I write to process what has happened, I don’t need judgement of my topics nor criticism of my spelling, my grammar or my punctuation. It is not an english essay, it is a way for me to not having to keep everything inside and document and connect with people who have been through the same or similar situations. Because god knows I don’t know how to handle this and I need guidance which is hard for me to admit. Never did I think, even for a second that my first death, my first morgue experience would be my dad. Someone so close to me, he’d became a part of me. He made me who I am and helped shaping the person I want to be but couldn’t, because of anger.
He was my hero. HE IS MY HERO. Nothing is going to change that, no matter what state.
My dad. Died the 29th of July 2014 suddenly whiteout any illness, healthy as could be. Or so we thought.
If he lived he would have turned 49 today. My dad was never big on birthdays. He never remembered my birthdays as a kid, one of the ways my dad hurt me growing up. But then I realized that’s the way he was raised. It wasn’t because he didn’t love me or didn’t cared enough to remember. He was born in Tanzania in 1965, during that time half of the dates of birth weren’t even documented. For 26 years he lived in Tanzania and not once did he ever have a birthday celebration nor did he ever attend one. It was a foreign concept. He moved to Sweden to give us a better life. To a new continent, new country, new language, new climate (snow!), new customs, different culture and expected to rewire his programing to all of these things. Birthdays understandably didn’t rank high on the list. Knowing this however made me see my dad in a different way. That we needed to give him a break. And since then he always remembered my birthdays, with a little help of Gigi of course.
He was born on this day 49 years ago and he became this beautiful, internally stressed, happy, complex human being I had the privilege to call my dad. He also became my best friend. After years through my childhood of disappointments, false promises and not being there for me, he was there at the end. Compensating for the years he’d missed.
He was there for me at the end, all the way to the end. And for that I’m eternally grateful. Happy birthday Baba.