When I wanted to try photography, he paid for the training. When I mentioned tailoring or writing, he listened. Even when the follow-through wasn’t always complete, even when the dreams would sometimes die because of my lack of consistency or inability to take a low blow, he always showed up at the beginning. He always wanted to help me begin. At times he pushed me to. And yet, despite the distance that sometimes grows between our expectations of one another, I know love isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it looks like him waiting up late when I missed curfew, not to scold me, but just to know I was home safe. Sometimes it was the way he stayed silent when I cried, never demanding an explanation, just letting the weight of the world sit with me without adding to it.

He is the reason I learned to be still. To think before I speak. To carry my name with honor. But he is also the reason I learned that even the strongest men carry unspoken burdens. That silence can be sacred, but also isolating. That men like my father love deeply, though they rarely say it aloud.

I’ve had to learn to meet him where he is, to see the love in his actions, in his sacrifices, in his fierce pride that he often masks with indifference. We didn’t say “I love you” at first, but eventually, we started saying it. We grew comfortable enough around him to express it, not just with our eyes anymore, but with words. We do not say “I love you” in my family, not because we don’t feel it, but because somewhere along the way, survival became more important than sentiment. Still, I carry his love in the way I walk into rooms and refuse to shrink. In the way I question the world but remain grounded. In the way I keep trying to write him into my story, even when I don’t fully understand his.

I’ve had to learn to meet him where he is, to see the love in his actions, in his fierce pride that he often masks with indifference. Before, whenever we heard of his incoming presence back home or in the living room, we would immediately speed off running to hide, not from fear of his terror, he was never that kind of father or man, but rather because of a deep, unspoken respect I’ve never quite understood. It was just the way things were, and it felt normal at the time. We never stayed in his room when he was around. He would often chase us out, and we were just kids then, no explanations, just the gentle command to leave. But that changed. Around when i was 10 or 11, and my elder brother was 13, he started to soften. He became warmer towards us, and that was when we really started bonding. That’s when we truly began to see him not just as a figure of authority, but as the father he was meant to be.

As time passed, our relationship deepened even further. It was no longer just about the unspoken respect or the quiet presence; we started to have real conversations, conversations that weren’t just in our heads but shared openly between us. I began to have not just a present father, but an emotionally available one as well. He picked me up from school, not with the same stern silence I had grown accustomed to, but with an openness I hadn’t expected. He would ask me how my day went, and for the first time, I felt like he genuinely wanted to know. He didn’t just listen to my words, but heard me. He wanted to know what made me happy, what bothered me, and even what dreams I had hidden away.

Our talks weren’t just about my day; they were about me, about who i was becoming, about my growth, my thoughts, my feelings. I remember one day, he casually asked me, “Are you going to be more like me, or your mom?” And it struck me. It wasn’t just a question, it was an invitation to understand him, to see the layers beneath the title of ‘father.’ It was his way of letting me know he wasn’t just watching me grow; he was part of my growth, too.

It was through these small, simple conversations that i realized he was no longer just the man who provided, but also the man who cared to connect, to understand, and to nurture. It was like we were finally learning each other, not just as father and child, but as people.

I often prayed for a husband who would possess my father’s patience, without the complexities of his other traits. My father’s patience, his ability to remain calm and composed, was something I admired deeply, and I longed for a partner who could embody that same steady presence. But as I matured, I began to realize that I deserved more than just patience. I needed a man who could offer the emotional warmth, respect, and kindness that my mother never fully received. So, I started praying more fervently to God, asking for a better man than my father in every way.

You see the differences between him and my mother ultimately overshadowed the institution of marriage. At first, it hurt, deeply. But over time, it stopped hurting in the way I expected it to. The idea of separation began to feel less like a painful fracture and more like the best thing for both of them, and for all of us. It came to a point where it seemed like it would ease the ache, even if just a little, to see them apart. The tension, the unresolved issues, no longer felt like they could be healed within the confines of their marriage.

One of the things I’ve always wrestled with is how much of my father doesn’t belong only to me. You see, he’s “baban kowa” a father to everyone. Our relatives, neighbors, friends, even strangers with the right words, they all seem to have a claim on him. And as much as I admire that about him, his generosity, his selflessness, his endless capacity to show up for others, it’s also one of the things I resented most growing up.

I didn’t want to share him. I wanted him to be mine, and my siblings. I wanted his attention not as something divided or borrowed, but wholly mine, even if just for a moment. It felt selfish then, and even now, it still feels a little selfish to say. But it’s the truth.

It’s one of my favorite things about him, this ability to belong to a wider world. But it’s also one of the hardest things to accept. Because at the end of the day, no matter how grown I get, some part of me still aches to say: I just want my father to be my father.

I love my father. Despite the complexities of our relationship and who he is, despite the unspoken tensions we sometimes have for our differences in opinions and “boohoo” to him, he raised a highly opinionated woman and i am grateful for that. I love him. His patience, though sometimes a double-edged sword, taught me the value of composure and resilience. His quiet strength, his ability to stand firm, even when everything around him seemed to crumble, shaped much of who I am today.

I love him not just for the things he did for me, but for the man he was, in his own flawed and human way. He may not have always understood me, and I may not always have understood him, but love has a way of transcending that. It’s not always about perfect alignment, but about holding space for each other, even in silence, even in misunderstanding.

I love him for the ways he showed up, even when his love was not always spoken, for the ways he tried to give us stability in a world that seemed anything but stable. I love him because, through all the struggles, through all the hardships, his love for me was constant. It may not have always been in the form I expected or desired, but it was there, in his actions, in his sacrifices, in his presence, even when we didn’t have the words to say it.

My father. The father i couldn’t write about. The father i’m still writing about.