A Reflection on Father’s Day: Of Forgotten Heroes and Silent Cheers

Yesterday was Father’s Day. You probably missed it. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you’re one of the rare ones who posted (or was posted with) a heartfelt message, tagged your old man (or his memories for those who have already rested, strength buddy), and penned something poetic about “the first king I ever knew.”

That’s noble. But let’s not pretend it was anything close to the electric buzz that Mother’s Day carries. This is not war. Or don’t even think I am a chauvinistic chap. Some truths sting, but must be set forth.

For instance, walk into any supermarket in Nairobi a week before Mother’s Day, and you’ll be welcomed by a tsunami of florals and pinkish (gifting) goodies. The prices of roses compete with the Nairobi rent, and there’s a whole aisle temporarily converted into a shrine for “Mum or mothers.”

But when Father’s Day comes? Silence. A dusty shelf somewhere near the hardware section offers a half-hearted “Best Dad Ever” mug – often it is an oversized cap, some cheap socks or those belts which once rained on become a relish invite to the street mongrels – next to a roll of duct tape and a hammer.

And yet, despite the obscurity and the commercial cold shoulder, Father’s Day remains one of the most quietly emotional days of the year. It is marinated with layered silences, unspoken gratitude, and sometimes, painful memories.

Yesterday, I received four “Happy Father’s Day” messages. Let me be clear: I am not a father. At least not yet.  I haven’t even mastered the consistency of watering houseplants. Let alone taking the dog for the coveted habitual evening and morning walks.

 But still, there they were, four texts. Two were from friends who always think I’m hiding a child somewhere in Nakuru, pun intended. One from someone who sees great potential in me and says, “You will make a great father” (I nearly cried). They almost betrothed me once. The rest I wrap them in one; my bank, cellular provider and some apps that did the “code” thing.

It got me thinking, though, what is this thing we celebrate but never truly see?

Father’s Day and the Man

In many African households, the father is often the engine you only notice when it stops running. He wakes up early, most times before the sun, chews on silence and responsibility, and heads out.

He is the first suspect when school fees are delayed and the last to be thanked when things go smoothly. His love, unlike a mother’s, is not woven into lullabies but folded into fare for matatus, quiet glances of pride, and the heavy lifting of life.

One of my earliest memories of my father isn’t poetic. It was on this day that I fell from a tree, and I hurt my knee. I was trying to impress the young girls with my boyish theatrical tricks. The pain had me howling like a cat in a storm or a goat before a storm. My mother panicked, wondering what would become of me.

But then my father walked over, looked at my knee, tightened his jaw, and muttered: “It’s just a small injury.” Then he “gently” rubbed the injured part and “nicely” massaged the tissues. I became better sooner than anticipated. He never mentioned it again.

That’s the thing with fathers. Their love doesn’t announce itself. It arrives in grunts, in repaired sockets, mowed lawns, mended fences and in the way they pause to make sure you remembered your keys.

But perhaps the most underrated aspect of fatherhood is its evolution. Today’s African dad is not the stone-faced patriarch of the ‘80s. He’s navigating a world that demands emotional fluency without ever being shown how to speak that language.

He’s expected to balance firmness with tenderness, to be a provider but not a tyrant, to be involved but not overbearing. He’s asked to cook dinner, help with homework, maintain a six-pack, and know his child’s favourite cartoon character.

In the UK, cultural norms around parenting are more fluid. I recently witnessed a young father at Aldi in Bletchley kneeling beside his daughter who had dropped her toy and gently explaining why they couldn’t buy another. No threats, no raised voice. Just patience. And love.

This reminded me of a certain gentleman in Kisii who raised four children alone after losing his wife, never once complaining, even when the cows stopped producing milk and the shamba turned rebellious. Different geographies. Same quiet heroism.

Yet even with these evolving roles, Father’s Day still struggles for attention. It’s like a WhatsApp group message that only gets two blue ticks and no replies.

Some argue it’s because men themselves don’t celebrate each other enough. We wait to be noticed, then retreat in silence when the world moves on. We eschew compliments, wear hardships like a badge of honour, and then drown in quiet desperation when no one claps.

But the inconvenient truth is that men need celebration. Desperately. Not because they’re perfect, but because they carry weights they rarely unpack. The pressure to provide, to protect, to project strength even when they’re crumbling. A call to say, “Thank you,” or “I see you,” is not excessive; it’s necessary.

So, what now?

Cryptically rewriting the narrative

Let’s start by rewriting the narrative. Celebrating fathers is not a favour; rather, it’s a recognition of the universality of life. It’s acknowledging the many men who show up even when they’re invisible. The ones who teach their sons to shave, and their daughters to speak boldly. The ones who apologise when they’re wrong, and still call their children every week, even when the calls aren’t returned.

Maybe next Father’s Day, we can go beyond the socks and belts. Maybe we take time to listen to stories of struggle, to dreams postponed, to regrets whispered in the dark. Maybe we remind the fathers, father figures, and soon-to-be fathers that their presence matters, even when it goes unposted on Instagram.

As for me, I’ve saved those four Father’s Day messages. They weren’t accurate, but they were kind. And in a world where men often feel like furniture, conveniently there and functional, but unnoticed, a little kindness goes a long way.

So, to the fathers who were forgotten yesterday, we celebrate you. Even if belatedly. And we salute you not with empty words, but with the recognition that your quiet sacrifices are etched deeply in the foundation of our lives.

Albeit overdue, happy Father’s Day. Hopefully, next year will find you celebrated, not just tolerated.