It.
on discovering love and being grateful
“Love is always patient and kind. It is never jealous. Love is never boastful or conceited. It is never rude or selfish. It does not take offense and is not resentful. Love takes no pleasure in other people’s sins, but delights in the truth. It is always ready to excuse, to trust, to hope, and to endure whatever comes.” — 1 Corinthians 13:4–7
When I was little, I never paid attention to whether or not my parents said they loved me. All I knew was that they took care of my siblings and I. They probably said it, but I can’t remember. I know it’s very Nigerian, but who can you blame?
I felt something, though — call it warmth or a strong sense of refuge and security. It was there.
There are specific moments in my life when I felt it the most. There was this Christmas when my parents had the brilliant idea to put candy in socks and tell my siblings and me it was “Father Christmas.” I remember believing them because the following Christmas, I stayed up as long as I could on the stairs to see if I could catch Father Christmas in the act. I slept off after some time but woke up to presents under the tree. Of course, I realized it was my parents all along once I got older, but that was a period I felt it.
Fast forward to senior secondary, I got suspended from school for something most African parents could disown their children for or look at them differently (it was that grave), and I expected the worst, but they shocked me. Their eyes didn’t burn with hatred, neither did they think I was less of their son. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about it, and I’m baffled. That was one incident I remember seeing my parents genuinely speechless and almost helpless — which was understandable because if I were in their shoes, I’d feel the same way — but shockingly, I felt safe. I felt it.
Now, I’m in university and, frankly, failing. When I talk about failing, I don’t mean getting a score shy of an A — I’m talking Fs and a couple of carryovers. In my first year, when I saw my first semester results and realized I’d have to retake a course the following year, I cried. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I did it.
The knot in my stomach didn’t unfurl. I wasn’t a bad student from primary school through to secondary — you could find me at the top of my class, so what was happening? I didn’t want to tell my parents about it because I didn’t want to feel like a disappointment. But I knew I had to eventually, and when I did, they didn’t even seem fazed. I remember wishing they would shout at me because I didn’t understand how they could be so calm about it. My mom even gave me some snacks after! I was stunned, but I felt it.
Even when I still wasn’t doing so great at school the following year, and I was way too hard on myself, they weren’t. My dad — a man who rarely shows emotions — sent me a text saying one of the sweetest things I’d ever read and I still go back to read it sometimes.
Like the average Nigerian parents, they have their flaws and are unbearable more often than not. Still, at pivotal points in my life and in situations where I expected a different reaction, they said and did otherwise, and I’m eternally grateful for that and them.
We’ve slowly gotten accustomed to telling ourselves, “I love you,” and it feels safe. Maybe that’s what love should be — safe.
Maybe that’s it.
