Some of My Dad’s Family

I just spoke with my Dad the other day and he told me about my Aunt Bettie, his late sister who looked so much like him. Even though she had four children, she was so devoted to her work and received a doctor of science degree from Makerere University.

Makerere University used to t he be only university in East Africa and many of the neighbouring countries’ people such as Somalia, Tanzania and Kenya would study at Markerere. My Dad’s cousin Lydia has done very well with her Makerere degree since she has come to Canada.

She has taken some further accounting courses since she has come to Canada with her two sons (and now she has a baby girl named Eden). Her oldest son is Patrick, named after his Dad who came to Canada and works in accounting too. Patrick and Lydia’s second child is Matthew who from when I last saw him in their home in Brampton loves to play with cars with his older brother.

When Lydia came to Canada originally with her two boys, she lived in a coop in the nieghbourhood where I live in downtown Toronto. Now Lydia and Patrick live in a home in Brampton and they even own a Lexus. Lydia works for Deloitte as an accountant.
One of Lydia’s friends who became a friend of mine and one of my Dad’s tenants for a time once told me that most Ugandans can trace their ancestry back thousands of years. I know my Dad’s family is from the Bantu tribe in Africa. Before colonization this tribe was present in different parts of East Africa (and is still recognized today) as well as being part of the population that makes up some South Africans.

My grandfather who I did not ever get to meet because he died when my Dad was nine was born beside a tree stump. Kakonge means tree stump in Lunyoro, the language of the Bunyoro people which is the direct tribe my father’s family is from. My Dad was born in a small town in Uganda called Hoima.

Hoima borders Rwanda and my Dad comes from a family of 12 children. His mother and father were both teachers. His father died at nine because there was a boar that was terrorizing the village and my grandfather went out to kill the boar. Instead, the boar killed him.

My Dad was by a water well when this happened doing one of his many chores. He tells me the energy drained from him and his body went weak. He knew something was wrong.

Categories: Living, Media Writing, Opinion, travel, Writing (all kinds) | Tags: , , , , , ,

Post navigation

Comments are closed.

Create a website or blog at

%d bloggers like this: