My father,
Son of a black man.
Descendant of the lineage,
Of fierce but indomitable lions,
Whose presence set panthers to their feet;
Whose roars make the great
Mount Putu to shudder in fret.
My father,
A man abstemious with words,
But when he speaks,
His verbosities carry wits,
Like that of a sage’s.
A man whose words sound,
Like music to the ears,
And remedy to a broken soul.
Oh, my father,
Yesterday, vigorous and agile;
Today, frail and feeble.
That strict disciplinarian,
Who never spares the rod,
When a brood goes astray.
A man discerning in the lore and custom of the black ancestors;
Ah, I remember your disciplinary vividly.
A man like quicksilver!
My father,
Whose love for his broods,
Has forever been manifested,
In times of chaos, strife, and pestilence.
A man who would starve himself,
For his broods to eat to their own contentment.
My father,
Though I cannot say you are without any flaws,
But to mention humility and fatherly love,
To me, yours are without any parallel.
Hence, I feel proud to hail you.
Let the trees forever wave their branches,
In jocund admiration of you.
Let the birds chant your songs,
To the zenith of the infinite sky.
Let the wind carry your name,
To places near and far.
Let your folklore be perpetually told,
Even after you have journeyed,
To rendezvous with your ancestors.

This was written by our contributing writer, Emmanuel Gleekia.