The Gentle Giant We Called Champ

Champ — that was your name in our laughter,
our secret salute to the man who lived with ease and purpose.
You were simple, yet layered like the earth —
steady, patient, quietly wise.
You took life in its purest form:
a hearty laugh, a good meal,
the warmth of family gathered near.

You found joy in small things —
a song in the morning sun,
the smell of roasted meat,
the chatter of children in the yard.
Oh, how you loved your food,
and through that love, you taught us care.
I still see you —
packing goat meat into the freezer,
bringing it to Nairobi,
your way of saying, “My family will never lack.”

You believed in education,
in the dignity of work,
in showing up, no matter the season.
You never preached — you lived your lessons.
I remember those mornings in traffic,
in the Jumbo, our faithful Pajero —
you and I sharing tropical sweets.
I devoured mine fast; you saved yours.
Days later, when there were none to buy,
you smiled and said softly, “Akiba haiozi.”
A simple moment — yet it became a lifetime’s truth.

You were a man who watched first,
listened deeply,
and when you spoke, your words carried weight.
I’ll never forget the day we took Yusuf to Starehe —
how the principal greeted you with honor.
Years before, you had celebrated teachers
with a small feast from your own share,
and that kindness had circled back —
proof that goodness never fades.

Your later years were sacred.
You met your grandson, your namesake,
and each sunrise,
your voice rose with his laughter on the veranda.
Even through pain, you sang.
He healed you in ways words cannot tell.

You always had a soft spot
for anyone who cooked for you —
Mum, Zena, Auntie Kibibi, Auntie Rukia, Winnie —
their hands fed your heart as much as your body.
I remember your naps after a meal,
your laughter echoing in quiet rooms,
the peace that followed you everywhere.

When I started my own family,
you were my compass —
teaching, not by telling,
but by being.
You were modest and light-hearted,
yet mighty in spirit —
a giant wrapped in gentleness.

Now the oak tree has fallen,
and we, your branches,
feel the sun more sharply.
But your shade — your love,
your wisdom,
your laughter —
it lingers.

You lived not for yourself,
but for those you loved.
You gave without keeping count.
And in giving, you became eternal.

Your legacy breathes in us,
your song still hums in our hearts,
and your name —
dear father, dear Champ —
will never fade.

Forever, you remain.