One afternoon in May 2009, when I was eight, my four older brothers and I sat in our crowded bedroom, working out how to use a VHS player. We waited with bated breath for the grainy images to flicker on screen. The video showed our last day in the Nyarugusu refugee camp in Tanzania, family and friends celebrating our departure, children running around in ragged clothes, teenage boys and girls gossiping. A melancholy gospel song played in the background – Unikumbuke, which means “remember me” – as scruffy men argued over politics and football, and women cooked mouth-watering meals.
At this point my family and I had been in the UK for a couple of months, relocated under the Gateway Protection Programme for refugees. In 1998 my family had fled the Democratic Republic of the Congo after the outbreak of the second Congo war, in which more than 5 million people died and 2 million were displaced. I was born in a refugee camp, in the middle of the Tanzanian savanna. There, my father was a jack of all trades – a construction worker, carpenter, and a volunteer who helped vaccinate children and give family planning advice at the local hospital. At weekends, he worked as a pastor at our local church. My mother was a social worker, supporting women who were victims of domestic abuse.
When we moved to the UK in 2009, to Norwich, my father wanted to pursue a career in construction, and my mother a career in social work. The language barrier made this difficult, and we spent our early days familiarising ourselves with the culture, community and language. We were fortunate to have some family – an uncle and three cousins – living close by, as well as another uncle who had come over with us.
In July that year, my dad, uncles, brother and cousin travelled to Manchester to watch football and visit an old family friend. It was, my mother remarked later – after the catastrophe – “the most pointless trip ever”. When I arrived back from school the next day, excited that term had ended, the atmosphere in the house was eerie. They hadn’t returned. My mother and aunt lay on the sofas in the living room, their faces drenched with tears, gospel music playing. My older brothers sat deep in thought. No one spoke.
Finally, my mother broke the silence. She told me my dad, brother and cousin were at the hospital in the aftermath of a serious car accident, while both my uncles had been pronounced dead at the scene. I felt my chest tighten and began pacing. “He’ll be OK,” I said to myself, as I hurried up and down the hall. A few days later, my father died.
For some time, I tried to convince myself it wasn’t true. I hoped he would reappear, surprising us all with a grin. Families came to our house to offer their condolences, and pastors, too. I prayed each night: “Papa will be back soon.” But three weeks later his body was brought back to Norwich.
It was displayed in an open casket. Cold and inanimate, it bore no resemblance to the man I remembered. My siblings said their prayers and goodbyes and my mother presided over the funeral procession, weeping as she led the hymns. I sat in a corner, my heart racing.
I went for days without food and developed insomnia, avoiding anyone outside my immediate family, and ignoring my favourite activities: no more football, films, drawing and bike rides. I felt we were being punished for something we hadn’t done and began the silent bargaining. If I could give up the luxury of living in England to be back in Nyarugusu, with my whole family, I would.
There were unshakeable feelings of guilt and shame for not having a chance to say goodbye on the night he left, and not having appreciated his presence more. As I was the youngest in the family, my seven siblings frequently tried to cheer me up, but I remained stiff and detached. When I tried to cry out my feelings, I found I couldn’t. I just lay on the sofa all night, watching television, on an empty stomach.
After the funeral, I was reminded of him every day. When we went to the park to play football and I saw children playing with their dads, I felt envious. Going to church became uncomfortable; it never felt right without my dad being part of the service. I stopped going, stopped praying, and at times rejected my religion completely.
I threw away or intentionally damaged all the toys, pictures and DVDs that reminded me of him. My attempt to bury all remaining memories became an obsession. All his pictures, his clothes, his Bible: I refused to look at anything that belonged to him.
Then, one day, while scouring my bedroom, I stumbled upon the VHS tape of our last day in Nyarugusu. This was two months since I had first sat with my brothers and watched it. The grainy images flickered on screen once again, and I noticed my dad standing with a group of men, engaged in passionate debate. For the rest of the video my eyes were fixed on him. As Unikumbuke played in the background – the chorus pleading “Remember me” – I lay in bed and cried. For the first time since the crash, I felt some relief.
That VHS tape held the last surviving image of my family when it was whole. It helped me understand the difficulties of my childhood, embrace my new surroundings and overcome my fear of facing reality. I spent the rest of the summer exploring my new home town, familiarising myself with British culture, with bike rides, cinema trips and days in the park.
I treasured that VHS tape, which was eventually lost in a house move in 2012. It became a habit to watch it, analysing our clothes and haircuts. Despite the struggles we still faced, it taught me to appreciate every moment with my family and friends.
