The soundtrack of my relationship with my father has always been silence. It filled every crack and cranny, sipped in and cemented our interaction like melted cheese. He was always there without being there.
You have to see how your child is born. Cancel trips. Move meetings. Walk over bridges. Get on a ship. Travel by night. Stay sober. You just have to see it. They are only born once.
There are so many depressing stories about fathers, that a happy one seems not to pack a punch. I am glad and fortunate to have grown up in a functional home with a present dad,
As we get to the homestretch of Father’s Day, the emails from women keep coming in. Boatloads of emails from women writing about their fathers. Most are damaged. A few are amusing. I can’t run them all,
I have received tonnes of emails during the time I have been running the Father’s Day #DADSLOVEWHISKY series. Most, although unique, are unimpressionable. But after reading stories from and about fathers;
Four brothers living with their maternal grandfather in Majengo slums. An absent and conflicted mother who doesn’t know the fathers of these boys – at least not all of them. Questions abound. One of those four brothers is Joe “Black” Munuve.