Continued:
There was a season, during which my parents suffered a severe shortage of funds, but I did not know it, perhaps because it would have been difficult to understand. I must have known somehow though, because I loved to eat bread, and I went to the bakery twice a week to pick a loaf which I often ate alone (at least, 70% of it 90% of the time). As that season set in, I soon came to know to ask mother if my father was buoyant enough to give me money to cater for my little treat. Sometimes she encouraged me to ask, some other times she gave me money from her pocket and other times she asked me to hold on for a day or two. The times I went ahead to ask, it was either a quick reach for his wallet, or a steer into the distance that would still end up in him giving me the money. It was long after this season had passed that I realised how difficult it was for him: he could not afford to deny his son bread even in extreme financial difficulty! In spite of his financial difficulties at that time, priority was laid of food, school books and uniforms - oh yes, I eventually had up to five pairs as my father did not want me to bother to wash during the week.
At the time he died, I was ‘all grown’ and away from home – working and preparing for marriage – but I felt the blow strongly, because even then, my octogenarian father was yet a strong force in my life. I miss him and talk about him to people who keep wondering why seven months after; I still get drawn to tears thinking about him. Why not, I wonder. Well, I see how hundreds of people who have not had the benefit of prolific fatherhood turn out, and get thankful all over again.
Perhaps one of the greatest things my father did for his children is the fact that he set up an “altar” at home, creating a platform for us to know and relate with the living God and opening us up to the possibilities of a relationship with that God. The priority he gave to devotion was overwhelming at the time. In fact, as we grew older, the conduct of the sessions – from choosing the hymns and scriptures, to leading the prayers – became a responsibility we shared with Mummy and Daddy. And we did learn to pray, even in Yoruba!
Looking around today, I can tell that my generation is falling apart – as result of the dearth of real fathers. Our community is on a degeneration roller-coaster as the youth are being crushed under the weight of decisions that are ordinarily not theirs to make. I stand today (even if not perfectly) because I had a father who shielded me till I was ready to face the world’s stage. He was working overtime fathering me at a time I could not possibly have appreciated him, truly. His labour was however perfected when Christ found me and helped me relate to Him (the Holy One) as my ultimate coach.
The ills in our society continue to multiply as we come to terms with the fact that a screaming percentage of these foul deeds are propagated by/through the youth. Many young people carry bold faces around while deep within them they cry: silently yearning for role models, seeking the faces of father-figures and praying “Father me!” Yet, the older generation is busy; far too busy to understand its responsibility to its infant; wallowing in its corruption of society and selfish ambitions. All the while though, it looks on the youth with disdain, blames society’s decadence on it and gaily makes references to “the good old days”! What it fails to see however is the fact that the progeny is only an advanced image of its ancestor: the proclivities of the father would find expressions in his sons – and they would be far more creative. Little wonder gay marriages are being spoken off in Africa today, and profanity is the order of the day.
Society is only as strong as its constituents; therefore leadership begins with the tutoring of one! Many of the traits my father displayed in his lifetime are missing from our world today because many who had it did not live by example to their children. He did not have to coach with spoken words all the time; all he had to do was act right! How much better society would be if only everyone would shape up and act right! What better way can there be than for responsible “fathers” to train up their “children” and point them to God, for whom we all run the race of life.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Father Me! (1)
I reminisce about the values and disciplines I got from the kind of fatherhood I enjoyed, and how the whole concept affects society. Please allow me to share my thoughts with you. The concluding part would be posted soon. Enjoy!
The first time I referred to my father as “the late”; I had to pause and think. I took time to ask myself if it was truly so, and if things would stay that way from that moment onwards. It was the middle of a prayer my Mother and I shared. She must have had the same experience I had at that moment because she was quiet for the period of my hiatus. The prayers soon continued, were concluded and we went about our businesses.
It was not the first time I was experiencing the loss of a loved one, no, but this is the closest it had ever come. For people who had been in those shoes, it is only normal. For me, the experience was far from normal – it was the sudden realization that someone whose presence in a location you had taken for granted was gone from there, never to return.
Commiserations came in from all angles; a good chunk of those featured the opinion that it was not such a loss since the departed one in this case had lived to an enviable “ripe, old age”. For me, it was by all means a loss. My old old man, whose demise I should have been prepared for, seeing that he had cheated death more than a few times since he turned seventy (and I was convinced that I was prepared) had finally taken his exit and I was caught unawares.
