I didn’t know my grandfather very well. He lived an inspirational life; too bad I didn’t know that while he was still here. 

He was born and raised in a small village called Kisumu in Kenya. For post-secondary school, he moved to Boston and attended teachers college at Harvard University before moving back to Nairobi, where he met my Dadi and had two kids. He worked as a math teacher in Nairobi, and later worked with the Aga Khan institutions to help bring sanitation and education to remote villages in central Asia and Africa. His work with the institutions led him to move to Paris in 1989 where he lived in a northern suburb, Chantilly. 

He was a man of principle. He lived his life humbly, generously, and with purpose. For the truncated time that I got to spend with him, I could tell that he loved me immensely. Every winter holiday, I would go and visit my Dadi and Dada in France. I would get out of bed at midnight everyday with my sister— I call her Bai — and scurry down the stairs to a full plate of freshly cut fruit; an extravagant assortment of apples, mangoes, kiwis, and pineapples, to name a few. I sat next to him while I ate, basking in his warmth under my blanket while he told me stories of his rich life. 

I wish I remembered them. 

When I was six years old, my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. His doctors had discovered a nine pound tumor, the size of a sack of potatoes, in his abdomen. Immediately, he sought out treatment. The doctors said he would make a speedy recovery. He did. The doctors said that his hair would grow back. It did. The doctors said it wouldn’t come back. It did. 

The news reached my dad late at night and by the next morning he was on a flight to Paris. The cancer progressed rapidly until the doctors said that there was nothing more they could do. He was flown out to the M.I.T. hospital in Boston and began his treatment. There was hope. For two months, my dad hopped back and forth between Boston and home, taking care of my grandpa while trying to be home with his family. It was taxing. 

I wish we had gone to visit Dada sooner. 

After two months, my grandfather’s way of life was gone. My father’s energy was gone. The hope that we held onto was gone. Everything was falling apart, but I didn’t know. As a nine year old, I was oblivious to the grave truth about Dada— for better or for worse. 

But, I wish I had known the truth. 

In the spring of fourth grade, the only thing I thought about was track and field. As it creeped closer, I counted down the days until I could finally race my classmates. I dreamt about crossing the finish line in front of all my friends, gloating like a king. But dreaming was the closest I got. 

I came home from school to my mom waiting for me on the couch, worry etched across her face. 

“Dada is very sick. Dad just called and told me to bring you and Bai to Boston. He thinks it’s time to say your goodbyes.”

“When?” I am not thinking of Dada. I am thinking of track and field. 

“We leave early tomorrow. Before sunrise.” 

Tomorrow is track and field. 

“I’m not going. I have track and field.” 

“You have to come. I am not leaving you alone at home.”

“Do you not know how much track and field means to me? Dada will be fine! Do you not know me at all?” 

 In protest, I refused to get off the couch, I refused to eat dinner, I refused to pack my bag, I refused to walk to the car. Somehow, my mom managed to do everything for me and leave the house on time the next morning. I stewed the entire drive basking in my frustration, nurturing the resentment I felt towards Dada. After all, he was the one that was sick. He was the one making me miss track and field, and therefore he was the one I was mad at. 

We reached the hospital around 2pm. It was not raining yet, but the clouds were ominous. There was a cool, intense breeze blowing Bai’s hair into her face. I laughed. Truly, it was not that funny, but there was an uncomfortable tension that I felt compelled to sever. The hospital was massive; half the building was newly renovated and had blue tinted glass windows from top to bottom, but the other was red brick with graffiti words on the side that I didn’t quite understand— my mom said they were bad words. The whole building had too many floors to count. Somewhere in there, Dada is waiting. 

Just before we entered the building, I felt a light drizzle on my arm. We rushed inside before the rain picked up, and made our way to visit Dada. As we approached Dada’s room, I could hear muffled whispers until my dad peeked his head out the door. 

“Hey, guys!” I could tell that my Dad was tired, despite the fact that he had a smile loosely stuck to his face. He spoke to my mom next. 

“Sophia, go inside, say hi to my mom, then have your time with dad. I’ll watch the kids.” 

I wanted to give my dad words of comfort after seeing his watery eyes, but for some reason, they eluded me. We waited in deafening silence. All of my attention was focused on the slight hum of the air conditioning as I slipped out of reality and disappeared into my thoughts. Everything was blurry until I heard my dad’s voice calling my name. 

“Sam…. Sam… are you ready?” 

Bai walked out of the room with her face in her hands, and tears uncontrollably streaming down her cheeks. I wasn’t ready. 

