Along with perforated eardrums (teachers regularly slapped his ears for being a mischief-maker), Dad left school with two things he would carry for the rest of his life: high school failure (like his son in the future) and the soubriquet “Kassare”.
It was derived from the initials of his full name: KASsamali SAlehmohamed REmtulla. As a pious Muslim, his name comprised given , father’s and grandfather’s.
Dad never preached lessons for me to learn from—he had neither the time nor the interest. Instead, he loved life to the full. Every small action was carried out with a flourish you would remember for a lifetime. People say, “A day without Mozart is like a day without sunshine.” They could well have said that about my father.
His self-taught purpose in life was playing practical jokes. It wasn’t enough to provide his African porters at work with Bonamint—fast-acting laxatives in the form of chewing gum—he also taught his hapless son the art of exploding stink bombs in crowded A-Tea-Shop cafés. Dad loved preying on the pompous and the grave.
My mum divorced him when I was four, dragging me with her to England. She only returned to Dar-es-Salaam for her favourite brother’s wedding.
“Kassare, I’m giving you the serial number of each wedding photo I want. Ask your photographer friend for a discount. I’m leaving next week for Kenya. Make sure he sends the photos to me in England.” My father altered each number. Mum NEVER forgave him.
A friend emigrating to Los Angeles gave Dad packing boxes of ebony Makonde statues to ship over once he was settled. Menzie couldn’t understand why he received boxes full of rotten coconuts instead.
Dad was frequently asked for rides on his scooter. With roads mostly dirt tracks, he made sure to hit every pothole on the way. The chance of a passenger avoiding a fall was near zero.
I played team football every afternoon. Dad came home at lunch for a siesta. An hour later, I would be looking for my runners to head out to play. Every day, one shoe would be missing. I’d arrive an hour late and be cursed—I happened to be the star goal-scorer.
Nothing in my father’s life was ever simple. To visit the shop below our apartment, he had to be immaculately dressed (always wearing a suit) and his hair coiffed. I sported a crewcut. Yet, until I was in my mid-twenties, Dad would grab me by the chin and spend ten minutes combing and recombing my hair until it was just so. He exulted in making things as complicated as possible—creating diversions and delays, especially when you were in a hurry. Simplicity was simply not his style.
No wonder he died—quietly and painlessly in his sleep—on April Fool’s Day.
Dad never believed in savings. When he died, he left me the benefit of a life insurance policy of $30,000 and a framed piece of art.
The artwork comprised thousands of pieces of broken, coloured seashells. It resembled the eye tests we receive for colourblindness. If you poked your face as close to the work as possible—assuming you weren’t colour-blind—you could just about discern the message: “Simplicity is Greatness.”
So profound, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
