I lost my father when I was six. All I have of him are fragments of stories my mother and brother have told me, and my own unreliable memories of the moments I spent with him.

The picture that emerges is murky.

“He was a charming, intellectual man,” says a family friend. I am told he loved us very much. He was also quick-tempered and troubled. According to Mom, he was a “good man” when he was sober.

When I rely on my own memories, however, nothing particularly loving or beautiful comes to mind. I remember a man I feared. I ate my dinner because I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t. I went to bed when I was told and remained quiet because I knew what would happen if I didn’t.

My most vivid memory of him is from a day when I got lost at Midmar Dam during a family picnic. I must have been around four years old. Our family went there often, and on this day I wanted to follow my brother and cousin Richard, who were going for a hike around the dam. Mom said it was okay, but my brother must have been annoyed about me tagging along.

Pierre and Richard were both five years older than me, and they quickly moved ahead. Pierre kept shouting, “Go back! Go back to Mom.” But I wouldn’t listen. I trailed behind, unable to keep up. Slowly but surely, I lost sight of them.

I didn’t know where I was or how to get back to Mom. Pierre and Richard were gone. I sat on a rock with my legs in the water, long grass and a big hill behind me, and started to cry. I could have been there for ten minutes or an hour.

Suddenly, I heard people calling my name in the distance. The voices seemed to be coming from above the hill, but I couldn’t see anyone because the grass was so high. I remember thinking I needed to run towards the voices, but I was scared of the snakes that might be hiding in the grass.

As the voices grew louder, I found the courage to run through the grass. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Moooom!” When I reached the top of the hill, Mom saw me. She grabbed me in her arms and didn’t let go.

We were with a group of people that day, so everyone had been searching for me. There was a bus waiting for us. Mom sat close to me on the bus with her arm around me, and people patted me on the back as they passed by.

The bus ride home felt safe. Mom held me in her arms. My brother was particularly nice, and Papa seemed to be in a good mood.

When we got closer to town, the bus dropped us off. We all got into Papa’s car and drove home.

Suddenly, I started to feel queasy. Without warning or control, I vomited in Papa’s car.

“Oh no.”

He was furious and swore in French: “Merde alors!”

He braked, got out, opened my door, grabbed me and smacked me.

“You stupid kid! Next time open the window, stick your head out and throw up outside, not in the car. Now I’ve got to clean up this mess.”

Mom put me to bed that night and tucked me in. She gave me an extra-long hug.

I have another vivid picture.

One Friday afternoon, when I came home from school with Mom and Pierre, our maid told us that Papa had gone to the south coast with his best friend, Janie. He worked for a company called Wedding & Functions, and they had apparently gone to put up a marquee.

He never came home that Friday evening. On Saturday, there was still no news. Mom called his work, but they hadn’t heard from him either. She put Pierre and me in her red Renault 9 and drove to his workplace.

When we arrived, she spoke to his manager, who said he would try to reach Papa on the radio. Back then, there were no mobile phones. Papa had a radio in his bakkie.

Mom asked us to wait outside.

Pierre and I sat on the steps. The noon sun was blazing. Birds were chirping and the wind was moving through the trees. We were hot and irritable, partly because of the heat and partly because our father was missing. We passed the time by picking up small pebbles and throwing them aimlessly.

Then Mom came out. She didn’t need to say anything. She walked towards us, took us in her arms and hugged us as hard as she could.

“I’m sorry, boys. Papa is dead.”

He had been killed in a car accident. A policeman working a late shift had fallen asleep at the wheel, drifted onto the wrong side of the road and collided with Papa’s bakkie. His best friend, Janie, who was travelling with him, also died. The policeman survived.

Perhaps from shock or disbelief, a series of strange thoughts crossed my mind.

Papa has just abandoned us. He has another family and has left us.

The house will be more peaceful now that he’s gone.

No more smacks.

Papa is dead.

Papa is never coming back.

No, it can’t be.

Pierre and I didn’t shed a tear.

When I brought this period up with my Mom recently, she told me about something she had overheard after Papa died.She remembers overhearing something like this:

“Pierre, do you think Papa is sitting on a cloud watching us?” I asked.

