My father worked far away. I decided I would stay close.

I grew up in Soweto with my grandmother and my two sisters. My father worked on the mines near Rustenburg, and he came home at Christmas and sometimes at Easter. He sent money every month. Because of him, we never went hungry, and I finished school.

I loved him. But I did not know him. When he came home, he felt like a visitor. We did not know what to say to each other, and by the time we started to relax, he was leaving again. He passed away when I was nineteen, and I realized I could not tell you what his favorite food was.

When my first son, Lwazi, was born, I made myself a promise. I would provide, like my father did, and I would also be there. I did not know yet what that would take.

I am an electrician. The work is good, but it can pull you anywhere. Twice I have turned down jobs that paid more because they would take me away for months at a time. My wife and I argued about it the first time. Money matters. But we agreed on a line, and we have kept it.

Now I have two boys, Lwazi, who is ten, and Ayanda, who is six. On Saturdays I coach their under eleven soccer team at the field near our house. I am not a great coach. I mostly shout “Pass the ball” and hand out oranges at halftime. But they see me there, every week, on the sideline.

Last month, Lwazi’s teacher asked the class to write about their hero. He wrote about me. He said his hero is his dad, because “he always comes.” I read it three times in the car before I could drive home.

I think my father would be proud of that. I wish I had known him well enough to be sure.