Ten Years Without Dad

Today, July 11, 2026, marks ten years since my father, Mr. Edirisa Kalule, returned to his Creator.

One of the hardest lessons grief has taught me is this: sometimes you don't fully understand how much you love someone until they are gone.

My father and I were never the kind of father and son who agreed on everything. In fact, we argued over the smallest things. If he suggested one direction, I often felt compelled to take another. When he wanted me to study law, I chose journalism instead, even though I barely knew what journalism was. Looking back, I wonder if I was trying to find my own path or simply trying to prove that I could.

One memory still makes me laugh.

The first time I introduced my wife to him, he welcomed her warmly, then turned to her and said, "If this young man ever gives you trouble, don't hesitate to report him to me. I'm the only one who can knock some sense into his head."

I was horrified.

After we left, I immediately called my older brother, Musa, to complain.

"What kind of father says that about his own son?" I grumbled. "Now every time we argue she'll remind me, 'Your father warned me you're not very sensible.'"

At the time, I thought he had embarrassed me.

Today, I hear those words differently. They were spoken with love, wrapped in his own unique sense of humor.

Despite our disagreements, no one celebrated my achievements more than my father. Every exam I passed became his story to tell. When I moved to Dubai and found work as a journalist, he carried that news with pride wherever he went. Whenever I met his friends or relatives, they would smile and ask, "So you're the journalist in Dubai we've been hearing about?"

It always made me smile because I knew exactly who had been talking.

Ten years have passed, but the space he left behind has not grown smaller. If anything, it has grown larger. I miss my Dad more now than I did when he first died. I miss his voice. I miss our arguments. I miss making him proud. If I had the chance today, I would gladly take another disagreement with him, knowing it would end with both of us still having each other.

Writing has become my way of keeping him close. Every story I write about him feels like another conversation we never got to finish. It has been my way of carrying grief without letting it carry me.

One of my favorite pieces about my father is Where My Father Taught Me to Cry. It tells the story of one of the moments that shaped me most, and I hope it will mean something to you too.

You can read it here: https://www.blackwritersink.com/post/where-my-father-taught-me-to-cry

— Yasin Kakande  

Author of The Missing Corpse