My father is a traditional doctor: Our everything

Growing up in an African society had its ups and downs, but they were not extraordinary.

Life was characterized by poverty, but we were happy, we struggled to get what to eat, but we still managed to feed every day. We tiled the land for long hours to get food and father worked as a traditional healer although some people prefer to call him a witch doctor. His practice paid our school fees, and his knowledge healed our diseases plus many other people.

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Looking back at the old times, we were happy, the sky was blue, and the scenery was green, sounds of the birds, children play, the songs, the drums, feasts and dances; how I miss my old days.

I graduated, got married and produced children. On a fateful day, I had taken my children to visit their grannies, the joy and the smiles were short lived. At around 11 pm, I felt the urge to use the toilet which was a distance from the main house only to meet a rapist, we battled, and I managed to raise a scream.

My brothers came to my rescue; unfortunately, they beat the thug (who was already drunk), and he breathed his last breath. On waking up, my dad realized fate had turned against us; dreams of my young brother who had just qualified to join the biggest university in Uganda for a surveying course was going to be shattered. He called the police, and right away he took the blame. He held the sticks that were used to beat the thug so that his fingerprints appear on the evidence. The police came the next day with media coverage. To our surprise, the media house reported it as a human sacrifice. The story was published on all media platforms.

He was charged with first-degree murder instead of mob justice. Since that day, a dark cloud covered our home; we no longer laugh when we meet, when we pass people pinpoint, friend’s gossip behind our backs and home is no longer sweet home. To many, my father is merciless murder who sacrificed a person for wealth, and to us, he will always remain the best father we would ask from God.

Dad if you ever read this, just know we miss so much, and we are very proud of you.

By Otema Jesca

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