Happy 85th, Baba

26 January, 03:54

The date always sneaks up on me, bringing with it that familiar January range of emotions. It is a tough month. Between the being the birthday month of you and Swes, my heart often feels a little heavier, filled with a handful of mimories of the gift of having you both in my world—and then not. Today, Babs would have been turning 85. As I sit here trying to conjure up the right way to pay tribute to his life, his attention to detail, and his unending kindness, my mind keeps drifting back to something surprisingly simple: text messages. Specifically, two exchanges that I treasure as the final traces of his voice.

The most recent one happened just days before he left us. He had asked me to run an errand for him in Nairobi, which I did happily. I didn't think twice about it, but two days later, my phone lit up. He sent me 500/- via M-Pesa. Accompanying it was a message thanking me for, as he put it, "ua trouble." I smiled then, and I smile now remembering it. I always loved those strange spellings he standardized in phone texts. The money came in handy, of course, but it wasn’t expected. It was just Babs being Babs—thoughtful, precise, and never wanting to impose or be presumptuous of anyone’s time.

The other message that anchors me today happened exactly 15 years ago. He turned 70. As usual, I dropped him a birthday message. The reply didn't come until the evening, a little late, because he waited until he got home from playing a 9-hole round of golf. He wrote "Asante," telling me how he had a great day because he felt in good health and had enjoyed a relaxing round of golf. That was something Baba felt important to be grateful for at seventy. Even through his typed messages, I could mentally picture a slight cheekiness in his tone. He was always self-deprecating, always weaving in a thread of subtle humor as he expressed himself.

Almost six months after that golf game, we lost Baba. It was a massive stroke. The doctors couldn't pick up any signals in his brain stem; there was nothing they could do to wake him up from that ICU bed. Jim, Ciru, Swes, and I were faced with one of the most difficult decisions of our lives: listening to the doctor's recommendation to let nature take its course. We had to say yes to a "Do Not Resuscitate" call. Breaking that news to anxious family and friends was a close second in difficulty. I could see the unspoken distress on their faces—the silent question of "Why give up? Why not try a second opinion? Why not do the most to get him back?"

No one was ready to see you go Baba, especially not so suddenly, with so little ceremony and fuss. But in hindsight, I know this is exactly how you would have preferred it. Less messy. Less sticky. Less inconvenient for everyone. Fast enough not to prolong suffering. When I think about growing up as your daughter, I see a wealth of richness—lessons learned, many high moments, and low ones as well. But nothing and I repeat nothing prepared me for the moment we turned off the ventilators. Feeling the warmth in your hand cool is a memory etched in my heart but one I rarely conjure up. It is heavy. But occasionally, I let myself revisit it because it revealed to me how fickle life is. It reminds me how one moment to the next can be so vastly different. That stark reality makes me really alive to the fact that I want my finite time here to count for something.

So here I am, holding onto these digital breadcrumbs that anchor me to the realization that the small soft things  truly matter. Today, I celebrate your born day. If you were still here, we would have been enjoying your 85th birthday. I hold a candle out for you. Thank you for being awesome. Thank you for being Babs. I see you, and I see all the unspoken and unrelenting sacrifices you made for us—for me. 

I want you to know that I appreciated every last drop of it, and I am working every day to make those sacrifices matter. Sending love to the other side. Say hello to Mum and Swes for me.

Happy Birthday, Baba.

Continue Resting in Power

With heart,

Chiqy