“No, stupid,” Pierre said. “He can’t sit on a cloud. Clouds are made of water and dust. He’d fall straight through.”

Mom said she couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

More than forty years have passed since then. I’m forty-seven now, with three children of my own. I take my middle son to football practice and watch most of his games. I train at the gym with my oldest son. I take my daughter to the park and read to her at bedtime. We ski together, go on holidays and take boat trips through the archipelago.

I try to be the father I didn’t have: present, loving and kind. I try to be the kind of man my children don’t have to fear.

I know how little it can take for a person to disappear from someone else’s memory. I know because my father disappeared from mine.

I cannot remember the sound of his voice. I cannot remember many of the things we did together. Much of what I know about him comes from other people.

Maybe that is why I think so much about the memories I am creating with my own children. The ordinary moments probably don’t seem particularly important now, but one day they will be all that remains.

I was six when my father died. They told me it was a car accident. But really, he disappeared twice: once on the road and again in my memory. I can’t recall the sound of his voice. Only echoes, told by others. I buried his image so deeply that it never made it back to the surface. There was grief in that erasure, but perhaps also a kind of survival. Sometimes forgetting is how we survive.

Now I’m a father myself: not just once, but three times over. My eldest is on the brink of young adulthood, caught somewhere between the innocence of childhood and the harsher realities of the world. He reminds me of myself: curious, questioning and often lost in thought.

Two years behind him, my younger son has grown quieter over time. He speaks little, but his focus is fierce: on football, school and doing things well. Words don’t come often, but his eyes do the talking. There’s a whole world in them, if you pay attention. And then there’s my daughter, still little, a spark of new energy. With her, I’ve rediscovered a different kind of gentleness in fatherhood. She makes me happy because almost everything is still exciting and fun.

I watch them grow up in a clean, stable Sweden, “almost perfect,” as people like to say. But perfection has its shadows. I wonder how to teach them about the messiness I came from, the history I carry with me: apartheid, instability, conflict and separation. How do I make them see a past that shaped their father, even though they never lived it?

I want to tell them how I once watched Nelson Mandela walk free on television, not knowing I was witnessing history. How I played with Black children in a racist regime without understanding the quiet violence of the system we were all living in. How I grew up in a white family whose house was cleaned by people who weren’t allowed to live in our neighbourhood. As a child, these things were simply part of the world. It took growing older to understand what that world meant.

That realization has stayed with me. If something so wrong could once appear ordinary, what else might I be wrong about? Perhaps that is one reason certainty makes me uncomfortable. My life since then has taken me through different countries, cultures and beliefs. Things I once thought fixed have become less certain. Ideas I once accepted have been challenged. People I disagreed with have surprised me. People I agreed with have disappointed me.

Sometimes my children ask me where I’m from, and I still fumble with the answer. Belgium. South Africa. Mauritius. France. Sweden. None and all. Home still feels like a question more than a place. Maybe home is what we find when we are accepted and known, despite the shifting colours.

And now, as my children grow, the questions have changed. Am I preparing them well enough for the world? Am I giving their roots enough space to grow? Am I sharing my past in a way that strengthens their lives rather than burdens them? I don’t know. Perhaps that is something I want them to inherit too: the ability to say those words without fear.

I want them to form their own opinions and find their own ways of living, without fear of what I might think. I hope they grow up with convictions, and I hope they have the courage to tell me when they think I’m wrong. But I also hope they remain curious enough to question the world they experience and the one they inherit.

Someone once thought being a chameleon meant I lacked conviction. Maybe sometimes it did. There have certainly been moments when adapting was easier than standing my ground. But I see it differently now. I still change colours, not simply to blend in, but because experience changes us. Other people change us. Evidence changes us. And occasionally, if we’re fortunate, we discover that something we once believed with certainty was wrong.

I don’t know what my children will eventually make of the strange collection of countries, people, beliefs and histories that made their father. I hope they have enough of a foundation to know who they are, deep down, but I also hope they never become so certain of who they are that they lose the willingness to question, change and adapt.