The church smelled strongly of incense and lies. People had been calling my dad “a pillar,” “a generous man,” and “a loving husband” all morning. It felt like sandpaper on my chest every time I said something. I sat there and thought about whether we were all talking about the same individual. The one I knew came home intoxicated, yelled, broke plates, and insulted people one at a time.
When the pastor called my name to give the eulogy, I felt like all the blood in my body rushed to my head. My brothers and sisters looked down. My uncles fixed their suits. My mom crossed her arms tightly, as if she could stop what was going to happen.
I walked to the pulpit, opened my paper, and looked at the safe speech I had written the night before. It was full of lovely, polished lies. Words like “sacrifice,” “discipline,” and “love.” I folded it up again and put it on the lectern.
I told them, “My father wasn’t the man you all think he was.”
A piercing gasp echoed through the room. The choir stopped. The preacher blinked.
I still talked. I told everyone how we were scared of Dad’s rage, how Mom cried softly so we wouldn’t see, and how his voice could turn a calm night into turmoil. I told him I forgave him, but I wouldn’t lie for him.
My hands were shaking when I stepped down, but I felt free.
There was no one in my mother’s seat. My uncle said in a low voice that I had brought shame to our name. One woman shouted that I would get a curse for saying bad things about the deceased.
But I learned something when I stood next to the grave later that day and watched the dirt cover the coffin.
Three months ago, the guy they were burying had died.
For years, the silence I had broken had been killing me.
And now, for the first time, I could finally take a breath.
I was the oldest of four kids. From the outside, our house looked like any other house. We went to church, wore matching clothes for Christmas, and my father’s acquaintances often said how well-behaved his kids were. But life was different inside those walls.
People in the neighborhood admired my father as a teacher, but they were scared of him at home. He was quick to get angry and quick to speak. He yelled at us for little things and even hit us for things we didn’t comprehend. A lot of the time, when he drank, the yelling developed into insults, and the insults turned into anarchy.
My mom was kind and worked hard. She worked at Gikomba Market selling used garments and returned home tired every night. She tried to keep us safe, but he went after her too.
I remember one time when he dumped her dinner on the floor because it had “too much salt.” She didn’t start to cry until he departed.
He left us for another lady when I was fifteen. He put a few things in a little bag, didn’t say anything to us, and drove off. My mom waited at the gate for hours, hoping he would come back. He didn’t.
It was just us for the next four years. My mom labored to pay for our school. We had a hard time, but at least we were safe at home. We could sleep without being scared. My brothers and sisters started to laugh again. We began to get better.
Then, one night when I was 19, he came back.
He stood at the door like nothing had occurred. My mom couldn’t believe what she saw when she looked at him. He stated he knew he had made a mistake and wanted his family back. My mom thought about it for a while, but in the end she let him in. “It’s for the kids,” she said. “They need their dad.”
He moved back in, but things stayed the same. He was still the same man: mean, angry, and spiteful. He called us ungrateful, degraded us, and made my mother feel like a servant. He yelled when he wasn’t drinking.
I stayed away from him as much as I could. But every trip home from college reminded me that forgiving someone without changing only makes things worse.
My siblings and I had split up by the time I was thirty. My brother left home early. My sisters didn’t come home very much. Only my mother stayed, and I didn’t understand why she loved him so much.
I didn’t cry when he died three months ago after a short illness. I felt empty. My siblings screamed and my mother wailed, but I just stood there, thinking of all the times I had yearned for peace. We got silence when he died, but not the sort we desired.
I almost said no when the family requested me to give the eulogy. But something inside me told me it was time. It’s time to quit lying.
The day of the burial was sunny, which didn’t seem right to me. There were so many people in the church that it was full. They were all dressed in black and looked serious. The pastor talked about leaving a legacy and forgiving others. My uncles spoke kind things about my father’s strength and leadership, and his friends said nice things about how he had assisted a lot of people in the community.
Every syllable made me sick to my stomach.
Then it was my turn. The preacher smiled at me and gave me the microphone. I opened up the paper I had prepared the night before, a safe speech that didn’t say anything true, and gazed out at the throng.
My brothers and sisters looked at me with worried eyes. My mom nodded a little, as if she wanted me to say something kind. But the words on the page made me feel sick.
So I stopped reading the paper.
“I told you my father wasn’t the man you all thought he was.”
The church stopped moving.
I spoke slowly, clearly, and on purpose. I replied that other people saw a great man, but we saw his rage. I told them about the fear that controlled our family and how my siblings used to hide in my room when he came home intoxicated. I told about how my mother suffered in silence, the names he called her, and how those words hurt us more than any beating.
Some people began to talk in whispers. “Kioni, this is not the time,” my uncle replied loudly.
