‘You walked with integrity, honour, and empathy for all’

EULOGY: Good morning, everyone. Thank you for being here today. It means a great deal to my family to see so many people gathered not just to mourn but to celebrate my father.

Each of us here carries our own stories of him—a memory, a moment, a lesson. Thank you for bringing those with you. Today I speak to you for myself as his son, for my mother his wife, for his brothers, sisters, nephews, and nieces.



My dad grew up in a loving, close-knit family. He was the fourth of five children. Their home was full of food, laughter, family, friends, music, and prayer.

He had an ordinary childhood—sharing secret codes with his next-door neighbour, playing in the bush and ravine, jumping fences, catching frogs. He was mischievous and didn’t pay much attention in primary school, getting in trouble for things like putting sand in the toilet, answering questions completely unrelated to Math with the nonsensical quip, “divide by two.” In fact, this became his go-to response to my mother when he didn’t want to answer her.

His eldest sister recalls his determination from a young age. She said, “When he started school, our dad used to take Tony and Wayne to the barber every couple of weeks for their crew cuts, but somehow Mark got out of it. He was very insistent that he had to have his hair have a side part and a muff, and it had to be just right.

” His brother added, “We became used to his accomplishments. We knew early on he was special, destined for great things. After all, who wins scholarships, excels in Sea Scouts, windsurfs, spearfishes, and even releases a CD of his own music before the age of 18?” Already, those around him saw the intentionality in everything that he did.

Most of all, he showed love for family and friends—always uplifting others with kindness and respect. Status or hierarchy never mattered to him. I believe my mother knew what she was getting into when she married my father: a life of adventure.

A senior professional in her own right, she understood the demands of his world. To love Mark, you had to support him wholeheartedly, which meant being able to go head-to-head with him on every idea. It was not all one-sided.

On one occasion, I remember my mom got up early to finish a demanding project. My dad, who wasn’t a cook, was making his famous ketchup Vienna sausages for her. Unknowingly, I swooped the bowl right out of his hands, went upstairs, and ate it all myself.

In his ever-calm way, my dad said nothing. He just quietly made another for her. When my mom got into K-dramas, she eventually pulled Dad in too, and as luck would have it, after the pandemic a gas conference took him to South Korea.

My mother joined him, and they shared time discovering a new culture together. We had many adventurous holidays—from cage diving with great white sharks, to African wildlife safaris, to bungee jumping, though I was the only one who jumped. My father listened intently to my mother’s advice.

He often said, “I have too many decisions to make,” and gladly ceded research to her, trusting her completely in her judgment. Their bond was built on deep, abiding trust. He was a man of great substance and depth—a modern-day Renaissance man.

He had the rare ability to synthesise insights across disciplines with ease, and yet what stood out to me the most as his son was his character. He almost never called me by my name. To him, I was simply “Son.

” And the way he said it—warm, supportive, and encouraging—carried more meaning than any title ever could. In my hardest moments, he believed in me even when I didn’t. I know many of you felt that too.

He uplifted others with his quiet strength. He didn’t just see potential; he made space for it and gave people the tools to grow. When I was a child in Norway, I did pull-ups on his biceps before bed—my own way of testing his strength.

He would laugh and let me hang there. For a moment, the world was weightless. He would read to me, but these weren’t ordinary stories—they were improvised: the good computer versus the bad computer, the good curtain versus the bad curtain.

He believed creativity and morality are powerful assets not only in business but in life. And when I made mistakes as a child, he didn’t yell, he didn’t judge or shame me. He simply explained—and I listened because I felt safe and respected.

My father was devoted to his mother. In her later years, he made sure she wanted for nothing, showered her with affection, called and visited her regularly although she lived overseas. In her final months, he set up daily family calls for prayers and conversations.

Her smile brightly lit up the screen. Dad believed in documenting what mattered. An example that comes to mind is the family tree.

He captured our legacy in photos, stories, and names, and ensured that it lived on for future generations. His love of good coffee was unmatched. His nephew in Canada had a professional setup at home.

He would try to visit as early as 6:30 a.m., only to be told, “Can you please come back later, Uncle?” Everyone knew his third real office was at Full Bloom.

During his illness, that morning coffee brought him pure joy. My dad taught me a lot through how he spoke to me. Shortly after his diagnosis, he sent me this message: “Hi Son, I know it is hard and certainly this is not what I imagined talking about a couple weeks ago.

Life is full of curveballs which we cannot control. But the best I can do is face the challenges with a positive spirit, thankful for the journey so far. I love you, son, for who you are, and while I know there is a lot going on, looking forward to the time we have left.

” That message was him: calm, present, loving without condition. When he returned to Trinidad after Australia, he told me he had to come back with a mission—to help his country. He saw it as his duty.

On his deathbed, he looked at me and said he gave everything. And he did give everything. What he wanted most was peace and more time with the ones he truly loved.

Now that he has that peace, we will miss him dearly. Dad, we remember your wonderful smile. Your lessons will live in us.

You walked with integrity, honour, and empathy for all. And with that, we will carry your strength, wisdom, and love forward. Above all, Dad, we love you.

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