The Day the Road Forgot My Name

The Day My Father Forgot—Caregiving and Memory Loss in an African Family

Prof. Bwisa was afraid. Not in the immediate, frantic way one fears fire or falling, but in the quiet, creeping manner of something unnamed—something the mind touches, then recoils from. He could not quite say what unsettled him. Perhaps it was the sudden stillness that accompanied retirement. Or the unnerving way days now folded into each other without the familiar structure of lectures, student consultations, and senate meetings.

Back in 1982, when he first joined Kenyatta University as a young lecturer, the notion of retirement at seventy had sounded almost comedic. A distant line on the horizon. He had watched colleagues peel away—some to chase business ventures, others to write books they never finished, or tend to farms they had long neglected. To Prof. Bwisa, their departure had seemed premature, even indulgent. “I have found my calling,” he would say, with the characteristic certainty of a man for whom work was identity. “What could be nobler than moulding young minds at the summit of intellectual pursuit?”

But now, seated in a small, unfamiliar restaurant with sunlight streaming in through grimy windows, that certainty felt as brittle as the rim of his teacup.

Five months earlier, he had paid a courtesy visit to Dr. Wanguyu, his old colleague and long-time friend, on the eve of his retirement. “I’m leaving the university next week,” he had said with a casual smile. “Thought I’d get a full medical check-up before they cut off the staff insurance.” He had chuckled at his own foresight.

Dr. Wanguyu had obliged. The tests had been routine—until they weren’t. At the tail end of the consultation, the good doctor had taken off his spectacles and looked at him with that unsettling mixture of compassion and caution reserved for delivering news that changes the axis of a life.

“Prof,” he’d said gently, “I believe you may be experiencing the onset of dementia.”

“Me?” Bwisa had laughed, incredulous.

“Yes, you,” Wanguyu had replied, not unkindly.

What the professor hadn’t realised was that during their conversation, he had repeated the same questions—word for word—several times. He would ask about his blood pressure, be answered, and then a few minutes later ask again. And again.

Wanguyu had remained jovial, careful not to injure his pride. “I’m not putting you on anything heavy just yet,” he’d said. “But here’s a dietary recommendation that may help slow the process. Omega-3s, memory-friendly greens, hydration. Keep the mind stimulated, you know the drill.”

The professor had folded the list without a glance and never spoke of it again—not to his wife, not to his children, not even to the trusted house help who had known him since the children were in primary school.

Now here he was, five months on, staring into a half-empty cup of tea in a town he did not recognise.

He had no idea how he had arrived here. The name of the place escaped him. He remembered leaving the house early that morning, briefcase in hand, intending to visit the post office. But somewhere along the way, his sense of direction, usually reliable to the point of arrogance, had betrayed him.

Still, not wanting to look confused, he had walked confidently into the small café, taken a seat by the window, and ordered chapati and tea. The waitress had asked him something he hadn’t quite caught, and rather than admit it, he had simply smiled and nodded. It was only when she left that the cold panic set in.

He did not know the name of this restaurant.
He did not know the street outside.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, placed it on the table like an offering. Maybe it would ring. Maybe a familiar voice would reset his mind, remind him who he was, why he was here.

But the phone stayed silent.

What arrived instead was tea and two chapatis.

“I didn’t ask for two,” he muttered.

He forgot he was lost and bit into one chapati. It was excellent. Flaky, warm. He finished it and ordered another helping. But when it came, a strange heaviness anchored itself in his stomach. He couldn’t eat. He stared at the food, unsettled.

The waitress eventually came over with the bill. He looked at her sharply.

“I didn’t eat your chapati. My wife, Eva, feeds me well. I don’t need chapati from strangers.”

Two young men, seated nearby, had been watching. One of them, curious and a little concerned, came over. After listening quietly, he took out his wallet and paid the bill without fuss.

Then he turned to the older man, gently:
“Is there someone I can call for you, sir?”

Professor Bwisa’s face twitched.

“I don’t know, James. I have to get home before your mother starts worrying.”

The young man paused, a lump forming in his throat. He looked down at the phone left on the table and pressed redial.

“Dad, where are you?” a voice answered, on the first ring, urgent. I have been trying to reach you.

“Dad, where are you?”
A voice picked up on the first ring—urgent, breathless.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’m not your father,” the young man said gently. “There’s an elderly gentleman here. He says his name is Professor Bwisa. He seems… confused.”
“And where is here?”
“A restaurant in Nanyuki.”
There was a pause, then:
“Do me a favour, please. My name is James Bwisa—his son. My father left home this morning to visit the post office in Lower Kabete. I have no idea how he ended up in Nanyuki. Would you stay with him? I’m driving up from Nairobi now to fetch him.”
“Of course. My grandfather had the same problem before he passed last year,” said the young man. “I’m happy to help.”

He turned back to the professor, pulled out a chair, and smiled.
“My name is Oluoch—but everyone calls me Simba.”
Something about that amused the professor.
“Simba, as in lion?” he chuckled, suddenly at ease, as if Simba were an old friend.

Simba called over his companion, and the three sat together.
“So, Professor—what do you do?”
That lit the match. The professor launched into stories—hilarious, winding tales about students who butchered grammar in exams, half-baked PhD theses, missing punctuation that had caused academic catastrophes. The boys roared with laughter.

One and a half hours later, James arrived—having driven at record speed from Nairobi.
His father looked up, eyes bright, face alive with animation.
“James! Meet my students—the clever ones.”

James watched them laughing — his father, animated, his arms slicing through the air as he recounted the tale of a student who once defined “epistemology” as a stomach condition. The two strangers were in stitches, encouraging him, prompting more. There was something heartbreakingly dignified about it all — a once-brilliant man slipping into confusion, yet still masterful in the realm he knew best. The world had shifted beneath his father’s feet, but his voice still carried authority, still lit up a room.

He thanked Oluoch—Simba—and his friend. The handshake was firm, their eyes warm. “It’s nothing,” Simba said. “It’s what we do.”

What we do.

As he helped his father into the car, James felt the weight of inheritance—not land or wealth, but responsibility. And tenderness. On the drive back to Nairobi, the old man dozed off mid-sentence, his head tilting towards the window. James gripped the steering wheel tighter, unsure whether to cry or laugh.

How strange, he thought, that forgetting could reveal a man so clearly. That in the unraveling, you see the threads that held him together all along.

He reached for the volume knob, turned the music low, and whispered, “ I’ll remember for the both of us, baba.