The First Hero Falls Last.

“One day, you'll bury your dad. That's the day you'll realize you lost the only man who wants you to win genuinely."

The First Hero Falls Last

One day, you’ll bury your dad. That’s the day you’ll realize you lost the only man who wants you to win genuinely. I don’t know who first said that to me. Maybe I read it somewhere. Maybe life whispered it quietly while I wasn’t paying attention. But I remember the first time it truly landed in my chest. It didn’t land gently. It landed like truth usually does—heavy, uninvited, and slightly rude. Because when you’re young, your father feels permanent. Like mountains. Like the sky. Like taxes. He exists. He has always existed. He will continue to exist. End of discussion. Fathers don’t die in a boy’s imagination. They just age. They just get louder when watching football. They just complain about fuel prices and the government. They just sleep earlier and wake up earlier and insist that 5:00 a.m. is a reasonable time to be alive. But they don’t disappear. Until one day they do. And that is when the silence becomes loud.

There’s something strange about fathers. They are rarely poetic with their love. They don’t sit you down and say, “Son, I believe in your dreams.” They don’t hold your face dramatically and whisper motivational quotes like some Instagram reel. No. Fathers love differently. They love by asking if you’ve eaten. They love by telling you to lock the gate properly. They love by criticizing your plan in a way that sounds suspiciously like discouragement. But look closer. Behind that criticism is fear. Behind that fear is protection. Behind that protection is love. When you win, your father’s chest expands like he personally ran the race. He may pretend he expected it. “I knew you would pass.” But inside, he’s doing fireworks. And when you lose? He will act calm. Too calm. He will say something like, “It’s fine. Try again.” But that night he will lie awake thinking about how to help you try again. There is no one who wants you to win like your father. Not your friends. Not your followers. Not your boss. Not even sometimes yourself. Your father’s investment in your success is irrational. It doesn’t make business sense. It doesn’t benefit him directly. In fact, sometimes it costs him. But he wants you to surpass him. And that is rare.

In our society—especially here at home—fathers are not allowed softness. A father will eat ugali while the rest of the table enjoys rice and stew. If you push him to take the rice, he’ll agree, nodding gently, but deep inside he knows the rice stew is curtain raising for the main character, ugali. Masculinity is heavy clothing. It does not breathe well. A father is expected to provide. To endure. To fix things. To know things. To have answers. To not cry. To not panic. To not say “I don’t know.” Imagine the psychological weight of that. A mother can say, “I’m overwhelmed.” A father says, “We’ll figure it out.” He is the roof. Roofs don’t complain about rain. But roofs crack. We just don’t see it from inside the house. As I grow older, I realize my father was improvising. He did not have a secret manual titled How To Be a Perfect Dad. He was a young man once. Confused. Insecure. Trying to impress someone. Trying to survive. Then suddenly—boom. A child. Before the dust could settle, boom. Another one. Then, as if the universe said “let’s keep going,” me. A small pause—false hope. Then another blessing. Four children in total. And just like that, retirement from responsibility was cancelled for life. Now he must be strong forever. That’s a brutal job description.

Let’s be honest. Fathers are unintentionally hilarious. The same man who lectures you about saving money will spend thirty minutes bargaining over ten shillings like he’s negotiating an international treaty. The same man who says “money doesn’t grow on trees” will randomly buy something unnecessary because “it was on offer.” Fathers have two modes: extreme seriousness and unexpected comedy. They will shout about electricity bills and then five minutes later laugh so hard at a joke that they start coughing. They act tough, but they panic when you don’t answer your phone. They pretend not to understand social media, but they somehow know everything happening in the family WhatsApp group. And the dancing. My goodness. Fathers at weddings dance like they are both embarrassed and unstoppable. There is rhythm somewhere in there—it’s just hiding. But that humor is part of the architecture of fatherhood. It makes the hardness bearable. I have never seen my father dance—not once. But in my spirit, I know he's hiding those legendary Matiang’i moves. Unfortunately, my case lacks evidence, witnesses, and video footage. I have zero proof—just strong suspicion.

There is a particular fear only sons understand. The fear of disappointing your father. It’s not the same as disappointing a teacher. Or a friend. Or even your mother. Disappointing your father feels like failing a test you didn’t study for because you didn’t know there was a test in the first place. You want him to be proud. Not loudly proud. Just that quiet nod. That subtle “Good.” That “Good” is worth more than applause from strangers. And sometimes, even when he doesn’t say it, you chase it anyway. You build your life around earning it. That can be beautiful. It can also be heavy. Because what if your dream is not the one he imagined? What if your path bends in a direction he doesn’t understand? Now you are caught between loyalty and identity. That tension shapes many men.

The real shock comes when you become a father yourself. Suddenly, you understand why he was tired. You understand why he worried. You understand why he sometimes snapped. You understand the pressure of being someone’s foundation. A child looks at you like you know everything. You don’t. But you must appear like you do. That performance is exhausting. You realize your father was performing strength for you. He was scared sometimes. He was unsure. He was figuring it out in real time. But he stood anyway. And now you stand. That is how masculinity travels across generations—not perfectly, but persistently.

