Like my father before me, I’ve found comfort in yoga

Malindi, Kenya

In 1967, Tanzania’s socialist rulers seized all my parents’ property – their ranchland, their home and their cattle – and overnight my father saw the fruits of all his labour taken from him. He had no time to dwell on his misfortune, since he had a wife and four children to support, so at the age of 60 he picked himself up and vanished off to work in Somalia.

My father’s last words were ‘yoga breathing’ and he died smiling

We went to live at a beach hut in Malindi, on the Kenya coast, which became our new home. Dad’s job involved long spells out in the wilderness with camels and cattle, but occasionally he had to visit Mogadishu and here he rented a room in a derelict Shirazi mansion overlooking the harbour. His housemates were young American Peace Corps volunteers who did yoga on the flat roof each dawn. At some point they persuaded Dad, this old colonial polo player, to join them – and he became hooked for the rest of his life. As a small boy in Malindi, when he was home I’d watch him going through his asanas, and when he finished we’d sit together and drink our tea, looking out at the Indian Ocean. Every single morning, wherever he was in the world, he did his yoga, alone but guided by Swami Vishnudevananda’s classic, The Complete Illustrated Book of Yoga. Just before Dad turned 90, he had a stroke in Malindi and an ambulance drove him to Mombasa hospital while my mother held his feet. His last words were ‘yoga breathing’ and he died smiling.