[Memoir] An International Phone Call
[content warning: death, dying]
On May 31st 2016, I got a phone call from Kenya. My uncle, my dad’s youngest brother, was on the line, calling from Nairobi. Uncle Clem has a cool and calm demeanor, a posh British accent that attracts all kinds of people (women and men, Kenyans and Europeans), and an unwavering ability to crack a joke in the tensest of situations. But during this call, instead of poking fun at some Americanism of mine, he simply asked me whether or not I was sitting down.
“No, but I’m fine,” I said quickly as I power-walked down the busy Boston street. “I know what you’re about to say. I’m fine. Just left a restaurant with a friend. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I had darted out of a sushi lunch date with a guy friend I had a crush on. I’m still not sure why I had scheduled it on THIS day. Maybe I wanted a pleasant distraction, because I knew the spectrum of possibilities coming my way.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “We can call back….”
“Yes, I’m sure. Please just go ahead.” My shins started to burn as I hurriedly snuck past a large family coming out of a university bookstore.
Uncle Clem gave the phone to my dad, who began to speak with a familiar but deeper-than-usual, “Hey Jazz”. Full disclosure: my dad is an awkward dude. This is the guy who, in my junior year of college, took 25 minutes to amp himself up to ask me if my new nose ring--which he vehemently disapproved of without having seen it--was a symbol of promiscuity. (“Oh my god, dad, no! It’s called fashion!” “Oh. Well, ok then...” ) This is the man who takes his time to get each and every sentence out. I still have yet to figure out if his slow speech was an attempt at Luo elder tradition: talking slowly and deliberately to add weight to the words, to strategize or confuse, or assure you that they are, in fact, much wiser than you. Or if it was just an artifact of him getting old: cashing in on years of afternoon beer-drinking or maybe some cannabis back in the 70’s. Or maybe it was just the tax of him translating into his fourth language, and perfecting an Oklahoma accent on top of it. Regardless, I always expected a long, drawn out conversation with my dad, certainly one that would last long enough for me to power-walk back to my office. It was my habit to patiently multitask as “The Don” slowly spoke.
So, it was surprising that this time around, he stammered and struggled to inform me, in a record time of 30 seconds, on this sunny May afternoon, that he had been diagnosed with inoperable, incurable stage 4 colon cancer.
That he would stay with Uncle Clem in Kenya for treatment.
That he didn’t have much time.
That he was sorry, so sorry.
And that’s when my legs collapsed under me. I remember thinking that this type of thing only happens to white people in movies during heartbreak. Or to black women in real life when they find out that their sons have been shot dead in the street. I remember feeling helpless. And devastated. Yet stupid. And embarrassed. I remember being blinded by the sun, yet able to see every detail of my visual field at the same time. A lady ran to come help me, as I wailed and fell, leaning onto the stone and brick exterior of a convenience store on the busy street corner amid restaurants, a baseball stadium, and an elite university. Through tears I shooed her away and said “I’m fine.”
I was not.
My legs still burning, I gathered myself, attempted to wipe my tears, and began my power-walk back to privacy, ignoring the people around me who were only trying to help. The rest of that day—and year—was a blur emotionally, mentally, and physically, on account of the tears.
And thus began my journey to really meet my father and try to understand who he was before he was gone. Through this journey, I’ve learned to love him in a way that neither he nor I might ever understand. I found ways to love him that he might not have been capable of loving me in return. This was the beginning of his slow death and my slow growth and healing.
My dad, Donald Otieno Kwasa, died on July 9, 2018 in his home. He lived two years longer than initially expected. My family sat with him as he peacefully transitioned, my mother at his feet, my brother at his side, and me lying next to him. I still talk to my dad quite a bit, but I’m still healing.