This isn’t some big-screen story.

Let me take you to the red-soil edges of Trans Nzoia, where Mount Elgon watches over maize fields and the morning smells of wet earth and cattle.

It’s about my dad, Mr. Wekesa—a proud Bukusu man who grew up barefoot in the village, herding cattle and learning that a real man carries his people, no matter how heavy. He left the shamba for Kitale town chasing better days, but the village never left him. Every December, we squeeze into a matatu, and the second we arrive, he’s on his knees in the red dirt, forehead down, greeting his parents the proper way.

In town, he’s a bodaboda rider. Helmet cracked, reflector jacket faded, weaving through Nairobi traffic from dawn till dusk. Hands rough from the clutch, pockets light from fuel and repairs, but his heart? Still huge. He rushes home with black grease under his nails, mashes medicine for his aging parents, scraps together our school fees, buys my niece a sweet even if it means he eats less. When she jumps on the bike calling him “Baba Mkubwa,” he laughs like it’s the best fare of the day.

He’s not loud. He gets tired—some nights he just sits outside, rubbing sore knees, staring at the stars and missing village quiet. But every morning he kick-starts that bike, revs the engine, boils tea for us, and keeps three generations moving forward.

That’s my dad, Mr. Wekesa.

A Bukusu bodaboda rider with Trans Nzoia dust in his blood and love strong enough for every bumpy road. Let me tell you about him.

The tin roof over our mud-walled house in Trans Nzoia sings when the rains come, and we seven fall asleep together with our grandparents to it like it’s a lullaby only we understand.Dad—Mr. Wekesa—lives alone in a tiny room in Kitale town. At four every morning he rubs the crack in his helmet, whispers “Mungu saidia,” and rides out into Kitale’s madness. He doesn’t waste a single fare: Kuka’s pills, Kukhu’s sweater, my school fees, a packet of milk for Akinyi.

Here in the village, Mum is up before the chickens, barefoot between the maize rows, humming the same Bukusu tune she used to sing when she carried me on her back. She calls herself “just a farmer,” but when she ties up her gunia—unga, beans, two crumpled thousands in her old headscarf—I know it’s her way of hugging Dad from far away. Her note never changes: “Buy Kuka and Kukhu medicine and something warm. And Wekesa, please eat.”

Every second Friday the bodaboda coughs up our path, and Dad steps off thinner than last time, eyes red from dust but smiling wide. He greets Kuka with a forehead to the ground, helps Kukhu into the new sweater he bought instead of supper. She strokes the wool, eyes shining, and says, “My son, you make me feel young.”Akinyi grabs his hand. “Baba Mkubwa, ride!” He lifts her onto the bike under the mvule tree, pushes her in slow circles while she steers and laughs so hard the goats stop chewing to listen. Kuka watches from the doorway, chuckling, knees less stiff tonight.

Sunday night he sits with Mum by the fire, counts the coins he saved, hands over the medicine money. He kisses Akinyi’s sleeping forehead, hugs me too tight, touches Mum’s cheek like he’s storing it for the week ahead. Then he kick-starts the bike and disappears down the red road, taillight blinking goodbye.

We eat uji from one pot, seven spoons clinking. Mum reads Dad’s reply note aloud—voice soft, cracking on “I ate today, don’t worry.” The roof drums. The crickets sing back.That’s us. Dad alone in the city roar, us warm under village stars. His bodaboda and Mum’s maize keep Kuka and Kukhu breathing easy and wrapped in new wool. Every Friday he comes home. Every Monday he leaves a piece of his heart. And somehow, love still fits in the space between.

My dad wakes at 4 a.m. every single day. Before I even open my eyes, I feel his rough hand brush my forehead and his whisper, “Sleep, Chep. I’m off.” Then the door creaks, the boda-boda coughs to life, and he’s gone, riding from our village into Kitale town while the stars are still out.He spends the whole day carrying people he doesn’t know—mamas with heavy bags, school kids late for class, drunks who don’t pay full fare—just to scrape together a little money for us. Eight mouths wait back home: Mama, my noisy little brother and sister, Grandpa who winces with every step, Grandma rationing her hypertension pills, baby Akinyi tied on Mama’s back, and me.

Yesterday he walked in after dark, helmet dangling from tired fingers. He put 2,800 shillings on the table and tried to smile. “Fuel ate the rest, Wanjiku,” he told Mama. She nodded, but when he stepped outside to fix the loose chain, I saw her shoulders shake. I heard her pray under her breath, “How long, God? How long?”

He didn’t eat supper. Said he’d had tea in town. We all knew it was a lie so my siblings could have an extra scoop of ugali.This morning he left again before the roosters. Same cracked helmet, same tired eyes, same quiet “We’ll manage, familia.”I don’t know how he does it. But when that old bike rattles home at dusk, I run out barefoot and throw my arms around him. He smells of dust, sweat, and petrol, and his shirt is damp against my cheek. I squeeze tighter because if I let go, I’m scared he’ll break.

That’s my dad. My hero on a rattling boda-boda, carrying all of us—one fare, one day, one prayer at a time.

That’s my dad, caught smack in the middle of the sandwich generation.

He’s only forty-two, but some mornings he moves like he’s eighty, rubbing his knees before he swings onto the bike. He’s still the little boy who promised his parents he’d take care of them, and now he’s the father who promises us the same thing. Two promises, one wallet, one heart.

Grandpa’s diabetes medicine costs more than Dad makes on a good day. Grandma hides how few pills are left in the bottle so he won’t worry. Mama pretends the sufuria isn’t scraping empty. My siblings think fees “just get paid.” Baby Akinyi only knows the warmth of Mama’s back and the sound of Dad’s motorcycle coming home.

Dad never gets to be just a son or just a father. He’s both, all the time. He can’t save for tomorrow because yesterday keeps knocking. He can’t rest because tomorrow is already crying for milk.But every evening when that engine sputters up the path, he scoops my little brother up with one arm like he’s made of feathers, even though I know his back is screaming. My brother squeals and buries his face in Dad’s dusty shirt. Dad smells like petrol and hard work, and he still finds a joke to make Mama laugh.

That’s the sandwich generation: stretched so thin you can almost see through them, but somehow still holding everything together. My dad doesn’t have extra money or extra time. He just has extra love. And he spends it all on us, every single day, without keeping a coin for himself.

I don’t know how he does it. I just know I never want him to stop.