Its not his anniversary but I chose to remember him today. You would ask why. Today looks bleak, bleak just like the day he left. I remember the good moments more than the bad. At some point in life I realized I could not change fate and decided to celebrate the short life he lived rather than be sad that he died.
He died at 43. I’m hoping to reach 100. My dreams are valid. I always blame his love for alcohol, nyama choma and boiled eggs. Yes boiled eggs. He loved boiled eggs. I suspect he might have loved them more than his children. When I was on holiday my duty was to take breakfast to his office. And remove his shoes and socks in the evening. Who else did that? How come the shoes and socks never stunk? It was a duty, a ritual, it was sacred. My brother and I would fight over it. I think it was because it was a way that we could wordlessly say ” I love you”.The eggs. I am hungry as I speak, write, whatever.
He banned us from going to the lake. Wordlessly. Our house was full of wordless communication. I don’t remember when he said it or where. All I knew was that I was not meant to go to the lake without permission. I don’t know what his fear was. Status quo is highly suspected. My age mates could swim and wiggle like tadpoles while all I could manage was build sand castles. I learnt to swim eventually, but not in the lake, in a pool. In a pool that limited your movement. In a pool that did not have rocks to graze your knees and teach you the hardships of life. No sand to paste your tiny buttocks. They swam naked, the young ones while the older ones would be in underwear. I learnt to swim in a pool that lacked crocodiles and hippos that would have you scampering in your birthday suit. In such moments shame would be something put aside. Old and young in whatever state they were.
I sprayed his perfume once. I never tried again. Luck was not on my side. He arrived as soon as I was done. Picked the scent miles away. You see, he had this sensitive nose. He could smell things miles away. He could even smell a lie coming. He could smell any mischief I had done while he was away. He could smell us watching TV when he was at work. So he picked the scent and followed it to where I was.
“Small did you spray my perfume?”
“Dad what are you talking about”
Picture this skinny underweight kid. Short hair and big eyes. Science says that when you lie your eyes grow bigger. That scene. He asked again and I denied. It happened. The one time he touched me to punish me. He pulled my ear till I was on my tiptoes. That day I cried. I cried as if I was an orphan. In fact I contemplated running away. I think I did, for an hour or so. When no one came to look for me I decided to go back. I’ve been beaten several times in school but that day was more painful than any other day. Maybe because it was he who did it. My best bud pinched me. Betrayal of the highest order.
He had me shave my hair. Class four, ten years old. Just discovering how pretty I was. I was sent to the salon. I was to do cornrows. The lady at the salon thought it was wise to add beads to my hair. I loved them. I’d seen other kids with beads and envied them. That day I finally had them. My journey back home I walked on air. I was elated. Little did I know that those ten beads would cause me to lose my beautiful luscious long natural hair. He saw them. Kept quiet for a few minutes. I don’t know if in his eyes he was seeing Satan already grabbing his little girl before she even hit puberty. Or he had wanted me to cut my hair but no opportunity had come and this was just it and he was silent, in glee. The next day my hair was gone. For the first time in life I saw the colour of my scalp and the true shape of my head. I don’t know if I will add beads to my daughter’s hair.
I remember so many incidences with him. Some that taught me life lessons. Some I’m yet to understand. Some that left me yearning for more. I am happy it was he that God gave me. Otherwise I’d have a poor sense of style, no pride that borders arrogance and no fiery temper. I remember you everyday baba. Every single day.
minkcoat 