Why did my father die?
Learning to be strong and courageous, even in the face of tragedy
It has been many years since my father died. But time has failed to steal my memory of or love for him. I cannot forget him, even if I wanted to. I belonged to him and he belonged to me. I called him father and he called me son. We were part of each other.
My father was special to me. Not that he was an exceptionally good father. No, he was not a Christian. He drank and smoked. I abhorred the times when he came home drunk. But I understood him.
He was frustrated. Times were hard. He had lost everything that made a man respected in society. At least, that is what he thought. He had lost his cattle to successive yearly droughts. Educating us had not paid off as he had dreamed. As a young boy still growing up, I was a victim of his wrath on several occasions. Not that he hated me, but that is how he understood how to be a father. Yet it was during our happy moments together that I could read from his eyes his love for me. Alone in the woods or in the fields, we shared those special times.
Father cared about people and their relations in the community. He was a respected community leader, a kraal-head. People brought their concerns to him. He presided over gatherings and sorted out concerns and disputes. For many years, he was the chairman of the local school board. He had public enemies. He was a simple, loving, and dependable member of the community. He was not a politician. He was just interested in the welfare of his family and that of the community.
In 1984, my dad was working in the Beit-Bridge rural area as a storekeeper. Political tensions in the region were high. Often, the people were beaten or harassed for no known reason by a Korean-trained army deployed to parts of the country where the ruling party felt like it did not have a stronghold. Eight soldiers in uniform came to the store and demanded beer from my dad. He had none to offer. They did not believe him and decided to torture him. They filled his mouth with bottle tops, then, to get the desired effect, hammered him with gun butts several times all over.
Though so severely injured, he could not get immediate healthcare. For two weeks, the area was completely sealed off. No traffic was allowed in or out of the area. In the circumstances and in his suffering, dad had to become his own doctor and dentist. He pulled out five of his teeth that had been cut loose by the bottle tops. By the time he finally found his way to a hospital, it was too late. The damaged jaws had become badly infected.
It was almost a month before I heard of my dad’s plight. There was no one to blame. I remember walking in the hospital ward looking for my father. My mind was searching for answers. Most likely the soldiers who had beaten him up were young men like me. Why? What cruelty! Why were they so mean and inhumane?
I could not recognize my father until he called my name. There before me was my dad with a disfigured face. Something in me just gave. I sobbed uncontrollably. He was in great pain. His was different from the pain I was going through. At that moment, we seemed to enter into each other’s pain, and yet neither of us could explain what the other was feeling.
Pain is invisible and yet real. It pierces. Sharp! Deadly! Merciless. In my pain, I was gripped with anger against the government, the ruling part, and the army. The government had passed a law granting military personnel immunity from arrest for crimes committed while on duty. In my anger, I wanted revenge. My mind transported me to a world where my vengeance was carried out. It was my dad’s voice that brought me to the world of reality as he begged me.
“Son, don’t! Son, don’t!”
My dad was in the hospital for two months. It was clear to me that his days were numbered. Something deep in me told me so. I was always afraid of hearing the worst. The dreaded news came on a Sunday morning as I was getting ready to go to church. He had died the day before. Unlike when I first saw him in the hospital, this time, Scripture came to my mind. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them for the Lord God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deuteronomy 31:6).
As I drove home from the funeral, in the silence of my thoughts, I tried to pray, but I had no words to say. I tried to sing. No song came to my lips. No human being could bring any comfort. My dad was gone. No more to be seen or talked to. I was afraid of what the future without him would hold.
To experience the death of a family member is to enter a path of loneliness. It is an inward journey, but it is not a silent walk. It is filled with debates and resolutions. As I grieved for my father, it was failure to find answers that tortured me. I knew that the Lord was with me at all times. Sometimes, it felt like God was a spectator of my grieving, yet He taught me some lessons out of this loss. The cruelty that my father went through was a sign of the lost state of the world. God wanted me to learn what it means to love and forgive my enemies. God, who is in control of all things, allowed me to go through such a painful journey so that I could have full appreciation for pain, suffering, and grief.
The question, “Why did my father die?” remains true even today. Maybe I will never know the answer for the rest of my life. It is a good question, but maybe to god, it has little or nothing to do with my love and commitment to Him. His word says, “And we know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28).
Danisa Ndlovu, bishop of the Brethren in Christ General Conference in Zimbabwe, lives in Bulawayo with his wife, Treziah, and their children. In addition to serving on the executive committee of the International Brethren in Christ Association (IBICA), Danisa was installed as president of Mennonite World Conference (MWC), an interdenominational Anabaptist organization, in July 2009.
