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By Evan Sande Ndahura
I still love you, Dad—
more fiercely now
than when your footsteps still warmed the earth.
You left us, yes…
but your absence lives louder
than your presence ever did,
echoing through every choice I make,
every breath I breathe,
every word I write.
As a boy
I never truly listened—
I took your voice like sunrise,
faithful and guaranteed.
But death teaches brutally:
now I hear you everywhere.
Your silence is louder
than your words ever were,
and your memory circles in my chest
like a globe tied to its axis—
spinning, spinning,
never stopping,
never letting me forget
how much I lost
and how much you gave.
When you died,
a pen grew in my hand—
as if your spirit fused with my blood,
igniting a fire I never knew I carried.
Your soul, your truth, your stubborn goodness
became the ink that refuses to dry.
Tired or lost,
I find you turning my weakness into strength,
pushing me forward,
reminding me that you left me a duty:
write.
Write what you lived.
Write what you fought for.
Write what you died believing.
Dad, my hero—
out of nothing
you forged possibility like steel.
You built our future
with hands that had nothing but courage.
You whispered,
“My son will be known by the world.”
And here I stand—
fighting for a place
among those whose words outlive them,
fighting not for fame
but to polish the prophecy
you planted in me.
I will not betray you.
I will hold this pen
as though holding your hand—
tight, firm, unwavering.
You loved justice.
You loved truth.
You loved equality with a purity
that made even elders bow in respect.
The village still echoes your name,
waiting for one from your stem
to rise and continue the work.
Justice…
the project you started
that I must finish,
not for my name
but for your eternal honour.
Orphaned at thirteen—
yet rising like a new sun
with fire in my bones
and tomorrow in my eyes.
A child shaped by grief
but instructed by greatness.
You taught me
that education is the only food
that saves lost souls,
the only lamp
that rescues wandering families
from generational darkness.
You saw far, Dad.
You dreamt far.
You lived far.
And everything I am becoming
is an extension of your vision—
your sweat,
your sacrifice,
your sleepless nights,
your prayers no one heard but heaven.
This poem
is my offering,
my gratitude,
my confession,
my wound.
For the world must know
that a parent’s love
is a foundation deeper than bone,
a blessing stronger than time,
a light that keeps burning
long after the body is gone.
Dad—
rest.
Your work continues.
Your flame survives.
Your son still rises.
Your legacy still breathes.
And with every word I write,
you live again.
Torch Media Africa
