FATHER: The Absent Presence – A Tribute to the African Man Who Was There Even When He Wasn’t

 

 

By Isaac Christopher Lubogo

 

Introduction: Of Fathers, Fangs, and Forgotten Glory

 

Where the African Household Begins and Ends with a Silent War

 

In every African home, there are two courts of power: the public one, where the father rules like a reluctant god… and the kitchen parliament, where mother speaks in tongues and judgment. On this Father’s Day, let us begin with a true tale—one that captures the irony, the tragedy, and the absurdity of African fatherhood.

 

A clip once went viral—a common African domestic moment, a window into our bittersweet homes. A boy, playing near the kitchen, heard his mother—furious, lips on fire—shouting in Lusoga:

 

> “Babáwo mbwá! Babáwo mbwá yénè!”

(Pronounced: bah-BAH-woh mm-BWAH! bah-BAH-woh mm-BWAH YEH-neh!)

(Translation: Your father is a dog! A real dog!)

 

Now, unknown to both mother and son, the “dog” himself—the father—was outside, eavesdropping like a forgotten sentinel—his heart pounding like a political drum, his ears sharpening with each insult, each repetition of “mbwá!”

He stood there—stone still—tail not exactly wagging… but pride bleeding into the dust.

 

Moments later, he entered the house like a man walking back into a play he was never cast in—but had financed entirely. The atmosphere changed.

Oscar-worthy smiles appeared. Fake cheer filled the air.

> “Babá isúuka yó!”

(Pronounced: BAH-bah ee-SOO-kah YOH!)

(Translation: Father, welcome back!) the son chirped, still echoing with innocence.

 

And in that moment—calculated, chilling, brilliant—the father turned to the boy and mother and responded,

 

> “Hoo… hoo… hoo… HOOOO!”

(Louder now, with teeth bared—one bark per betrayal.)

 

He didn’t just bark—he became the bark.

A deeply wounded lion, responding in the only language the pack had assigned to him.

That wasn’t humour. That was grace in sarcasm. Dignity in mockery.

It was the sound of a man who knew that his silence was being spoken for—by others, badly.

 

Because yes—he had heard it all.

And his reply?

It was not revenge.

It was a performance.

A bark that bit back.

 

We laugh. But behind that bark is a truth too bitter to chew. The African father has often been misunderstood—painted as a tyrant, described as absent, yet rarely remembered as the one who bore the hardest cross.

 

Our mothers loved loudly; our fathers suffered quietly.

Our mothers called us “sweetheart”; our fathers called us “responsibility.”

They didn’t carry us—they carried us.

 

He was not there at your graduation. He missed your football match. He forgot your birthday. But he paid your school fees… while sleeping hungry.

 

This Father’s Day, we are not here to perfume perfection. We are here to light a candle in the uncelebrated silence of our fathers’ existence. The African father does not dance in joy—he grunts in provision. He does not cry—he dies standing.

 

Let the dogs bark. But today, we write of the lion who barked once—and was never heard again.

 

> “He never hugged me. But I have never stopped feeling the embrace of his silent sacrifices.”

 

Today is Father’s Day. But for many of us who grew up under the rough shadows of our fathers—stoic, distant, and often absent—the celebration feels complex. We were not raised on “I love yous” or tucked into bed with bedtime stories. We were raised on duty, gazes that carried sermons, and silence that screamed louder than discipline.

 

Mine was Patrick Fredrick Kunya—a no-nonsense royal, Omulángira of Gadumire, New Castle University graduate, and son of the great Y.K. Lubogo, himself the seed of Kaira Mukunya. A towering figure with principles carved in granite, and a whisky-flavored nobility the locals in Half London called “ebyaisu.” He was never the hug type. But one day—just once—I saw something rare. I walked into the house, and there he was with three elderly women. The moment he saw me, he stood up and hugged me like a man who had finally seen hope arrive wearing his son’s face. That day, I saw the weight of unshed tears in his soul. I saw a broken fortress seek refuge in its own foundation.

 

I. Fathers: The Misunderstood Soldiers of Silent Wars

 

In many African homes, fatherhood is a burdened glory. The African father is raised not to express, but to endure. He is expected to produce, never to feel. Books like Esther Vilar’s The Manipulated Man and Warren Farrell’s The Myth of Male Power expose how society weaponizes masculinity—turning the father into a utility rather than a human being.

 

> “Men are trained to die for others, while being accused of oppression for trying to live for themselves.” – Warren Farrell

 

In Uganda, and across Africa, fathers work until their backs are bent like commas in unwritten sentences, only to die alone, uncelebrated, their wisdom buried deeper than their bones.

 

II. The Crown I Couldn’t Wear… Then

 

As a child, I once wore my father’s Newcastle University graduation head gown, playing with my sisters Ann and Sheila. He shouted:

 

> “Go get your own gown!”

 

That rebuke? It burned. It hurt. I couldn’t understand why I was denied that cloth of glory. But I carried that vow like a wound and a prophecy. Today, I look at myself—more than one graduation gown draped over my Kki head, and I whisper to the heavens,

“Father, I did get my own gown.”

 

Perhaps he saw in me a man who had to earn his own fire.

 

 

III. Fathers Die Like Trees: Standing Until the Last Leaf Falls

 

Fathers die many deaths.

The first is when their children no longer need their hand.

The second is when society calls them irrelevant.

The final death is when they are buried without a eulogy worthy of their sacrifices.

 

No one sees their pain. They weep in broken bathrooms. They bleed in silence. They show up to PTA meetings late because they were chasing rent. They come home cold, not because they don’t love—but because life has numbed their ability to express it.

 

> “The father is often not missing. He is sacrificed.”

 

In African homes, love from a father is not heard—it is felt in the weight of school fees paid, in the hunger endured so you could eat, in shoes repaired instead of replaced.

 

IV. The Present Absence: A Father’s Real Gift

 

My father left me no inheritance. But he left me something more enduring—lessons etched in hardship, values coded in silence. And now, in my sleepless nights of hustling, in my mentoring of other sons and daughters, I realize:

 

> “He is not absent. He is everywhere I try to stand.”

 

V. A Toast to Our Ghosts in the Sunlight

 

So today, I write this not with sorrow but with sacred gratitude.

To every African father who:

 

Never said “I love you,” but always showed up in the background.

 

Missed your games, but paid for your future.

 

Gave up dreams so you could chase yours.

 

Died unsung but not unloved.

 

 

You were misunderstood, yes. Manipulated by a culture that made you stoic. But we see you now.

We honor you now.

 

Even if you never hugged us, we are your embrace in this world.

Even if you died in silence, we are your loudest echo.

 

Final Words

 

Fathers don’t leave.

They simply become the roads we walk on—rough, hidden, but leading somewhere sacred.

 

Happy Father’s Day.

To the ghosts we still love.

To the warriors we misunderstood.

To the men who taught us how to wear our own gowns.