But I kept going.
“I am not talking to disrespect my father,” I said. “I am talking because pretending has never made us feel better. I forgive him, but I won’t lie.
The silence was so thick when I sat down. My mom wouldn’t look at me. My younger sister was silently crying.
After the funeral, my relatives stood around me outside. One of them said, “You are cursed.” You said bad things about your father. Another person added, “You have ruined our family’s name.”
I sat alone in my room that night, looking at the wall. My phone kept buzzing with texts from family members calling me callous, proud, and possessed. Some people even said that my ancestors would punish me. My mom didn’t pick up the phone when I called. My brothers and sisters stopped texting.
I had said the truth, but I had never felt more alone.
It took weeks for any of them to get back to me. I tried to see my mom, but she wouldn’t let me in. She yelled through the window, “Kioni, why did you do that?” Why did you do that to us?
“I didn’t shame anyone,” I responded softly. “I told the truth.”
For a bit, she was quiet, and then she murmured, “Some truths should be buried with the dead.”
That day, I left with tears in my eyes.
Then, one night, my younger sister called. Her voice shook. “Kioni,” she began, “I didn’t like what you said that day, but I can’t stop thinking about it.” You were correct. “He did hurt us.”
I sat on my bed and couldn’t say anything.
My brother called two days later. “I was mad at you,” he replied, “but maybe you said what we all wanted to say but couldn’t.”
They came around one by one, slowly. They stopped acting. We began to talk about our childhoods honestly, including the yelling, the terror, and the things we had never told anyone about before. At first, it felt funny, but then it felt good.
But my mom didn’t come with us. She still thought that love meant keeping the memory of her husband safe. There was nothing I could do to blame her. She loved him in a manner that none of us could fathom.
But something changed inside me. I no longer felt bad. I realized that I hadn’t ruined my father’s heritage; I had just refused to lie for it. I never had to carry the humiliation that other people felt.
Then my uncle came back, this time to give me a warning. “The elders say you brought shame on our family.” They are going to curse you.
I looked him in the eye and said, “If the truth brings curses, maybe we need to clean up our bloodline.”
He went without saying anything else.
That night, I slept well for the first time since the funeral.
Not long after that, I left our family compound. I found a little cottage on the edge of Nairobi. It is tranquil, with woods all around it, and far away from the noise of family politics. My brothers and sisters come to see me a lot. We chat, cook, and laugh in ways we couldn’t when he was alive.
I do everything I can to aid them, like pay their rent, school fees, and give them guidance. I assured them that if they ever felt unsafe, they could always come to my house. I suppose that’s the kind of protection I wish someone had given us a long time ago.
My mom still isn’t okay with me. She goes to see my sisters, but not me. She tells them that she prays for my “stubborn soul.” Even though I know she’ll never love me wholeheartedly, I still buy her food and send her money.
The rest of my family stays away from me. People mutter my name at weddings and funerals, and then they always sigh. It stung at first, but now it feels like a story that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I began treatment last month. It’s helping me see that being honest doesn’t make me mean; it makes me free. When we were kids, I couldn’t protect my siblings, but I can shield them today from the weight of silence.
I don’t resent my dad anymore. I see him as a broken guy who passed on his misery instead of fixing it. That doesn’t make him any less bad, but it lets me go on.
I still dream about the church, the flowers, the casket, and my voice coming through the microphone. I’m not ashamed in those dreams. I’m standing tall and speaking for the child I used to be.
Sometimes the truth isn’t pretty. It can break things apart before it sets you free. I thought that being quiet made me strong and that pretending everything was alright was the best way to keep the peace. But quiet simply keeps pain safe.
I didn’t mean to lose my family when I talked that day. I just wanted to quit telling lies. What I’ve learnt since then is that truth has its own kind of beauty. It gets rid of the illusions but leaves everything clear.
My mom still prays for me. I don’t care. Maybe one day she will understand that I wasn’t trying to hurt my father; I was attempting to protect the rest of us from the darkness he left behind.
One talk at a time, my siblings and I are getting better. We don’t hide from our past anymore. We deal with it. We talk about it. And with each word, the terror gets weaker.
When I go by a funeral and hear people celebrating the dead, I sometimes wonder how many stories are hidden behind the hymns. How many kids are sitting in quiet, carrying someone else’s reputation like a heavy load?
I don’t think badly of them. A lot of people aren’t willing to pay the price for telling the truth. But if I had to do it all over again, I would still speak from that pulpit. The only way I’ve ever been able to make peace with myself is by telling the truth, even when it hurts.
So now, every time I think about my father’s burial, I ask myself, “Would I rather be loved for a lie or hated for the truth?”
And the answer is always the same.
I pick the truth.
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