“Yea,” I said.

My legs involuntarily dragged me towards the room. I wasn’t nervous, at least that’s what I told myself. I told myself that saying goodbye wasn’t necessary because Dada would be alright. I told myself that I would not cry because I wasn’t a child anymore— I was nine. I told myself to put up a distant facade, just to escape any thought of Dada’s detriment. However, I immediately forgot everything I told myself to do when I entered the room. 

I took a deep breath. 

Dada was lying down on the bed, his eyes closed, and his arms out of the blankets at his side. The menacing machine beside him beeped like a metronome, in sync with the steady rise and fall of his chest. I do not know what I was expecting, but it was not this. I fought back tears while a lump nested itself in my throat. 

I took a shaky breath. 

I walked up to the bed as the booming rain outside began to echo through the room. I grabbed Dada’s frail hand. I waited and waited for a response but got nothing. Memories and emotions filled my body and tears filled my eyes. How could I not have wanted to say goodbye? How could I have been so childish? I realized that I had to stay strong and keep my composure to say a proper goodbye. 

I took a broken breath. 

“Dada.” I choked. “Dada, I don’t know if you can hear me. I miss you…  Can you please wake up? Just for a bit… Dada—.” My body became limp, my head fell to the comfort of my grandfather’s chest as I started to sob uncontrollably. “Please …  please, dada.” I looked up one last time and I saw his eyes looking back at me. He was awake. 

I didn’t breathe. 

My grip around his hand tightened, staring into his loving, innocent eyes. I was paralyzed. I felt his hand grip mine back as he uncovered a faint smile. The rain continued to hit the windows like bullets. 

“My champion,” he whispered. 

I did not know what to do; I did not know what to say. My eyes widened in shock and all I did was run. I ran out of the room, past my family, and down the empty hallway. I could feel people staring at me, a nine year old kid sprinting down a hospital hallway, but I didn’t care. All that I thought about was that I had betrayed my grandfather. He loved me with his whole heart, believed in me from across the world, lived such a beautiful life, and yet I prioritized track and field over saying goodbye to him on his deathbed. He shouldn’t have called me his champion. He deserved better than me. He deserved a champion that would reciprocate his relentless compassion, not a fucking selfish, immature boy. A boy like me. If he had truly known me, would I still be his champion? 

Truthfully, I didn’t know. I still don’t. I do know that I betrayed Dada. 

With all my heart, my body, my soul aching from the weight of regret and sorrow, I sat on the ground at the end of the hallway with arms wrapped around my legs and my head down, sobbing uncontrollably, stealing the tears of the clouds outside.

I have not shed a tear since. I am now seventeen years old. 

It was only on the drive back home when I realized that I hadn’t truly said goodbye to my Dada. He passed away before I got the chance.

Ever since that day, I have lived my life attempting to fulfill my title of a champion, hoping that one day I will make him proud. Everyday before I go to sleep, I have a private conversation with him where I tell him about my troubles; in response, he gives me advice. Or the thought of him does. It pains me to reflect on my attitude that day. But, it also inspires me. For as long as I love Dada, I have promised myself to never act with imbecility. I will not— I can not let myself fall and betray people that I love. 

In Kiren Gill’s memoir, “I don’t mourn my grandparents the same,” she writes about the influence that her grandmother had on her life. Although her grandfather lived an adventurous, careless life, her grandmother was left to single-handedly raise the family and take on various trials and tribulations: “she’d baby sit them from morning till night, giving them baths one by one, braiding their hair, lining them all up on the couch and feeding them” (par 11). She was a silent hero that was often overlooked. Gill hopes that she can live up to her grandmother’s bravado, and I hope that I can live up to my grandfather’s. 

It is my deepest desire to be deserving of his love.

To be worthy, I know that I must naturally put others before myself. I must want to put others before myself. I know. I am trying. For the past eight years, I have kept Dada’s memory by my side and asked him to guide me throughout life, to the days without rain— to the days without trauma, pain, guilt, and shame. He has taught me to be kind and respectful to everyone, to see happiness when things seem dark, and to lead a life filled with compassion, adventure, and most importantly, love. 

To this day, I have yet to say a proper goodbye to him. I intend to, but in my own time. I am not ready to face him and be judged. I do not think I deserve to be his champion just yet. I still need to be better. Once I have faith in myself that he would truly be proud of who I am, then, and only then, will I sit under the cloudless sky beside his grave and say my final goodbye. 

Every moment until then, I will strive to be his champion.