He never called it leadership

My father returned to his Maker two days ago.

Mohamed Shakhamia — MS — Sayed. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great-grandfather. And so much more than any title captures.

Being far from home means I'm not caught up in the funeral, the burial, the proceedings. It means I have more time to just think about my dad. What I'll carry. What I'll never let go.

So I've been making lists.

What he didn't teach me
He never taught me how to change my car's oil. How to fix a leaking tap. How to braai. How to set up a tent.

Based on society's checklist for what a father is supposed to pass on to his son, MS Sayed was, by most measures, a failure.
Except he wasn't. Not even close.

Because somewhere along the way, I think we got the checklist completely wrong.

What he did teach me
My dad was an exceptional cricketer. Had he been born in another era, millions would have known his name. I had the privilege of learning from him — and eventually playing alongside him. Those memories are permanent.

But beyond the cricket, he was someone who could walk into any room and immediately put people at ease. The person others called when tension needed to be settled. Someone who loved through service when his words were still catching up.

He never announced these things. He just lived them — quietly, consistently, without ever calling it leadership. He greeted everyone with a smile. He treated king and servant, boss and worker, elder and child with the same reverence. He gave of himself whether it was appreciated or not. He brought conflicts and disagreements back to issues, never to people.

And then there was the lesson I only fully understood this week.

My brother shared a story that stopped me completely. Years ago — I would have been around six or seven — my dad witnessed a prominent member of the local clergy behave poorly during a religious pilgrimage. When he returned home, he shared the incident with my older siblings as a lesson in how not to treat others.

He never once mentioned the person's name.

My brother, being curious, pressed him repeatedly over the years. Who was it? My dad never said. He carried that name in silence for the rest of his life.

He literally took it to his grave.

That's the integrity he modelled. Not the kind you announce. The kind you just practise — even when no one is checking. Even when the easier road would have cost you nothing.

His real legacy
My dad left behind an imperfect family — the kind with differences, disputes and conflicts. And the kind that holds all of that with kindness, care and love. The kind that has each other's backs, no matter what.

So while I was thousands of kilometres away from the day-to-day care, the midnight calls, the regular dispensing — I had brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces just doing what they watched MS do his whole life.

Serve.

That one word is his legacy. Not a plaque. Not a title. Not a list of achievements.

Just a family that learned — by watching him — how to show up for each other.

What the world got wrong
I want to be careful here, because my dad wasn't perfect.

He was indecisive at times. He avoided personal conflict more than was always good for him. I'm not suggesting the world needs leaders who are carbon copies of MS Sayed.

But I am suggesting that certain things he embodied — and that are sorely missing from too many people in positions of power — would change things considerably.

The ability to be empathetic and still be firm. The willingness to wield authority with consistent justice — regardless of who the perpetrator is, friend or foe. The discipline to bring conflict back to issues, not people. The quiet confidence that doesn't need to dominate a room to be felt in it.

Instead, too often, what we get are men still performing the version of masculinity handed to them — where prestige comes from only one version of strength - physical, where self-worth is earned through winning, like it's still a Lego fight in the lounge with their little brother, where power is something to accumulate rather than something to steward.

My dad was proof that a man could be quietly firm without being loud. Deeply respected without demanding it. Remembered without ever seeking to be.

I have a theory. That a father stays present in you until you're ready to become the man he wanted you to be.

Maybe that's what this week is telling me.

Final thought
My dad never taught me how to fix a car. He also never taught me to measure my worth by whether I could.

What he did teach me — quietly, consistently, without ever calling it leadership — is what I've spent years trying to put into words for the people I work with.

And if I'm still learning to live it fully myself, maybe that's the point. These things aren't certificates you earn. They're a standard you keep returning to.

Your formation didn't start in a boardroom. It started at a dinner table. In a car. On a cricket pitch. In the way someone you loved showed up — or didn't — when it mattered.

So here's what I'm sitting with this week:

Who actually taught you how to lead? And are you carrying their lessons forward — or society's script?

My wish is to grow up to be even half the human my daddy was.

His wish for me — for all his descendants — would be to be double of what he was.

That's my target.

إنا لله وإنا إليه راجعون

To God we belong, and to Him we will all surely return - Qur'an 2:156

Go on. Take the Next Step.