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Capsules of time spent with my dad still among my most treasured possessions

My childhood included frequent visits to what was then referred to as Polokwane Centre. To call it a taxi rank would really be taking away from what it felt like; it was much bigger than that, at least that is what it felt like to my younger self.

From what I remember, it was a business hub of note, from street hawkers to taxis, buses, the place that sold fermented beer to the chancers playing dice and peddling weed.

It was always busy, but seemed to have a sense of calm on Saturday afternoons.

I remember there was a trend in those years where taking photographs that made it look like you were inside a particular object was big.

Polokwane Centre is where I got mine done, posing inside a carton of Ultra Mel milk, with the navy and white box . I cherished that photograph.

It was a capsule of time spent with my father, and there were lots of those.

Thinking back to my childhood now, it almost feels like I spent my time on the road, in the car, with my father, never going anywhere far, but always going somewhere.

I remember many days spent on the hard carpet of the fourth floor on Grobler Street, Polokwane, where the South African Narcotics Bureau offices used to be.

I'd lie on the floor, sometimes with my sisters in tow, and watch swallows summoning rain through the big office windows while my father did his detective work.

I have always been so proud of the detective part of my father's position, in whichever rank he held over the years.

I would repeat it over and over again to my friends, to anyone who made the mistake of asking what my father did for a living really.

One of the things that annoyed me most about time spent with my father, though, was the many times, and they felt endless, I would spend holding the queue for him. My dad hates waiting for people, with a passion, but because he was always trying to do too many things at one time, there were many times that I would wait in queues sheepishly waving people through. These are still memories I wouldn't trade for anything. Like any other person, though, I don't always remember the small details of the things that used to make us happy, the things that built us.

These memories all came rushing back a few weeks ago when my daughter was spending time with my father.

I'd call to speak to her a few times only to be told that she had gone off with rakgolo - grandpa. I can't begin to tell you of the joy that fills my heart, knowing that my child will get to experience some parts of my childhood.

That she too gets to spend time in rakgolo's car going everywhere but nowhere really.

As an adult, I find this a difficult time where many of my friends and peers are burying their parents.

I am fully aware of how blessed I am, to still have my father, and for my daughter to have my father.

This coming Sunday is Father's Day, a day that can be triggering if you don't have a father. And South Africa is a country with difficult issues and conversations when it comes to black fathers and their presence.

Alive or not, I hope you have happy memories of your fathers and if you don't, may you have some sense of peace. Happy Father's Day Papa, I love you.

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