I pride myself as a teenager who did not give his parents trouble. Yes, boys would be boys, but some have the prefix “problematic” before that general term and I was not one of those. I was your unusual good boy, occasionally exhibiting characteristics that indicated that I was normal afterall. However, my father & I? Oh! We have a history: long and drawn battles over issues usually coming to a closing scene that would most likely reveal me, flat on my face and belly, supplication on my lips, pleading for forgiveness. Did we have verbal exchanges on issues? Hardly so – I was far too well-brought up to go that way – but I was not always repentant. And I am sure my father knew that. I was a very stubborn lad; I soon understood that there was no escape route from the apology scenes after issues came up, but I would delay “action” on them, and eventually only be observing the formalities of obedience and respect. My rebellion, you see, was subtle: as an observer you could very easily be deceived. But not Dad! I believe he must have gone through the exact same phase, because we stayed on that “lesson” long enough for me to be truly sorry, even if it was only in the interest of peace. It had to either be that he completely understood how to get the right results, or God chose to move beyond Dr. Sosan’s actions/inactions to produce the right results in me.
It is often said that you do not ascribe the full worth of a thing to it until you have lost it. I would not agree that I did not give substantial regard to my father in his lifetime. No! I believe I have learned understanding to some of the decisions he took that did not make sense back then; hind-sight gives me an opportunity that he acted more on divine inspiration than archaism; that an essential value of love and genuine interest in the things that concerned others, those lacking in our society today, was a force that drove him. I missed my father when he died about seven months ago, but I miss him more now because I realise that he was grossly under-valued, even by me!
I feel the importance he attached to quality time with family is a lesson he learned a hard way, but it is something he never defaulted on while I knew him as father. I was driven to school daily by father in his seventies. As a matter of fact, I started to write an examination that had me go across town, and my father insisted on being the chauffeur to make it all happen for me. And I knew to say “Thank you” properly, (several times over too) in my own interest. When I went away to the university and my father had been advised to go off driving, he still did not minding being driven two hours (one way) to drop off his son at school. Once we were in traffic for about five hours en route my school, only to have to turn round. Rather than complain, it was quality time again – what a beautiful reunion we had!
When our teachers went on strike sometime during my junior secondary school years, my father took on the role of holiday teacher to me. My life became even more regimented: he woke me up at 5.30am and practically gave me a time-table that took care of house chores, other errands and study, only after morning prayers, of course. There was no way he did not know what we did in school, because he had taken my textbooks and had started defining the path of progress in them for me. Oh, how I hated that period! And I am the better for it today, (even if my results did not immediately reflect it).
Timidity is one of those characteristics that you cannot associate with my late father. No matter what the consequences were, Dr. Sosan always spoke his mind – especially if he felt anyone was being oppressed. He took it upon himself to write and, in some cases, arrange meetings with political leaders so as to bring to their notice (or say to their faces) what things they had failed to do. He was loved and cheered by many for it, but he was disliked and/or feared by many more. He always stood by what was right and always exhibited care for others. If my father was worrying about you, you no longer had any reason to do it for yourself – he had all ends covered. And he always sought for ways of helping others, once he found it, he swung into action.
The first time I referred to my father as “the late”; I had to pause and think. I took time to ask myself if it was truly so, and if things would stay that way from that moment onwards. It was the middle of a prayer my Mother and I shared. She must have had the same experience I had at that moment because she was quiet for the period of my hiatus. The prayers soon continued, were concluded and we went about our businesses.
It was not the first time I was experiencing the loss of a loved one, no, but this is the closest it had ever come. For people who had been in those shoes, it is only normal. For me, the experience was far from normal – it was the sudden realization that someone whose presence in a location you had taken for granted was gone from there, never to return.
Commiserations came in from all angles; a good chunk of those featured the opinion that it was not such a loss since the departed one in this case had lived to an enviable “ripe, old age”. For me, it was by all means a loss. My old old man, whose demise I should have been prepared for, seeing that he had cheated death more than a few times since he turned seventy (and I was convinced that I was prepared) had finally taken his exit and I was caught unawares.
