I always knew Papa loved me, but for many years, I struggled to believe it.
No, we weren't enemies. Papa didn't hate me. He didn't deprive me of my needs or treat me like a stranger. Our conflict was as a result of my choice of career. It didn't fit with the life he had planned for his kids. So, every time it came up, there was something in his eyes that went cold. He didn't want to hear me talk about my passion for art or see me scribbling stories on my jotter or about the kind of life I wanted to live.
For him, he had already set a standard on the careers his kids were to choose from. The typical African parent styles. So to hear me talk about something different all the time bruised a dream he once held in his palms. It was either all his children would become doctors, lawyers, engineers, or nothing else.
I remember dropping my passion for painting and drawing to please him at the early stage of my life. Even though I was so good at it. I just couldn't stand the look of disgust on his face whenever he saw me drawing with stained fingertips. In fact, the first payment I ever got in my life from rendering a service was from my drawings. When Papa got to know of it, he ordered me to stop and seek something better to do with my life.
“I did not send you to school to become a roadside artist and earn peanuts!” he yelled. "I'm making sure that you and your subbing get the best education in town. So I wouldn't be alive to see you waste it!" He continued.
"But Papa,..."" I tried speaking.
"Don't but me! Can't you see your siblings? Why can't you be like them?" He raged. Then slammed his fist on the table and walked away.
I sat there with tears in my eyes and my pastel and paper in my hands. I got up, walked to the trash can, and trashed it all. That was the last time I ever painted.
A few months later, I delved more into writing. Although I did that more in private and more like a hobby than a career path. The only people that got to read my work then were my siblings and Mama. They loved it and motivated me to write more. We all kept it a secret from Papa.
And all that time, Papa barely knew a word about it. Everything went well between us. I got admission into university and chose a course he loved while I still kept pushing with my love for writing in secret. Luckily for me, while still in school I started getting little writing gigs. Although the pay wasn't much, it helped to keep my body and soul intact.
Everything went well until one evening, just a few days after university. I had come back home to relax and plan my next move with my life. Papa had found me one day punching through my laptop. Working on a little gig I had gotten from a friend. I had no idea Papa was standing behind me.
"Is that a school project?" He asked.
I quickly turned to see him standing there with his hands behind him. "No."
"So, what's that?" He asked with a smile.
"A work for a friend."
"Will he pay you?" He continued. Clearly, he wasn't going to stop.
"Yes." I smiled proudly. In my mind, Papa would see reasons and let me be. But he didn't smile back at me.
"How much." He kept a mean face.
"A few thousand." That was the line that broke the camel's back.
"I sent you to school. Wasted millions on it. Just for you to come home and become a writer for a few thousand? Is that how you're going to be a father and train kids. With a few thousand career?"
"Papa this is.."
"I've always known that after you left art, that's if you really did, you picked up another yeye hobby. I just didn't have proof yet, that was why I never bothered. But now this. A few thousand career?." He walked away towards his room angrily. That was where he dropped the bomb. "You are still playing with your life o. One day, you’ll wake up and see your mates building houses, then you'll realize how useless you've been."
I opened my mouth to talk but shut it. It was of no use. It will only escalate the matter the more.
I waited till everyone was fast asleep then I packed my bag and left. I moved back to my apartment in school. Luckily, the rent wasn't due yet.
I stayed away from home for nearly a year. Declining pleas from my mum and siblings to return home. Trust me, life wasn’t perfect out there, but at least I had peace. I got a small job and still took part-time writing jobs, entering writing competitions I saw online. Just to keep my body and soul intact. I poured my confusion and heartbreak into my stories. They were like spices that gave it that good aroma and taste.
Then, one December after much persuasion from Mama, I traveled home to spend Christmas with my family.
That was when I noticed something had shifted with Papa. He asked more about my writing. What I was working on next. At first, I thought he was mocking me, but he wasn't.
"You're African. Try and put some culture into your work. ” he had advised me one day. That surprised me.
Like an African parent, he never opened his mouth to apologize. But his attitude showed how sorry he was. And I was happy for his new change in attitude. Although I kept wondering what exactly was going on.
Then, one night, I asked Mama one night, while I helped her peel egusi together in the kitchen. I watched her face turn into a beautiful smile.
“He’s been reading your stories,” she said.
Surprised, I asked. "When? How?"
“Since you left. He even printed one out."
I smiled. "Which one?"
"The one you wrote about him. How you said you were proud to have him as your father. One time I overheard him reading it to his friends.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But I was emotional
“He says one of your works touches souls,” Mama added. “But trust your father, he’ll never tell you that directly.”
I nodded. Mama was right. Papa had so much ego. I knew he wouldn't ask and I promised myself not to ask him either. The beautiful thing about knowing that Papa read and liked my works was that feeling of something loosened in my chest.
It made me realize that sometimes karma isn’t always about justice. Sometimes it’s the slow turning of a father’s heart, not by force, but by realization.
And maybe. Just maybe, that’s enough.
