My Grandfather passed away on New Year’s Day at 1p.m. Even as I write this I marvel at our talent for coining euphemisms to shield us from the full force of the reality that death is. Why, we say, ‘he has passed away’, ‘he has kicked the bucket’, ‘he has joined his maker’ and a host of other idioms instead of just saying, ‘he has died’.

Earlier at the stroke of midnight, I was among several Kampala revellers who shrieked with delight at the fireworks display which seemed to be erupting from its seven hills and decorated the skyline.

I felt so happy to be alive at the dawn of 2009, believing it to be full of great promise. However, my excitement was cut short when I found out that someone had broken into the car I had borrowed and made off with the central locking system.

But the theft paled into insignificance when I learnt of my Grandpa’s death later that day. His death was not entirely unexpected, he had been silently suffering for a number of years from Alzheimer’s or dementia, a disease that affects the brain and causes one to lose one’s memory, lose one’s mind and finally shuts down all body functions and death sets in.

From the day, about a year ago, he was diagnosed with advanced dementia, we had known that he did not have long to live. He forgot all our names including the name of his wife of 50 years.

He stopped talking sense and would seem to lose his temper for no apparent reason and start banging a door or hurl a plate at someone or spit at someone. During his last 8 months, he stopped talking altogether.

Sometimes he would moan all night, which was the most chilling sound to have to listen to and made it difficult for everyone to sleep.

Paradoxically, though disturbing, the moaning was also comforting because it meant he was still alive and was still capable of making sounds! He needed to be cared for 24hours a day; he was bit like a toddler, only worse.

For while a toddler learns a new thing everyday, with each passing day my Grandpa was forgetting everything he knew. He had to be spoon fed, bathed and cleaned and dressed in diapers for he soiled himself regularly.

It broke the hearts of all those who had known him in his past life to see him in this vegetative state. In effect he was gone long before he actually died.

However, that’s not how I intend to remember of him. I will remember him as a man who lived up to the grand age of 75, an age which few ever live to.

A man who survived the genocide of 1959 by fleeing to Uganda. And a man who survived the Obote years 1981-1985 when Banyarwanda were hunted down and killed or imprisoned in their thousands for supporting then rebel leader Yoweri Museveni.

I will remember him as a man who was married for fifty-one years and was blessed with several children and grand children, many of whom have excelled in their diverse careers.

A man who was the envy of his peers, with a decent house and a herd of cows which he so dearly loved.

A man who loved to dress smartly, buy drinks for the village folk and make merry with them and a man who during his pre-dementia years, had a reputation as a fine orator and was often called upon to speak on behalf of his village mates during functions.

That’s how I will try to remember him. While all of us had lived in the knowledge of his imminent death, when it occurred, it was no less heartbreaking. At his funeral, I was mildly amused when one of the speakers described his death as ‘untimely’?

Maybe, but I never knew a death which could be described as timely. I had not been particularly close to my Grandpa. To my eternal regret I had never made the effort to learn Kinyarwanda and that made communication between us difficult.

Looking back, I remember with fondness his vain attempts to narrate to me some of the adventures of his youth. I would often get bored and find some excuse to leave.

One of the sad ironies of life is that we always tend to take for granted what we have until it’s gone, then we really want it back. Now I find that I would have loved to know from him, who he really was. What troubles he had seen.

What life he had led and what lessons life had taught him.
I do not know how long I will live. But I know that his death has given me a greater sense of urgency, so many things to be done, so little time.

I need to learn my mother tongue and start communicating with my older relatives before that opportunity too is lost.

Ends