Fathers sacrifice in ways that don’t trend online. They wear the same shoes for years. They delay personal dreams. They swallow certain disappointments. They will not announce it. They just do it. A father will downgrade his comfort so you can upgrade your opportunity. He will take the harder shift. The longer route. The extra burden. And when you finally succeed, people will clap for you. Few will clap for him. But he will be the loudest in the room.

Time is disrespectful. The man who once lifted you like you weighed nothing will one day struggle to lift a bucket. The voice that once filled the house becomes softer. The stride slows down. And suddenly, the giant shrinks. That’s when the quote becomes terrifyingly real. One day, you’ll bury your dad. It is not just about death. It is about transition. It is the day the umbrella disappears and you realize you are now the umbrella. There is no higher authority to call for backup. You are the man now. That realization is both empowering and frightening.

As boys, we judge our fathers. We notice the flaws. The temper. The inconsistencies. The emotional distance. As men, we begin to understand context. He was working with what he had. He was shaped by his own father. He inherited wounds he didn’t choose. Some fathers apologize. Some don’t know how. Some try in awkward ways. Forgiveness becomes part of maturity. Not because they were perfect. But because they were human. And being human while responsible for another human is terrifying.

Fatherhood can be lonely. Men don’t gather to discuss their fears openly. They discuss politics. Football. Business. Not vulnerability. A father carries silent anxieties. Will I provide enough? Am I raising them right? What if I fail? He cannot show too much doubt. The family looks to him for stability. So he internalizes it. And internal pressure becomes quiet stress. That’s why sometimes he seems distant. Not because he doesn’t care. Because he cares too much.

We inherit more than DNA from our fathers. We inherit posture. We inherit tone. We inherit habits. We inherit silence. We inherit resilience. Some of it we keep. Some of it we must consciously rewrite. That is the work of adulthood. To honor without blindly repeating. To appreciate without ignoring flaws. To evolve without disrespecting the foundation.

Here’s the brutal truth. The world celebrates you conditionally. Friends celebrate you as long as your success doesn’t threaten them. Employers celebrate you as long as you’re profitable. Society celebrates you when you’re useful. But your father? He celebrates you even when you fail. He wants you to win in ways that don’t benefit him. He wants you to have what he didn’t. He wants your ceiling to be higher than his. That kind of love is rare. It is raw. It is stubborn. It is not always articulate. But it is genuine.

If your father is still alive, call him. Yes, even if the relationship is complicated. Even if conversations are short and slightly awkward. Even if he says, “I’m fine,” and hands the phone to your mother. Call him. Ask him about his youth. Ask him what scared him at your age. Ask him what he regrets. Ask him what he’s proud of. Because one day, you’ll want those answers and there will be only silence.

If you’ve already buried your father, then you know. You know the strange emptiness. You know how certain achievements feel incomplete. You know how certain advice would have been useful. But here’s something powerful: he lives in you. In your decisions. In your voice. In your stubbornness. In your humor. A father never truly disappears. He multiplies through his children.

Fatherhood is not about perfection. It is about presence. It is about standing in the storm so your children feel less rain. It is about wanting someone else’s success more than your own comfort. It is about sacrifice without applause. And one day, when the inevitable happens, you will stand at a graveside and realize something heavy and undeniable: the man who seemed ordinary was extraordinary. The man who annoyed you protected you. The man who criticized you believed in you. And the man who sometimes struggled silently wanted you to win more than anyone else ever will. That is fatherhood. Messy. Imperfect. Heroic. Human. And deeply, deeply underrated.

And before I close this, I need to say this out loud: Dad, you are exactly the man I just described. You are the roof that did not complain about rain. You are the quiet sacrifice that never asked for applause. You are the stubborn belief that I could do more, be more, reach further. If I stand with confidence today, it is because you stood first. If I chase big dreams without apology, it is because you taught me that effort is dignity. You may not have said it poetically, but you showed it practically. And that has been enough. Thank you for wanting me to win genuinely, even when I didn’t understand the cost of that desire.

And now, to my son, Al—Mr. Flowers—this is my promise to you. One day you will read words like these and realize your father was also improvising. I will not be perfect. I will get tired. I will worry more than I admit. I will probably embarrass you with my dancing at weddings. But hear me clearly: I am rooting for you in a way the world cannot replicate. I want you to surpass me without guilt. I want your ceiling to intimidate my own. I want you to feel protected but never limited. If one day you stand at a place where I once stood—strong but unsure—remember this: I loved you loudly in the ways I knew how, and quietly in the ways that mattered most. And long after I am gone, may you carry not just my name, but my stubborn belief that you were born to bloom.

***

If ever step into your house—God forbid, because I don’t invade personal spaces—but if you insist on inviting me for a Sunday brunch, I’ll be oblidged.

But understand this: if your walls are empty, I will notice. If there’s no floor lamp creating ambience, I will take it personally.

I’m a craftsman. It’s not judgment—it’s professional concern.

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