My father was a fisherman. No, my father was a teacher. Wait, my father was both. In fact, my father was a lot of things. He was one of those teachers who started from the bottom up, teaching for many years as an untrained teacher while taking himself through college. My mother would patiently wait for her sweetheart to attend Migori TTC as she did what housewives do best- take care of the children.
At school, he was a dictator. Not in a bad way. If he wanted you to get a concept, he would make you yell it until you get it to your head. In 1999 I was in class three, and unlike most kids nowadays, we had a problem differentiating day and date. So my father, my class teacher at the time, decided to make it a rule that long before he came to class (well, it wasn't exactly a class because we were learning under a tree) we would be shouting 'the date today is 10th, March 1999. The day today is Wednesday'. If you passed by the school you would have mistaken us for rioters with their 'bado mapambano'. Anyway, the chants plus a wooden metre rule which he used to hit our heads made it work.
I am who I am today, thanks to daily beatings from my father. Did I just say daily? Yes. H e believed that his daughter must be brighter than all the other kids in class. Otherwise why was he struggling to be her class teacher? And so if I made any mistake in class, that would invite the metre rule for a tap or two. Naturally, it shaped me to better my best and so being position one at the end of every other term was not a miracle.
If there was to be any function at Ng'op-Ngeso primary school, there was no question about it, he would be the master of ceremony, the entertainment director as well as the disciplinarian for any wayward pupils. He was the kind of person who would beat you as you sing, and expect you to sing, not cry! Which makes him a miracle worker too. My interest in creative writing came directly from him, this father of mine.
At home, the revered teacher changed into something else. He would change into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, then look for an anthill and start digging. What was he looking for? Big red ants which he used to catch fish. Yes, my father the fisherman loved catching fish in River Nyamgun. Mud fish in particular. We call it 'mumi' in our international language. My best moments were when he would choose me to go with him to the river to get the fish. He was such a lucky man, this father of mine. His hooks always caught something. For my friends who wonder where my love for mumi came from, now you know. It was curved into my DNA at a young age. If a fish got entangled in the weeds underneath, he would remove his shirt, hand it to you as if he wanted to do five press-ups only to dive into the water and come back victoriously with the fish. He would then come out triumphantly with the fish, like James Bond coming out of a building on fire.
This man, my father was also a very good dancer. The ohangla of those days is different from the noise we hear today. And he would really dance to it. One of the best photos that I have of him was taken while he is holding the waist of an ohangla dancer (not my mother, of course) dancing his butt off (is there such a phrase?) He was also a talented music composer and director. You could tell David that you have guests in less than two hours, and he would compose a song, teach it to the pupils, and they would present as if they had been practicing for days. Now you know where my interests began.
My father had two missing teeth. I am not talking about the milk teeth that fall off from a child's mouth, or the teeth that people miss in old age. As young and vibrant as he was, my father was missing two teeth! A story is told of how his teeth got missing. No, actually they are two stories. In the first story, my father was eating chicken and the chicken was so delicious that he tried chewing the bone. Unfortunately, (or fortunately for the other people on the table) the bone was tough and his teeth fell off! In the second story, my father started a brawl at a bar and someone knocked off his teeth. Well, since I was born I only knew him as a teetotaler so I can't confirm the second story, who knows!
And did I tell you that he was an ardent Benga music lover? My interest in Benga music was handed on to me directly from yours truly. I first listened to Osito Kalle and Princess Julie on his radio. Make no mistake, no one was allowed to go near this prized possession. Touching it, leave alone tuning it, was in the list of a thousand ways to die. So I would be somewhere in the shadows, timing him so that I can listen from a safe distance.
Then he was a great footballer and a football coach. In his hay-days, he he used to play football. The first trophy I ever saw was one of him in a running position to tackle the ball. H e inspired me, this man. I wanted to win as many trophies as him, or even more, because he only had one. Not that I could play football, no. I have three left feet. But I could win in other ways, no? I could sing for example, recite poems and act. Then when he was the Master of Ceremony during sports, he would call our names (his children) over the microphone and give us a shout out. Holy Molly! We conquered the world.
One day, he bought a goat and named it after me. Me! That was one of the most memorable days of my life. I drove the goat home, feeling like I was on top of the world. Even if death would take me at a young age, I already had something named after me, even if that something was only a goat!
I watched my father suffer when he fell sick. He had Amoeba, which meant there were only a kind of food he could eat, not to mention frequenting the hospitals. Whenever he was admitted in the hospital, I would be there to nurse him back to life. Missing school was not an issue because we would report back together. On February 12th 2001, curtains fell on this shujaa (hero) of mine. He succumbed to sickness and left the 10 -year old me to figure it all on my own. Well, he must be dancing vigorously over there, or maybe kicking the ball when the angels are not watching!
~ David Owala Nyangolo (1955-2001)
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