Grieving uTata: A Daughter's Account on Father's Day.

On 1 February 2025, fresh from netball practice, I opened my phone to find messages of condolence from a relative on the passing of my dad. Reading the texts was confusing. I was sure they had received the wrong communication, as it was not so long ago that I had seen and spoken to my dad.

I unfortunately fell victim to the learning of the news through social media by a concerned, unintended relative. I remember the moment vividly; for a moment, everything seemed slow, confusing and incoherent. Not long after, the heavy summer rain joined me in my confusion. I went down to the floor and cried in the company of the rain, which felt like nature's own way to comfort me, Uswelekile uTata (My dad had passed away).

Fathering practically

Tata is an isiXhosa term used to address a father or older men, often used as a term of endearment. When reflecting on the man Tata was, it almost feels less than to describe him simply as a father. He was every function I needed growing up, right into my adult life. I was one of the fortunate girl children to be raised in a home with a present and active father. Tata did not ascribe to societal expectations of what a father is meant to be and crossed the gender roles often. It was normal and not unusual for me to see the lens of manhood and fatherhood as a soft area filled with daily sacrificial service, which was often domestic and practical.

My dad was not strict, quite the opposite. I don't recall him raising his voice, hitting us or even scolding us; the idea of umtheto ekhaya (law or rules of the household) was never mentioned by him, always embodied. Mama often said he spoiled us to the point of demise, but I would like to believe we all turned out quite fine. My dad led from the back and consistently wore his heart on his sleeve when engaging any human being. He loved us with action, you'd barely hear him say the words, 'I love you', if I am to date it, it must have been in my teenage years or early twenties, where I heard him explicitly say, "Siyanithanda" a Xhosa word to relay that him and mom, loved us. His love was never absent from a collective regard shared in union with his wife of more than 40 years, our mother.

Love embodied

Growing up, we did not doubt or question our dad's love or presence. There were periods when we were separated from Dad because of work migration, and we would see him on weekends or during long-term holidays. However, in our early years at school, there were periods, turned years, when my mom was pursuing her higher education studies or relocating because of work, so we stayed alone with our dad. Daily, Dad would cook for us, clean the house, do our laundry, and drop and fetch us from school. On some Fridays, he would take my friends and me out for a meal, and often he and my brother would have evening soccer dates to watch Kaizer Chiefs and Pirates.

Ordinary men raise kings and queens

It was the daily efforts of Mama and an illiterate, blue-collar labourer who could barely speak English that sent me to Model C schools, where I received training in music, swimming, athletics, netball, hockey, and the arts. It was through his efforts that I developed my leadership and activism.

Out of the fervent efforts of a man otherwise deemed ordinary and unimportant, in that concrete state, grew a rose, me, both beautiful and deeply thorned by the inequalities of our society. To summarise, the legacy of my dad would be no short of highlighting how, like all accurate references of history and great victories, it rests on the efforts of the marginalised. The oxymoron of my dad's reality raised me and encouraged me to a point of serving this continent and global community towards meaningful action and change.

A man worth taking notes from

In remembering my dad, in the early days after his passing, I took to my pen to pen down what is not always easy to articulate but is felt profoundly. I was intentional in not making an idol of my dad's life. He was not perfect, far from it, but he truly was something close to it. In navigating grief, I leaned into Christ and my community. I made attempts to sit with myself to understand the gravity of what I had lost. As I write this, I doubt I have fully grasped it but walk with me as I navigate the glimpses of what it means to lose, uTata. My dad had diabetes, he was physically unwell for a long time. The figure and identity of a strong, capable and protective figure had ceased to exist from our knowledge of him. He was every bit fragile and dependent on the care of others. This made us draw nearer to him, but we also knew, given his independence, that he struggled very much to make peace with this reality.

A reminder to men who are fathers

This reflection would be short of my dad's nature if I did not remind you that men belong in the kitchen. Domestic chores are not a measure of masculinity, but necessary skills towards a healthy society, first in the home. Children need present dads; they don't care for your rags and riches; they just want you. Even if the world and society categorise and measure your worth on acts, to a child, a father is worthy simply because he exists. It's important to protect your children from your wounds. My dad would never get angry or display violence in front of us. Yes, some things and people made him angry, but he always was measured in the version of him we saw growing up.

To love and respect the mother of your kids is to love your children. This need not be romantic, of course, for all purposes, this would be ideal. Love is a commitment beyond a feeling. Men need to remember that they are their children's first encounter with the world. Be wise and intentional to centre love in their narrative of the world. Love others in action; your words carry less weight. It is every bit human to cry and feel your emotions, men too.

The legacy of fatherhood

As a family, we knew that age and the cycle of life meant, at some point, we would part with dad, a soul unmeasured in all his ways. What we had not anticipated was just how near that day was. My dad's struggles with mental health inspired me to advocate for healthy men and run a nearly five-year campaign, because from him, I saw the potential that men hold if they simply decide to show up in their feminine and masculine selves. My dad's life provides enough lessons that hold the potential to revolutionise our society and, in their nature, are in no way judgment or assumptions about the orientation of any human, especially men.

On the first of February, I buried a part of me along with my dad's body. As I continue my journey with grief and the loss of the man who, after God, remains my first and truest love. I am comforted by the belief that we experience people, never own them, and when the time has come for us to part, it can only be because what's left to be done requires something more than a father figure, but the heavenly father himself.

I hope we spend time this Father's Day to reflect on the fathers we are becoming. Dads, extend grace to yourself - you are only as old as the children you raise - and stay presently present. Time moves quickly, but love lingers in the ordinary moments where fathers quietly show up.

About the author:

Zamayirha Peter is an Advocacy Communications Specialist with over eight (8) years of experience in multimedia journalism and communications. Her passion is using development communications to contribute to the advancement and empowerment of communities, particularly the youth, across the continent and influence global conversations through using strategic communication tools.