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.
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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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