The Pillar Beneath My Story

 My father was greatness personified. If I were to attempt to fully capture his essence, I might never find the space to tell my own story. He was broader, deeper, and more profound in every way than anything I have ever known. He remains, to this day, the most significant presence in my life. He often said there are three kinds of people in this world: those who think, those who don’t, and those for whom others do the thinking. It wasn’t just a clever saying—it was how he understood people and moved through the world. And when he spoke, you couldn’t help but want to be among the first kind.

Those who think, he said, are steady. They see the bigger picture, weigh their steps, and think past the moment. They don’t panic. They don’t flail. They navigate life like a person walking with a lamp in their hand—able to see just far enough ahead not to fall into every ditch. They don’t avoid every hardship, but they don’t walk into trouble blind either.

Those who don’t think are different. They stand at the crossroads, not knowing whether to go left or right. They drift, move with the crowd, and wait for life to decide for them. Not because they lack the ability, but because they’ve never stopped long enough to ask themselves where they’re going—or why.

But the third kind—those for whom others think—he believed they were the most at risk. They surrender their choices to louder voices. They walk in shoes they didn’t choose, down roads they never questioned. And by the time they realise it, they’re often too far gone to turn back. “Never become the one they think for,” he would say. “Because when someone else is doing your thinking, they’re also shaping your future.”

Some truths don’t settle in the heart until they’ve travelled with you through pain. Like they say back home: Ngu akati kukakucumita omumaisho, kati wheeza—only when the stick has poked your eye do you finally open it wide. Warnings don’t make you wise. Only walking and experiencing life does. And when the thorns come, as they always do, the words you once heard return—no longer as advice, but as lived truth. By then, you’re not the same person who first heard them. You’ve been shaped by the very path you didn’t yet understand.

I loved him deeply, but I also revered him. No major decision in my life was ever made without first seeking his wisdom and weighing his counsel. One day, I will return to tell his story and honour this extraordinary man in the way he truly deserves—or at least try.

He was a towering figure of faith, revered and deeply loved by all who knew him. There was a quiet simplicity about him, yet an undeniable presence that kept you from ever becoming too familiar. His dignity did not demand respect—it simply evoked it. His name alone could light up faces with warmth and admiration.

He wasn’t just a “good man” in the polite, posthumous sense of the word. He was genuinely good—through and through, in life and death. Even now, his name carries that same reverence and inspires the same respect and love among all who knew him, or even just heard of him.

Beyond being a son, husband, father, grandfather, friend, and elder, he was a lay priest in the local church he helped establish. A preacher, a church planter in various regions, and the trusted treasurer who carefully managed church finances. His generosity was legendary—always matched by his humility.

He would donate something valuable to the church—sometimes a bull, a cow, or even the finest produce from his garden, like bunches of bananas or baskets of ripe fruit. When these were auctioned to raise funds and the proceeds fell short of what was needed, he would quietly top up the difference from his own pocket. This became such a known gesture that people began to say, "Simon will top up the balance." Whether it was for the church or the wider community, he gave freely, with a heart as open as his hands.

My father was the most hardworking man I knew. Growing up, I can’t recall a single morning when he wasn’t the first to rise. Long before the rest of us stirred, he would be up—quietly slipping out to milk the cows and see them off with the herdsman. We didn’t have many cows then, but you’d think he was tending a whole herd by the care and consistency he gave them.

Afterwards, he’d head straight to his banana garden, where he worked steadily until around one in the afternoon. Then he’d come home for a quick lunch, take a brief rest, and by late afternoon, he’d be off again—this time to his most treasured place: the coffee plantation.

Our home was surrounded by coffee. To say my father took pride in that plantation would be an understatement. It wasn’t just a field—it was a sanctuary. The plantation stretched in neat rows of coffee trees, bordered by an abundance of fruit-bearing plants: mango, guava, passionfruit, pawpaw, pineapple, mandarin, avocado, jackfruit, orange, and grapefruit. Each tree felt like a chapter in the story of his life, every branch bearing witness to the richness of what he had built with his hands and heart.

When we picked the coffee beans, there was never a shortage of fruit to enjoy between the work. The air hung heavy with the sweet scent of ripe mangoes and guavas. The ground was often scattered with fallen fruit—soft, fragrant, and waiting to be tasted. It was where labour and reward walked hand in hand, where even the most ordinary task felt like a quiet celebration of the land’s generosity.

This plantation wasn’t just a source of income. It was a living testament to the quiet harmony between discipline and nature. My father worked the land with purpose, and the land responded in kind—offering more than just crops. It gave beauty, nourishment, and joy.

It wasn’t unusual for people to stop by at any time of day, hoping to purchase some of his prized coffee. His beans had a reputation—carefully grown, hand-picked, and full of flavour. But those who came on Sundays soon learnt that business would not be conducted then.

My father was unwavering in his belief that Sundays were for rest. No matter how many buyers came knocking, he never compromised. Sunday was sacred—a day set aside for worship, slow meals, laughter, and simply being together. In the absence of phones, word of mouth was the thread that held the community together. In our neighbourhood, it was well known: Sunday at our home was a day for the soul, not for trade.

And so it was—a life shaped by quiet routines, sacred rhythms, and a land that flourished under the watchful, loving hands of a man who believed in tending things: the soil, the spirit, and everything in between.

All millennials and Gen Y’s like me, who were born and raised in remote villages, understand the old-school rhythm of “tell so-and-so to tell so-and-so” that something had happened. And then off you’d go—on foot, or if you were lucky, by bicycle.

The most important announcements, especially death notices, were broadcast on Radio Uganda—the only station we had at the time. There was a fixed hour for news and obituaries, and if you missed it, you simply had to wait until the next top-of-the-hour bulletin.

And to all the Gen Z’s and Gen Alphas out there—yes, there really was a time when there were no phones, no iPads, nothing digital. Shocking, I know!