I pride myself as a teenager who did not give his parents trouble. Yes, boys would be boys, but some have the prefix “problematic” before that general term and I was not one of those. I was your unusual good boy, occasionally exhibiting characteristics that indicated that I was normal afterall. However, my father & I? Oh! We have a history: long and drawn battles over issues usually coming to a closing scene that would most likely reveal me, flat on my face and belly, supplication on my lips, pleading for forgiveness. Did we have verbal exchanges on issues? Hardly so – I was far too well-brought up to go that way – but I was not always repentant. And I am sure my father knew that. I was a very stubborn lad; I soon understood that there was no escape route from the apology scenes after issues came up, but I would delay “action” on them, and eventually only be observing the formalities of obedience and respect. My rebellion, you see, was subtle: as an observer you could very easily be deceived. But not Dad! I believe he must have gone through the exact same phase, because we stayed on that “lesson” long enough for me to be truly sorry, even if it was only in the interest of peace. It had to either be that he completely understood how to get the right results, or God chose to move beyond Dr. Sosan’s actions/inactions to produce the right results in me.
It is often said that you do not ascribe the full worth of a thing to it until you have lost it. I would not agree that I did not give substantial regard to my father in his lifetime. No! I believe I have learned understanding to some of the decisions he took that did not make sense back then; hind-sight gives me an opportunity that he acted more on divine inspiration than archaism; that an essential value of love and genuine interest in the things that concerned others, those lacking in our society today, was a force that drove him. I missed my father when he died about seven months ago, but I miss him more now because I realise that he was grossly under-valued, even by me!
I feel the importance he attached to quality time with family is a lesson he learned a hard way, but it is something he never defaulted on while I knew him as father. I was driven to school daily by father in his seventies. As a matter of fact, I started to write an examination that had me go across town, and my father insisted on being the chauffeur to make it all happen for me. And I knew to say “Thank you” properly, (several times over too) in my own interest. When I went away to the university and my father had been advised to go off driving, he still did not minding being driven two hours (one way) to drop off his son at school. Once we were in traffic for about five hours en route my school, only to have to turn round. Rather than complain, it was quality time again – what a beautiful reunion we had!
When our teachers went on strike sometime during my junior secondary school years, my father took on the role of holiday teacher to me. My life became even more regimented: he woke me up at 5.30am and practically gave me a time-table that took care of house chores, other errands and study, only after morning prayers, of course. There was no way he did not know what we did in school, because he had taken my textbooks and had started defining the path of progress in them for me. Oh, how I hated that period! And I am the better for it today, (even if my results did not immediately reflect it).
Timidity is one of those characteristics that you cannot associate with my late father. No matter what the consequences were, Dr. Sosan always spoke his mind – especially if he felt anyone was being oppressed. He took it upon himself to write and, in some cases, arrange meetings with political leaders so as to bring to their notice (or say to their faces) what things they had failed to do. He was loved and cheered by many for it, but he was disliked and/or feared by many more. He always stood by what was right and always exhibited care for others. If my father was worrying about you, you no longer had any reason to do it for yourself – he had all ends covered. And he always sought for ways of helping others, once he found it, he swung into action.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Exit of My Old Man
My father passed on the 8th of June, 2010. The following is the tribute I wrote to him (his memory) a few days later.
___________________________________________
There we were – my father and I sitting in the back seat of the truck – and it seemed just like old times. The major difference this time is that your body was lifeless. The last time we did this was before I ‘grew up’, while I was still a young student. Such were the times you had me sit with you while we went to buy me shoes or shirts and trousers (grey trousers were your favourite). This position is reminiscent also of those school report days when you picked me up from school and we analysed my report card on our way home. On the night of June 8 though, you were not speaking, and unlike those other times, it was I who was looking at you while you were not even looking. And were you not clean-shaven – a sign that you took your time to sit with your shaving stick and mirror just that morning? You were always concerned about putting up respectable appearances. This ride was most unusual too: it would be your last car ride in a sitting position – we were taking you to the mortuary!
My mind cannot but go back to those days at Okejigbo when you took on the role of my holiday lesson-teacher. You were the age of my contemporaries’ grandfathers but you would not act it. in fact, it took others to mention it a number of times before I realized the gulf between my father’s age and the ages of my friends’ fathers. If there was anything I lacked, it was not the presence of a father. You were always there; beyond my expectations on most counts too!
The ties we had – made stronger by those evenings we drove to musical events – drew us close to each other (this would be the first time I would admit this). In church I was known as “omo Baba” long before I understood what that meant. It was love, and that is something you gave. We may not have appreciated your form(s) of expression but you showered us with love all the same. You have set a standard of fatherhood for me (directly or indirectly), I cannot afford to fall short of that.
