The death of a remaining parent will make you realize that you are next in line to join the realm of the ancestors. Your shroud of security has been lifted, passed like a sacred mantle to your shoulders. You are the elders now. The legacy of the next generation rests in your hands, and you become their new shield of security. They believe they have all the time in the world and can do whatever they want, while you suddenly understand your time is precious and finite.
It is the same profound realization that comes with a life-changing diagnosis: time becomes crystalline, each moment weighted with purpose. The clock begins its deliberate count because this loss is fundamentally different from all others. It makes you pause, breathe deeply, and reflect on your next steps. The children are looking at you now. The word ‘Aunt’ carries new gravitas, new responsibility. You become intentional about everything – the relationships you nurture, the dreams you pursue, the love you share – because you understand that your time has meaning. There is no space for anything that doesn’t lead you toward your higher purpose.
I jolt awake at 2:30 AM on Thursday, phone lights flashing insistently in the darkness. My sister Lilian’s voice cuts through the night silence.
“Have you heard?” she begins.
“What is it?” I ask, though my heart already knows.
“Daddy has gone,” she whispers.
The words settle like stones in still water. After his hospitalization on Monday, we carefully orchestrated a schedule of care – brothers taking night shifts, sisters covering the days. I was to see him again on Friday afternoon, an easy ride from Nsambya to Nakasero Hospital. But Daddy had other plans, joining the ancestors early Thursday morning, taking our shroud of security with him.
Lilian and I talk quietly, and I find myself grateful even through the grief. The Tuesday before my father dies, I watch endless tears roll down his face. I use two boxes of tissue paper to dry them. We don’t know how much pain he has been carrying – he never lets on. Only at the hospital, when they discontinue his morphine medication, do we understand. While I search for my voice to mourn, I am also thankful that his suffering has ended.
When Lilian hangs up, I turn on every light in the house – bedroom, guest room, and corridor. I cannot drive in darkness, so I wait for dawn, surrounded by artificial brightness that feels like prayer.
Stephen, our eldest brother, carries the heaviest burden. His exhausted voice tells me that he and Sam, the youngest of my brothers, are both there when Daddy takes his last breath. Stephen has been the constant companion through medical appointments, the one who asks for help only when necessary. Though he doesn’t admit it, Daddy’s passing weighs most heavily on him.
Sam’s words comfort me: “Daddy left peacefully, without struggle.” In his final hour Daddy has conversations with people we can’t see. When Sam asks him to sit up there is no response. When it is time to leave us he goes gently, his two sons by his side.
There is something mystical about the night Daddy dies. A psychiatric patient, a man in his late fifties who has shared our waiting room vigils, approaches Daddy’s door and makes the sign of the cross just before he dies. He has never spoken to us, but something draws him to our family. That night, our “psychiatric friend” says a prayer for Daddy before returning to his room. Like us, he prays the Rosary.
The disbelief clings to me like morning mist. But I am grateful Daddy is no longer trapped in pain that even the strongest morphine couldn’t soothe. I didn’t want this to happen – not yet. I haven’t launched the writers’ house for him to see and celebrate my dream. I have been building a writing retreat space, which I call the Blue Marble, for over six years – a space where I hope writers can come to conceive their stories. Legacies. Witnesses to the future.
At 4 AM I begin the practical dance of death – emails to my boss, leave requests, messages to friends and to students canceling the usual Friday Savvy Writer Amplify writing workshops. When I tell Proscie, my househelp, she collapses by my bedside and grabs my hand and we cry together. Her grief for a man she never met, but knew through stories and the millet bread she mingled for him for Christmas potlucks, reminds me how love travels beyond physical presence.
Sitting in the lit-up house, I reflect on the signs we missed. Last December’s Christmas gathering: Daddy collapsing right before us, speaking Kiswahili instead of English, not recognizing my sister Carol’s family. The mild stroke is caused by excitement, a sugar spike, and sleeplessness. He had stayed up past midnight to welcome Christmas, attended 7 AM Mass, then celebrated with all his children and grandchildren. The perfect storm for his fragile system.
In October 2022 Stephen and I took an impromptu trip to Busitema, our village, knowing Daddy’s walking was becoming difficult. We wanted him to see the renovations we were doing on the family home, to pay respects at his wives’ graves while he could still walk unassisted. We didn’t know it was his last visit to Busitema. Now I’m grateful we made that journey.
At 4 AM my phone brings unexpected grace. A writing student in Dubai sends money with a simple message of “mabugo” – condolences that open floodgates of generosity. A friend traveling to the U.S. authorizes bank transfers. When Stephen posts that we need a certain amount to clear hospital bills, the money that appeared on my phone at dawn is exactly what’s needed. By 5 AM we have cleared everything, and Daddy’s remains are taken to the Mengo Hospital Mortuary.
Community appears in surprising forms. Anna insists on coming to my house despite my protests, holds me when I fall apart, and helps me pack properly for the village. Denis, my neighbor, refuses to let me drive myself. At Lisa Pharmacy a pharmacist asks to pray for me, grabbing my hands in spontaneous blessing. Sometimes, when you cannot pray for yourself, someone else’s prayer becomes the miracle you need.
Mourners gather as we begin preparations at the house. Thirty-five years ago, when our mother died, we were children, protected from elder whispers and powerless in decision-making. They buried our mother on our father’s birthday, blighting our celebrations for decades. We only started celebrating his birthday again when he turned eighty.
This time we are in charge. We create service books, set the burial date – initially May 6, then May 7 when an aunt requests we avoid burying my father the day of her son’s wedding. Though she contributes nothing to funeral costs, we agree, remembering the trauma of significant date burials.
Family members scattered across continents mobilize. Carol flies back from Pakistan. I help Godfrey secure an expedited visa from the U.K. through my primary-school networks. Stella in Guyana will follow the proceedings online.
Daddy’s last coherent words haunt us with their profound mystery:
Wednesday afternoon: “What conclusion have you arrived at? Have you brought my receipt? I want to leave.”
Wednesday night, three times before his transition: “If I accept, will you give me a contract for life?”
Words that suggest he’s negotiating his passage, seeking assurance, preparing for a journey we cannot fully understand but must learn to accept.
In the weeks that follow, as I sit with my grief and feel every corner of its abyss, I understand something profound about inheritance. We didn’t just lose our father – we gained our true selves. The mantle of elderhood isn’t a burden; it’s a graduation into deeper purpose.
Daddy leaves us not with bitterness but with completion. At eighty-five, he has seen his children flourish, his grandchildren grow, and his legacy secured. Unlike our mother, who left at a tender age with young children still needing her, he departs knowing his work is finished. In his final conversations with invisible companions, perhaps he is already sharing the good news – that the children have made it, that they’re doing fine, that the writers’ house will rise in memory and love.
We are the elders now, carrying forward not just his memory but his example of quiet strength, stubborn love, and the grace to let go when the time comes. In learning to grieve well, we learn to live better – with intention, gratitude, and the understanding that every moment we have been gifted with those we love is both precious and temporary.
The lights I turn on that early morning aren’t just to keep darkness at bay; they are the illumination of a new chapter, where we carry the torch forward with steady hands and full hearts, knowing that love transcends even death, and that the best way to honor our ancestors is to become the elders our children will one day proudly remember.
In the end, Daddy’s greatest gift isn’t his presence but his example of how to live fully and leave gracefully, surrounded by love and satisfied with the legacy entrusted to capable hands. We are the elders now, and we are ready.▪