MY father was…
My father was a politician, but first, he was a patriot. My father was the former Minister of Home Affairs, who considered his post a sacred trust. My father was Secretary General of CCM in Zanzibar, a leader whose authority rested not on fear, but on honor. My father was a journalist, the esteemed editor of Uhuru and Mzalendo, who held the pen like a sword of truth.
It is hard to write My father was… because he still is the root of who I am.
Today, I stand as a journalist because of the clear, echoing pride in his voice, his steady encouragement for me to follow his footsteps. We talked endlessly, about the architecture of a good story, the sanctity of fairness, the absolute mandate to report what is true.
But all those titles, all that power… is nothing apart from the simple, profound truth: My father was the best father. His smile and his laugh will always be the melody of my memory.
The Price of Integrity
Let me tell you a story about my father.
He was a man carved from integrity, honest to the bone. He didn’t bend his values; he said what he meant, and he meant what he said. In a world of politics where the soil was often poisoned by corruption, my father simply refused to play the game.
I remember my mother’s confusion, a deep, frustrated ache in her voice. A moment where a bag full of money, a clear pathway to comfort and ease was offered and instantly rejected. My mother, ever practical, saw an opportunity turn to smoke.
“This man will die poor,” she worried aloud. “How can a Minister of Home Affairs refuse this chance?”
She saw a future unburdened by struggle; my father saw a soul tarnished. He stood firm, telling her that no money could ever buy him out of his dedication to serving his beloved country. He taught us that integrity was a currency richer than gold and he refused to exchange his soul for a temporary gain.
The cost of serving the Constitution
Last year, I went home. Though his health was waning, his mind remained sharp, fixed on the principles of good governance. We talked politics and journalism, discussing the state of the nation. He observed, “Nowadays leaders are afraid of losing their jobs and status, and forgetting to serve their constitution.”
Then came his loud, joyful laugh, the one that could fill a room.
He retold the story of his political end. “Your mother called me and told me I was sacked as Minister of Home Affairs!” he exclaimed. “I knew the answer, yet I wanted to hear it again”.
“I picked up the phone from Zubeda, your mother, and I asked, ‘Did I get fired?’”
He knew the answer because, from his last meeting with the then President, Benjamin Mkapa, he expected to be replaced.
We talked for a while longer. He gave me his final journalist’s oath: “If you ever put your pen down, understand that voice is read, and molds opinion for others. So, do not ever bend the truth, and if you do, you will have to answer to your Allah.”
His legacy: A clean slate
I remember talking about world politics, and he laughed, asking, “How is your president Trump?”
With a profound sincerity that overshadowed the joke, he offered his final, greatest pride: “One thing I am proud of is not to embarrass my kids. Politics is a dirty game, and I made it out clean, with no corruption case or accusations.”
My father was not wealthy when he entered politics, and he left when he had just enough to feed his family. Politics and power did not change him.
He was a man who carried his village of Donge with pride, his Island of Zanzibar with integrity and his country with profound dedication.
My father was the son of his Island.
My father was Ali Ameir Mohamed.
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un. I loved you, I love you, and I will always love you, baba…