Storytime: Our Fathers’ Children

When you ask my father if he has daughters, he’ll simply say he has children.

To him, we were never “just his daughters" in the way people usually mean it, we were just his children. And in his house, that distinction mattered. It meant there was no room for the “but I’m a girl” card. Not once. Not ever.

We grew up knowing that roles were not divided by gender. If something needed to be done, you did it. Simple. We climbed roofs to fix the TV aerial so he could watch football. We helped offload the car, lifting and carrying things that felt far too heavy at the time, figuring it out together while he stood aside, watching, not out of neglect, but out of quiet expectation.

And then there were the moments that felt like abandonment but were actually lessons in disguise. He would drop you at a doctor’s office or a bank, give you clear instructions, and leave. Just like that. No hand holding. No waiting. You could stand there, overwhelmed, even fight back tears, but he wouldn’t come back for you at that moment. In his mind, he had already equipped you with what you needed. The rest was yours to figure out. Hours later, he’d return to pick you up, as though it was the most normal thing in the world. And maybe, to him, it was.

So when you see me and my sisters walking with our heads high, confident, self-assured, and deeply independent, know this:

We are not just strong women by chance. We are our father’s children!

Comments

Five Scars and a Breath

Some stories find you and change you. This one did. In today’s post, I’m honoured to share a deeply moving account of pain, survival, and unexpected grace. It's a story of resilience, recovery, and what it means to return from the edge with five scars and a breath. Shared with permission and written in her own words: Five Scars and a Breath " At the beginning of last year, I became fluent in the language of pain. I knew the routine by heart - walk into the hospital, wince through registration, and recite my prescription like a nurse: Start with 40 milligrams of Nexium, top up with another 40 if the pain doesn’t retreat. I wasn’t a doctor, but I played one with practiced confidence. Until one day, the pain didn’t follow the script. They gave me 80 milligrams of Nexium, then paracetamol. The pain remained, stubborn and screaming. Then came the opium. Relief arrived cloaked in a darkness so absolute it stole my sight. The pain retreated but not without a warning. I finally surre...

Calling on Our Ancestors

When I think of prayer, I remember that the African way was often through calling on our ancestors. Long before formal religion came to our lands, our people believed that those who had gone before us still walked with us, standing at the threshold between the living and the divine. Ancestors were not distant shadows but custodians of wisdom, protectors of families, and intercessors who carried our cries to God. Whether through libations poured on the earth, whispered names in the quiet of the night, or ritual gatherings around the fire, prayer in Africa was deeply relational, a way of keeping the bond between generations unbroken. I never imagined I would one day find myself reaching for that path. But when my niece lay in a hospital bed, and doctors struggled to find a clear diagnosis for her discomfort, I felt powerless. That night, my sister sent a message saying the doctor suspected a heart defect. My younger sister and I had just left Gertrude’s Children’s Hospital around 3 a.m.,...

The Messenger

“Mama! Mama!” That call became her signature tune, the sound that made her mother’s heart skip a beat every time she heard it. This is the story of Ella, the family’s messenger of doom. A role she never asked for, but one that somehow chose her, maybe because she is the eldest daughter in the family of Habbu. Ella is the fourth child out of eight. Before her are three brothers whom Habbu, their father, sent to the white man’s land, America, to study and make something of themselves. So when they left, Ella became the eldest at home, holding the fort for everyone else. She took care of her parents, her younger siblings, and in many ways, became the glue that kept the family running. With that came another role, that of the bearer of news. All news. But mostly, bad ones. The first message came like a thief in the night. A telegram from Nairobi. Her younger sister’s husband had died, barely two years into marriage, leaving behind two little children, one still breastfeeding. There were n...

L.J's red jumper chronicles.

Search This Blog