To Hear My Father Laugh
I still remember that winter night, December 21st of 2012. I, 12 at that time, strolled down the busy Rumuokwuta road with a man. It was sometime between 7-8 pm. I remember the exact date because only a week and a half from that, something happened, and it changed my life forever.
I was in my Man United polo and a short black skirt. As a child, I'd always hated trousers. I saw them as ungodly, and I judged all the girls who wore one.
A big fan of Man-U, all of us in our house of 5 were. My father made sure of that. He'd get us all matching shirts, headbands, and wristbands. Back then, I only knew T-Henry. I can't recall why, but there was something about how he played that I enjoyed.
If my father had painted our house a bright red and white, repping the team, we wouldn’t have minded. We all grew to love them.
My father Mr Blessing, was a tall hunk of a man. To see his face, I’d have to lift mine. And whenever he looked down at me, I knew what God felt like.
He had a presence; whenever we perceived his scent or saw his shadow, in a flash—we’d get the house looking kempt again. We’d lay on the beds pretending to be sleeping, or sit with a book and pen in front of us pretending to have been doing homework. I guess most African fathers have that presence too.
That fateful Friday night, Daddy returned to the house and summoned me. I used the word summoned because that was what it sounded like. Within our slim two-bedroom walls, our father’s voice echoed whenever he spoke. He was an angry Okrika man. He always talked with a clenched fist and so much authority that even when he was complimenting you, you wouldn’t dare to look at his face.
I often wondered; what would my father look like if he smiled?
I don’t know if my father was beautiful; I can hardly recall his face. I never had the courage to look. My head was always bent towards the floor when he spoke to me. People say I look like him now, so maybe he was. Maybe he smiled. Maybe he had to look tough. He was a young Nigerian man trying to make it, and put food in the bellies of all his three children and their mother. So maybe he didn’t have the time to smile. Perhaps nothing was funny enough.
He always sat outside at night, facing the house, his head resting on the ash Toyota car. Sometimes I still picture him sitting out there looking into the night.
I sit outside my house too, lost in a million thoughts. At least now I know; the cruel face of responsibilities took away his smile.
Oh, what it would have been, to hear my father laugh!
That evening he came into the house and summoned me. My feet froze in the kitchen where they stood. I began crying, I thought it was whooping time.
My mother shushed me; she hugged me to her breasts and dried my eyes with her wrapper. She told me it would be alright, and her kind smile ignited mine. All I had to do was pretend I was an alien living on Mars. Before my vision would clear, he would have gotten exhausted from lifting and bringing down the koboko on me.
I nodded to my mama and fearfully walked past their bedroom—towards the parlor.
I couldn't see him clearly; he was as dark as the night. Our lantern was on. You remember the ones, a glass that kept the burning fire at bay. Kerosine was its fuel, with a small handle we picked up to move it around. Yeah, I'm sure you remember those.
“Ibi-ateli, wear your slipass now. We’re going out!” It wasn’t a request. You’d be a fool to think that. Before he could turn around, I ran out the door into the yard and waited for him.
We walked out the compound, past Rumuokwuta Girls Secondary School, where my mother worked.
We walked towards the main gate, opposite Flomen International High School, which stood tall at the other end of the road. The exact primary school I grew up in, where teacher Nneoma taught me how to receive a cane.
We took our right when we got to the main gate. Rumuokwuta, always busy with pedestrians, was no different that December night. People we walked past stopped to greet my father. He nodded at them, not once stopping to have a chat. A grumpy hell of a man. That's who he was!
I was scared shitless; I didn't know what would befall me. Was he taking me away from my mother to flog me to death? What did he want with me? We'd never had a father-daughter time like this. He only summoned me when it was whooping time, or he needed to send me on an errand. Or shout, or scold. I cannot remember another time like this when we silently walked together, breathing in the cold air. For me, it felt like that would be my last walk. Hell, my father was walking me to my inevitable death.
I saw some of my school friends. They smiled at me but I threw my face away. I didn’t know what I would do that would provoke him. So better to nod and smile Ib, nod and smile. Almost like he did.
Not long after, I felt his big hands on my shoulder. It was almost as if they lifted me off the ground. This was it. Was he really going to do it here? I wondered.
Just as soon as he picked me up, he set me down on the other side of where he stood. On his right side.
“Whenever you’re walking on the road with someone else, always make sure you’re walking at the other end, not by the road,” he said.
I don’t know where the courage came from, but I dared to ask, “Why, Daddy?”
“Because this part of the road is dangerous, and you’re a girl. Walk by the other side.”
I had a lot of questions, I still do. Was he Superman? If indeed a car came driving towards us, would his body stop the car from hitting me? Weren’t we still both in danger, regardless?
Yet, something about the way he said it. The way he moved me away. The way he sacrificed himself. I didn’t know it then, I didn’t think about it, but my father loved me. At that moment, he protected me. He promised to be my shield whenever we walked.
That lesson sunk.
My roommate back in college learned it from me, and my girlfriend after her.
While I might not be Superman or Wonder Woman, I always try to embody the courage my father had that night. No matter who I walk with today, I'd always have them walk in the position I did many years back, and have myself stand tall, eyes front, with heavy strides by the side of the road. If a vehicle is indeed coming my way, perhaps we'd see just how strong my father would have been that night. That fateful December night. Right before it all went to hell.
