When I think of Daddy, I think in objects. Not because things mattered more to him than people—but because the things he carried told the story of the man he was. They were never just things. They were symbols. Reminders. Lessons. And for me, there are four in particular that carry his legacy: his watch, his camera, his ties, and his black suitcase.
The first was his watch.
Daddy’s watch wasn’t just a way to tell time—it was a symbol of how he valued time, quality, and longevity. I remember him proudly telling us, “This watch is older than any of you here.” That was his way. If you’re going to get something, get something of substance. Something that lasts. Even if you had to pay more for it.
Unless it was a pair of sneakers. Then you were getting the cheapest pair on sale because he had four other pairs to buy!
But all jokes aside, he believed in quality—in things, in work, in relationships.
And even in joy.
Because to Daddy, if something was worth laughing at—it was worth REALLY laughing at. He had this all-in kind of laugh, the kind that filled the room and made you laugh even if you didn’t know what was funny. It was unreserved, unselfconscious, and utterly contagious. That, too, was part of his standard: when you do something, do it fully. So I’ve carried that with me—this idea that laughter should be all-encompassing, that when joy comes, you don’t hold back. You let it fill the room.
The second was his camera.
That camera was with us in Kenya. It followed us to Botswana. And while it sometimes annoyed us—him setting us up for one more photo, calling us to pose when we just wanted to eat—it became one of the great gifts of our childhood. He was relentless about recording moments. School functions, graduations, holidays, travel—he captured it all. And not just the posed shots, but the candid ones when we weren’t looking.
I still remember his childlike delight when we got him a new DSLR camera a few years ago. He read that manual from cover to cover.
Later in life, I came to treasure that relentless documentation in photos. There’s such a wealth of imagery from our lives—evidence of love, of presence, of family. He gave us that. A visual history. Proof that we were seen. That we mattered.
I think my Instagram feed is the modern-day version of what my father did with his camera.
The third was his ties.
Daddy had a lot of ties—elegant, timeless, and always carefully chosen. He wore them with the same sense of purpose he brought to everything in his life. He had style. But it wasn’t just about fashion. His ties reflected his pride—how you show up in the world, how you carry yourself with dignity.
Mummy used to tell us that one of the first things she noticed about him was how well he dressed. And that wasn’t just appearance—it was who he was. A man who set a high standard. Who showed us that excellence isn’t something you perform for others—it’s something you commit to within yourself. Whether in school, in work, or in how we treated one another, Daddy reminded us that being a Lukoma represents something bigger than ourselves.
And finally, there was the black suitcase.
Every member of our family knows the black suitcase. It held our lives. Birth certificates. Baptism records. Test scores. Passports. Visas. That case moved with us from Kenya to Botswana, and it remained a quiet symbol of how much he carried—not just papers, but the weight of responsibility.
Because we grew up outside of Uganda, we were always only as safe as our documents. Only as free as the stamp in your passport. And Daddy carried that weight without complaint. Every year, navigating a system that didn’t always welcome us, renewing visas, fighting for the right to remain, all so we could have a chance at something better.
Botswana was a good place to raise a family, but not always a welcoming place for fellow Africans. And yet, he and Mummy endured. They endured so we could thrive. That black suitcase—simple as it was—represented his commitment to securing our future, no matter what it cost him.
Each of these things—the watch, the camera, the ties, and the black suitcase—tells you something about the kind of man my father was. Steady and enduring. Thoughtful and present. Elegant and principled. Protective and visionary.
And joyful. My father laughed the way he lived—fully. His laughter was deep, loud, and infectious, like he believed that if something made you happy, you should feel it all the way. That joy wasn’t something to be rationed. It was something to be shared.
These weren’t just things he carried. They were things he passed on. And in that way, even though he’s no longer with us, we carry him still.