I remember the many quarrels we had too – over piano lessons and the tail shirts I refused to tuck in my trousers. Between you and Mother, I learnt through these quarrels how to apologise and be truly sorry. It took a long while, but you were never one to lose such battles.
Talking about battles, I saw you fight for life in my adult life. I remember how a regular trip to Lagos to be a part of a birthday ceremony led us through a banking hall to a hospital ward. We spent the night there because you had to be placed on a drip. By the following morning, however, we were on our way. Guess who took the driver’s seat when our driver missed his way and burst a tyre – my father! I am not sure I remember you sick for an extended period of time; other than when you had the surgeries, you were always on your feet by the third day at most. It took a long while for old age to convince you to take the back seat, and you had to skip church services. You fought so hard no one had the inkling your exit would come as early as it did. You took almost all of us by surprise!
Once I understood that the blessing of the times we already had enjoyed together is indeed unusual, I consciously began the process of trying to detach myself from you. Even though I had prepared myself over the years for this time (or so I thought), the sight of your lifeless body brought a rush of emotions. I was (still am) hit by that dart. I can say, without any doubt, that such ‘forced distance’ does not work! Various memories flash past in my mind, and you are no more to relive them with. I look around, and it is so easy to see your finger in practically every area of my life. You gave me support, far beyond any form of obligation. It is so hard to prepare for your funeral, worse still, tell people about it.
With tears in my eyes (flowing freely, actually), I am now at the point of using words my imagination never crafted: Adieu Papa!
___________________________________________
There we were – my father and I sitting in the back seat of the truck – and it seemed just like old times. The major difference this time is that your body was lifeless. The last time we did this was before I ‘grew up’, while I was still a young student. Such were the times you had me sit with you while we went to buy me shoes or shirts and trousers (grey trousers were your favourite). This position is reminiscent also of those school report days when you picked me up from school and we analysed my report card on our way home. On the night of June 8 though, you were not speaking, and unlike those other times, it was I who was looking at you while you were not even looking. And were you not clean-shaven – a sign that you took your time to sit with your shaving stick and mirror just that morning? You were always concerned about putting up respectable appearances. This ride was most unusual too: it would be your last car ride in a sitting position – we were taking you to the mortuary!
My mind cannot but go back to those days at Okejigbo when you took on the role of my holiday lesson-teacher. You were the age of my contemporaries’ grandfathers but you would not act it. in fact, it took others to mention it a number of times before I realized the gulf between my father’s age and the ages of my friends’ fathers. If there was anything I lacked, it was not the presence of a father. You were always there; beyond my expectations on most counts too!
The ties we had – made stronger by those evenings we drove to musical events – drew us close to each other (this would be the first time I would admit this). In church I was known as “omo Baba” long before I understood what that meant. It was love, and that is something you gave. We may not have appreciated your form(s) of expression but you showered us with love all the same. You have set a standard of fatherhood for me (directly or indirectly), I cannot afford to fall short of that.
I remember the many quarrels we had too – over piano lessons and the tail shirts I refused to tuck in my trousers. Between you and Mother, I learnt through these quarrels how to apologise and be truly sorry. It took a long while, but you were never one to lose such battles.
Talking about battles, I saw you fight for life in my adult life. I remember how a regular trip to Lagos to be a part of a birthday ceremony led us through a banking hall to a hospital ward. We spent the night there because you had to be placed on a drip. By the following morning, however, we were on our way. Guess who took the driver’s seat when our driver missed his way and burst a tyre – my father! I am not sure I remember you sick for an extended period of time; other than when you had the surgeries, you were always on your feet by the third day at most. It took a long while for old age to convince you to take the back seat, and you had to skip church services. You fought so hard no one had the inkling your exit would come as early as it did. You took almost all of us by surprise!
Once I understood that the blessing of the times we already had enjoyed together is indeed unusual, I consciously began the process of trying to detach myself from you. Even though I had prepared myself over the years for this time (or so I thought), the sight of your lifeless body brought a rush of emotions. I was (still am) hit by that dart. I can say, without any doubt, that such ‘forced distance’ does not work! Various memories flash past in my mind, and you are no more to relive them with. I look around, and it is so easy to see your finger in practically every area of my life. You gave me support, far beyond any form of obligation. It is so hard to prepare for your funeral, worse still, tell people about it.
With tears in my eyes (flowing freely, actually), I am now at the point of using words my imagination never crafted: Adieu Papa!
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