Daughter's tribute to rally legend, Abdul Sidi

As a co-driver, Sidi competed for 25 years and took part in the WRC Safari Rally with the likes of Patrick Njiru and Phineas Kimathi. His experience alongside top drivers earned him a reputation as a fearless and highly respected navigator in Kenyan rallying.

His daughter, Shamira Sidi penned a tribute to him:

Abdul Sidi, who was laid to rest yesterday, was a legendary Kenyan rally navigator. He is  remembered as a bridge between generations, a teacher and a valuable source of rallying history.

 As a co-driver, Sidi competed for 25 years and took part in the WRC Safari Rally with the likes of Patrick Njiru and Phineas Kimathi. His experience alongside top drivers earned him a reputation as a fearless and highly respected navigator in Kenyan rallying.

Abdul Sidi… Rally legend, veteran navigator, motorsport guru, sports journalist, mwalimu to your academy students, mentor… these were some of the many titles you carried, and I’ve heard them over and over these past few days. But the most important title you ever had to me was simply dad.

I have read so many beautiful tributes and heard so many incredible things said about you. So many people have shared what you meant to them, the things you taught them and the memories they have of you. Dad, you were truly cherished, and reading all those words has made me so proud.

So, I chose to pen this differently. Not about the man everyone else knew, but about the Dad I knew and loved. A chance for people to know a little bit of you through me. And since you spent so many years writing and were known through your articles as “Twincam,” here is my own little Twincam article—this one especially for you, Dad.

Where do I even start… I have always been a daddy’s girl, no matter what. Everyone always said how much we looked alike… although mum absolutely hated hearing that. I guess there was no denying I was my father’s daughter.

Some of my favourite memories will always be from when I was little, maybe 5–10 years old.. our Sunday rides in your car, KTR 390.

Funny how after all these years I still remember that number plate. Those rides meant ice cream, lots and lots of chocolates, and just being with you. I didn’t know then how much those little Sunday moments would mean to me one day.

Then when I got older, around 18 hapo, our coffee dates pale opposite Nation Centre, especially on the days you’d be going to do your writing for the newspaper. Such simple memories, gosh how I treasure them now more than ever.

Oh dad, I was always so proud of you. Seeing you on TV on rally days…. rally really was your world. You literally used to tell me, “Rally is in your blood.”

The way you spoke about rally with so much passion, sometimes I was even jealous like surely dad, what about me? But I loved it and I was always so proud to tell people, “That rally legend? Yeah, that’s my dad.”

And yesterday, someone reminded me of their own memories of you—how they would actually dress up because the rally legend was coming over and how excited they would be knowing they might get to go for a ride with you. Hearing those stories has made me smile in the middle of all this sadness.

Dad, you really were loved.  I have had call after call and someone said to me, “Seeing you grow up and watching the bond you and your dad had was amazing.” And that really hit me because it was true. Even with the distance between us, we were still together at heart. That bond never left us.

There are so many little things I have miss. The way you would give me directions like I was your rally navigator, you constantly making fun of how short I am, and every single birthday you being in complete denial about my age.

And you always, always called me “mum.” I honestly don’t even remember hearing you call me by my actual name—the very name YOU gave me when I was born. I was just “mum” to you.

Then there were the kisses on my forehead. From when I was your little girl, right through to me becoming a mother myself, that never changed. I was still your daughter, and that kiss on my forehead was always there. Dad… I’m going to miss those.

So many memories. So many little things. So many things I could sit here and write but these are just little titbits of what my life with you was. A few memories out of a lifetime of them.

There is so much more I could write—so many stories, laughs, tears, conversations and little moments that belonged to us. I could never fit a lifetime with you into one little “Twincam” article, but these are the pieces of us I wanted to share.

Dad, seeing you sick, in pain and suffering broke me. I felt so helpless. I didn’t know what else to do except pray and pray. It hurts so much knowing you’re gone, but I also know you’re not suffering anymore, and I have to hold onto that.

I love you so much, Dad. I don’t even know how to say goodbye, so I won’t. I will just say rest now. No more pain. And if you see Mum, say hi to her for me.

And somehow, Dad, it had to be September 10th. Exactly 14 years ago on this very date, we buried Mum, and now September 10th is also the day I lost you. What are the odds? I don’t think this date will ever feel the same again. Sad September has taken on a whole different meaning for me.

And in rally terms, dad… I will see you at the final checkpoint.

Your loving daughter, Shamira Sidi