OPINION: Why I Hate My Father, By Fred

As written by Fred

The infrequent July sun was fully fledged that weekend. The rays permeated through the symmetrically lined trees girding the 13th street of Bonsaac Asaba. Huge shade cast over the street and the rays that escaped the trees glided the fair brown muddy water occupying the large port holes scattered over the streets. Their meeting, the sun rays and the muddy waters, produced a lustrous reflective light rebounding into the atmosphere.

I had returned home from school that sunny Friday afternoon, around 3pm. I left school, Anambra State University, by 12:45 pm after my mid day lecture. When I got home, I triple tapped on the iron door of our house, from the backyard. It took few minutes and some more knocks before i could hear someone throwing the deadbolt out of place, flinging the door open, to let me in.

It was Chioma, my little sister who had just graduated from the convent at Nkpor that same year. She seem to have woken from a deep sleep, where she was being entertained by an interesting dream. She briefly gave me an emotionless hug and quickly made her way back to her bedroom.

I walked through the short corridor that has few wooden doors flanking it, vomiting into different bedrooms. The typical Asaba-style for storey buildings. One of those doors led to my mother's room, but I had already known she was not around, had she, as vigilant as she always is, must have loudly inquired, "who is that? ", when I knocked at the door.

I made straight for the living room. Strawberry flavored air freshener filled the room, the chatter noise from the thirthy-two inches television hanging on the wall mingled with the hum of slow oscillating blades of our old fan.

Of the two doors in the living room, one emptied into my father's bedroom. I went that way, I happened upon him already wading into the living room. His face shone, he had washed it with water, and a little blue towel in his hands, and he smeared it on his face, drying the moist. I discovered he had been sleeping, and on waking, he washed his face.

"Dad, Good afternoon", I said.
"My dear, good afternoon, how are you" he replied.
"Am great Dad, where is Mum?” I asked him, almost immediately.

It seemed he did not hear the question, or he pretended not to. And walked into the living room, he sank into his favorite upholstery, placed a little bit far off, but facing the television directly. I followed him to the living room.

"Ifunanya, how is school?” he queried, flipping through channels with the remote control.
"Dad, school is fine, just boring lectures and stressful assignments", I blurted.
He nodded his head, "that's the way it normally is, that's school for you...” The rest of what he said faded into silence through a low tuned murmur that I couldn't make sense of.

That's the way it has been with our father. His relationship with us was fractured, but yet he contended to polish it, though without much hard work. The problem is not with us, the children, certainly not with us. Apparently, not with our mother, but yet still, our mother seemed to him like a symbol that couldn't symbolize enough what it should represent. Whatever our mother did, it never satisfied him. It even seemed, we the offspring of our mother, was not the perfect kids he had wished for. But in inconsistent actions, he manifested his love for us, though not enough, but it suffice to tell us, we are not his problem, but an issue of a long distant past, an event he couldn't conquer, an event that sunk it's fang deep into his brain, laying a cold hand in his present and future, rubbing it grey and freezing it cold.

Questions have flooded my mind steady and always, but I have consistently channeled the energy to something else, my academics, the church choir.... But my control was loose that day. And I unwittingly let out.

"Dad, why are you always like this with us, I mean, cold and almost indifferent, like we are guilty of stealing something from you, like we are not what you wanted or dreamt off."

I expected him to be shocked but he wasn't. It came though like a shock to him, but he seemed to have expected it, he absorbed it bravely, and that feared me, a lot, I shuddered.

"Where is your little sister?” he asked.
"She is sleeping”

He tilted his head and looked the direction of the corridor, in a way to ascertain my reply. He increased the volume of the television, I think, so maybe, any eavesdropper won't get to hear us. He then came to the settee where I sat, sat with me, sitting alerted, not leaning into the backrest, he looked at me, then removed his face and fixed it on a hand sketched portrait of him hanging there on the wall, made for him as a gift by his artist friend. It was a bright day; the sun was high and mean in the sky, it represented the vivacity of the youths in the street. My Dad seemed to be in the mood for a narration of the distant past, after a sober reflection.

"You know, she was forcefully known and I couldn't help it...", he started, he looked again at me, his eyes now glistening, tears was building up, he didn't fight it. I was kind of embarrassed, how can my father cry before me, I thought.

"you are grown enough, and I have wanted to tell you. I won't mince words…", he removed his gaze from me and returned it to his portrait. That way I was safer, I felt so, and he also seem safer that way.

"...during the war, I was the mouthpiece of our town. You already know I was trained in school by the community, among the few educated back then in our town. But I had this distinguishing talent of oratory. So I acted as the secretary to the town union, I read out letters from the headquarters at Nnewi to our people. Most importantly, I was in charge of conscription when the war by 1969 now demanded any strong male eligible for the army, because we have arrived just steps to defeat, we lacked soldiers, then any young man above 18, or younger but hefty, will be taken by consent or compulsion, to fight for the new sovereign nation…"

He paused, waved his head, gently to the left, and slowly to the right, another stare at me. The tears have disappeared this time; his countenance carried a mild anger.

“your mother was beautiful, such a precious thing at her youth, as such, she was of interest to many. For my education and local fame, I felt entitled to her. We already were in love but that same fame took me away, farther from her, even in our proximity, I was always somewhere else."

"Of significant rivalry was Uzodimma, a handsome man, I must admit, but he was greatly disadvantaged when pitched to me in comparison because he had little or no education. Uzodimma being a cunning man, he capitalized on the effect of my busy nature. He nearly snatched your mother away from me, and then left with little or no option, I had to play the ultimate card."

"See, I had to do it. When the order came from the headquarters, demanding for men to fight for us, I authoritatively enlisted Uzodimma for conscription. But that cunning bastard, that fool... ". My Father paused, buried his head between his palms.

"That fool, was up to something else. That night, while we prepared for the clearance of those conscripted from Azigbo, our town, and the neighboring Amichi town, I was away in the hall, Uzodimma had booked a meeting with her. All this things, of his conscription, unbeknownst to her, your young mum, she came out to meet him, and he raped her that night. So much for women playing the double game..."

I angrily stood up, my head cringing and my heart pounding. I walked cantankerously towards the corridor.

"Ifunanya!!!," my father called out to me.
I only stopped, not looking at him, I asked, “Now where is the child?”
"Ikegwuonu, the man you call Young Uncle, in the village, is in a way, your brother. I mean, you know, a half brother… "

I walked some steps and paused. I turned back sharply at him, this time, sobbing uncontrollably. I observed that he was fidgeted, shaking, tears paraded themselves on his face, they walked slowly down his wrinkling cheeks. "So that's why you have been acting all up this way to us. You absolved yourself of the blames, typical you, always righteous and blameless. You think she is the one at fault, now listen let me tell you, you are at fault. You chose local fame over whom you claimed to love, you f.... ".

I wanted and almost called my Dad a fool. But I gathered myself, sharply drew the curtain, went into my mother's room, banged the door behind me. I sat in her bed. My heart tightened in my chest. My pains were compounded with the unfortunate break up with Chris, a Youth Corper serving in Rivers State whom I met last year on my 24th birthday party. Now, this revelation came, sudden, and enclosing into me like a wave of demented bees preying on its victim.

I was weeping, profusely. I brought out my earphones, plugged it to my ears. I let the music "crazy world" by Lucky Dube jam in my ear, fell into my mother's pillow while I drift into the peaceful dreamland transported by the vehicle of a resounding sleep.