By JOYCE NJERI KIMANI
When I was growing up, every weekend a tall, dark man would come home and invariably pick up my older sister, sit her on his lap and ask her who had been naughty that week.
She would dutifully report what we had done and the man would take out his belt and whack our backsides as punishment for wrongs we had done.
Later, at night, he would go to my mum’s room and the next day, he would go away, only to return the following weekend to punish and correct us.
I always wondered who this strange man was, until one day I mustered the courage to ask my older sister, who informed me that he was my father.
I first laughed at the idea. Then I realised that it was he who paid my fees, gave mum money to buy me new clothes and also helped her build the house we lived in.
There was always a distance between us. I feared and at the same time admired this man. I wanted to be his friend, share my secrets with him, tell him that I loved him and to be there when he needed me.
I wished he would be there to tell me he was proud of me when I passed my exams. I recall a day he promised me a gift if I did well in my end-of-term exams. I came top of my class, but instead of congratulating me, he gave me a beating, ostensibly for slacking off and performing below par.
I wished he would just say a simple “Thank you” when I made him his favourite meal. Honestly, it would have made my day.
Instead, he took two bites and said he was full. I longed for my graduation, hoping it would be the first time he would ever whisper to me the four magic words: “I’m proud of you”. But my graduation came and went, and I never heard him say those words.
I told him about my boyfriend, but all he did was express surprise that I even had one. Then he kicked me out of the room and told me he never wanted to hear anything like that from me again, adding that men were out to ruin my life.
Listening to Luther Vandross’ track, Back When I Was a Child, always brought tears to my eyes. I longed to have the dad that the musician sang about and play a song that would never end with him.
So I kept my distance, but loved him, nevertheless. I adored him for his hard work, I respected him for his courage, I feared him for his seriousness and honoured him for taking care of me.
I’m not alone. Millions of girls in African societies have only a “father”, not a “dad”. A man who provides, corrects, disciplines and whose only communication is the cane. Most of them have never experienced the fatherly love they long for.
Many of my friends suffer from low self-esteem, insecurity, pain and betrayal and most would want a place to hide.
And many girls my age feel they don’t fit in, or that they have no friends. They would like a place to hide from their troubles and feel they have someone who loves them.
More importantly, they would want someone who would be there when they feel as if their world is crumbling, when they feel they just can’t make it or take it anymore. It would be wonderful for them to have a dad who shows that he really cares.
Despite everything, I love my dad. Love is said to overlook all faults in a person. Love keeps no records of wrongs done. Love is patient and I wait patiently for the day we will become best friends.
Love is like a butterfly; if you chase it, it will run away, but, if you sit and wait patiently, it will come and sit on your shoulder. I choose to wait. Meanwhile, he will forever remain my dear, distant dad.
Source –Daily Nation
Comments