How the lyrics of my favourite rappers have pulled me through the anguish of my dad’s worsening dementia

I’ve been grieving my father while we sit in the same room. But I’ve recently found answers in the music which has for so long been a lifeboat for me

Robert Kazandjian's father in London, June 2020 (Robert Kazandjian)

To paraphrase UK drill pioneer Headie One, Father’s Day is a bit of a sticky one for me still. I proper love my dad. Like a lot of men, I’ve also got more than a few issues with the old man too. And I spent far too long wedded to the myth of being “strong and silent” instead of actually speaking to him about those issues. Then my dad got dementia, and the option of a proper “man to man” was stolen from me.

My dad’s illness, and the reality that so much between us is destined to remain unresolved, had a huge impact on my mental health. But if I’m honest, I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety since my teenage years. And long before a diagnosis, before therapy, music was my pain relief.

With the constant struggle for black lives once again entering wider consciousness, I think it’s important to be specific here. Black British music has been a constant source of comfort for me. It’s shameful that while so many of us benefit from black art, it takes so much to rouse us from our indifference towards black suffering.

As my dad’s illness has progressed over these last few years, my frustration and sadness has intensified. Having artists beautifully articulate their relationships with their dads has helped me find peace with my own situation. Lyrics about fathers and fatherhood resonate deeply with me.

The reality of dementia is that while the person living with it is still there, still valued and is still very much loved, their loved ones are losing them piece by piece. I’ve been grieving my dad while he sits in the same room as me. The last five years have been particularly horrid.

Lambeth wordsmith Loyle Carner’s breakthrough EP, A Little Late, addresses the grief of losing his beloved stepdad. On “BFG”, voice cracking, he raps: “Everybody says I’m f*****’ sad / Of course I’m f*****’ sad, I miss my f*****’ dad.” It was as though he spoke on my behalf. I was sad, every day and everyone could see it. There was a weight on my chest that I couldn’t shift. But with Loyle in my headphones, I felt less alone.

J Hus’s release from prison was a huge moment for black British music last year. His fresh-home freestyle revealed a more reflective side to his artistry. He alludes to the culture of silence that stopped me from having a heart to heart with my dad when I had the chance: “Deal with the pain, don't say nothing / If you look close, see a tear dropping.”

He then speaks on his dad’s passing: “Just lost my pops, I weren’t close with him / But it felt like part of my soul’s missing.” I have plenty of treasured childhood memories of my dad. I’m bitter about all the periods of absence too, creating an emotional distance between us. Regardless of that distance, with each precious memory that escapes him, a part of my soul crumbles too.

Skepta never fails to put respect on his dad’s immigrant hustle. On “Bullet From A Gun” he raps: “See, it's too easy / To write a sad song about how my dad raised me / 'Cos I'm lookin' in the mirror and my dad made me.” These bars stopped me in my tracks. My dad has never been perfect, but for better more than for worse, he shaped me into the man I am today.

Perhaps I’m too hard on my dad. I’m not seeing him fully as a human being. He came to England from Egypt, via Cyprus and Lebanon. In doing so, he knew he’d never be able to return to his home. He picked strawberries. He cleaned aeroplanes. He drove a van. He eventually ended up teaching maths all over North London. He hustled hard in order to make his own life better. Those endless hours spent in the bookies, chasing that elusive big win were a desperate attempt at making our lives better.

Robert Kazandjian's father in his mid-twenties (Robert Kazandjian)

Headie One captures the distress sons cause for their dads on “Gang”: “Paps don't know if I'm dead or alive.” My dad might’ve long forgotten them, but my teenage years were more than turbulent. He was flawed. I was too. I’ve spent so long dwelling on his wrongs, that I’ve neglected my own. What of the pain I caused him? What of all the nights he spent worrying, and the times he instinctively took to the streets, wading in to drag me away from trouble when I needed him?

Headie seeks to repay his dad for the sacrifices he made: “It's my pa's birthday, I'ma gift him some land / Cah he used to wash my shirts, done that shit with his hands.” My dad no longer has much need for material things, his illness means the moment is the only thing that truly has meaning for him. Yet the desire to repay him for the sacrifices he made in his own life to uplift mine remains.

This year's Father’s Day is extra poignant; my partner and I are expecting our own child. My dad will get to experience being a grandparent while he’s still lucid enough to appreciate it. I’m not gonna lie, I’m terrified. I found answers in the music which has for so long been a lifeboat in stormy weather – Skepta again, captivated by the birth of his own daughter: “Recently, I've been learnin' a lot / All I know is there's no better feeling / Than gettin' home and seein' my little girl in her cot.” There’s a lovely certainty and simplicity to those bars. They wash my fear away.

Of course, my dad keeps forgetting our news, or getting confused and asking my younger brother when his baby is due. That allows me to show him the video of our scan again, and watch pure joy creep across his features. It’s a joy I hardly recognise in him, an expression I like to imagine he carried on the day I was born.