By Daisy Mburu-Guest Author

Before I became Madam Daisy to my dad, I was his little girl, who went everywhere with him.

He a little ahead, while I trailed him wearing him down with incessant questions and chatter, which he bore with patience and fortitude.

I had a habit of going through his pockets
because I would always find sweets and coins, which I would gleefully keep. (He recently told me that he left them there for me to find).

As the last of four children, his third daughter, I should not have been special, but I think I was, if my childhood memories are anything to go by.

My earliest memories are of me and dad making burnt omelettes, reading newspapers instead of storybooks and traipsing across the hills of his

Most memorable however, are the pretty new dresses he picked out and bought for us, his girls.

My mother’s choices never quite


As I grew older, as a tween going on teen, it was dad who took me shopping as I prepared to join secondary school.

Those days there were no malls, and supermarkets had just a few aisles
with even fewer shelves and a poor selection of anything a teen would like.

We stopped at a rural shop, and from the look on her face, the woman behind the counter could not believe that a Meru man had brought his daughter to shop.

Her mouth was agape when I started ordering everything, from mudboots, garish blue nail polish to the most personal items a teenage girl would need in boarding school.

My dad bowed to my every whim, paying for everything I asked for.

“You are one lucky girl,” she told me, as dad stood aside, smiling indulgently as I took hours to pick the many items I wanted, items I knew my mother would not approve.

I never thought much of the woman’s remarks, as I soon thereafter transformed into a nasty teenager with a bad case of attitude.

Dad patiently bore my frequent tantrums and door slamming, and through it all, he found it difficult to say no to me.

The only time he did was to refuse me a pair of secondhand shoes because he insisted on buying a new pair!

Many years later, shopping late at night in a 24-hour supermarket with numerous aisles and countless shelves, a distressed middle-aged man stopped next to me, apologised and thrust his phone at me and asked for my help picking items
appearing on his screen. “Teenagers…” he offered in way of explanation.

From the list, I couldn’t help but notice how sophisticated teenagers have become.

The man was relieved when I finally tossed the last item into his shopping cart.

On a whim, I asked if his daughter appreciated his efforts.


“I’m afraid I don’t hear thank you enough,” he said.

My heart stopped.

Right there, in my mind, I saw my dad following me in trepidation, gingerly
treading on the egg shells around the demanding force my teenage self had become: a heavy sulking cloud of moods threatening to rain constantly, demanding my dad’s wallet.

Then, it hit me that not once did I ever say thank you. Even once.

I had walked around entitled, while my beloved bewildered dad followed in my wake picking the tab of a spoilt brat, probably wondering where his little girl had gone.

I now realise it was a choice he made to labour in love and sacrifice by taking on the thankless role of an underappreciated dad.

Mr Mburu, thank you. You are the best dad a girl could ask for, and I appreciate you everyday most especially on this Fathers’ Day.

Today, many years later, I want to apologise for all I put you through.

Thank you for suffering me.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®