Life. Seasoned with perspective.
“A reflection on childhood, parenting, and the small moments that quietly shape who we become. It highlights how everyday experiences turn into lasting memories that define our lives.”
“Daddy… why do you write stories?”
My daughter asks this out of nowhere.
“That is my work, mummy. I tell stories. Sometimes I write them, sometimes I film them,” I respond, not entirely sure where this is going. I know Naini well. Her questions are never just questions. There is always a destination.
She pauses, then with a slight smirk asks, “And they pay you for writing?”
I laugh.
“Yes, they do. This is my twenty first year of telling stories. That is where your school fees come from.”
Then she lands it.
“Write about me.”
So today, I will. But not just about Naini, my second born. I will take you back to my own childhood and place it side by side with theirs. Somewhere in between lies a lesson or two.
It is the long Easter weekend. Schools are closed. The house is alive.
I sit in the living room watching my little world unfold. Naini is focused on her holiday assignments, flipping pages like she has a deadline to beat. Nailantei is stretched across the couch like she owns the place, completely at peace. The youngest, Nia, is deep into cartoons, snacks in hand, lost in her own universe.
Moments like this ground me.
Nothing makes me prouder than being present for them. My biggest prayer is simple. That I never let them down. That they always know they can count on me.
I was born and raised in a small village in Vihiga County called Ekedoli. Life was simple. Good. Not perfect, but full.
Some memories with my father remain very clear. Even in the years when life got difficult, those moments stayed.
There is one I will never forget.
We had gone somewhere together. I loved those rides in his Peugeot 404, registration KMH 187. That car was everything. On our way back, he stopped to greet someone along the road and stepped out of the car.
I got curious.
I started fiddling with things inside the car. Then suddenly I heard a scream. Loud.
I had released the handbrake.
The car had been parked on a slope and it began rolling.
In that moment, I discovered my father could sprint. He dashed, opened the door, and slammed the brakes just in time. My heart was pounding.
What happened next has stayed with me all these years.
He did not shout. He did not punish me. He laughed.
He walked me back to the man he had been talking to and joked that maybe it was time he started teaching me how to drive.
The relief I felt that day cannot be explained.
That moment taught me something without words. Calmness. Grace. Understanding.
My father loved taking me along on his errands. He enjoyed his Tusker beer, so you can imagine where we spent a fair amount of time. As he chatted with his friend Kivunaga, I would sit there enjoying my Fanta orange.
And let me tell you, Fanta was different back then. It had a taste that today’s version has not quite matched.
Late in the evening, we would drive back home. Sometimes, just before reaching our compound, the car would get stuck in mud at a familiar trouble spot. Almost like clockwork, my siblings would appear out of nowhere to help push the car.
That was life. Community. Effort. Togetherness.
End-of-month trips to Kisumu were the highlight of our calendar. This was before mobile money and cards. You had to queue at the bank to withdraw cash. Long, slow lines that we hated as children.
But the reward always came.
After the bank, we would go for chips and sausage. Then go shopping. Then pass by the fish market for supper.
Simple things. Big memories.
As I sit in my living room today, watching my daughters grow up in a completely different world, I often wonder what memories they will carry.
Will it be movie nights? Road trips? Conversations? The small jokes we share?
Will they remember that I showed up?
Parenting does not come with a manual. There is no perfect script. You just do your best and hope that the little things matter.
Because they do.
Looking back, it is not the big moments that shaped me. It is the small ones. The laughter. The calm reactions. The quiet presence.
So when Naini asked me to write about her, maybe this is what she really meant.
Not just her story.
But the story we are building together.
And if there is one thing I have learned, it is this.
Children do not remember everything you say.
But they will never forget how you made them feel.
And that, right there, is the story that truly matters.
About the author:
Kibisu Mulanda is a media executive and strategic communicator with over 20 years of experience in television, NGO storytelling, and youth-focused content. He is the Acting Head of Switch Media Ltd and teaches media at the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication (KIMC). A Certified SIYB Trainer, he blends storytelling with strategy to drive social impact.
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