It had been a bad day all round for me and I was running to the comfort of my home. If only I knew that it was going to be anything but. I walked into the living room to find two of the most important women in my life sitting and looking dejected. I almost asked "is grandpa dead?" Because in the preceding months since his last hospital visit, I have thought about his death almost every other day. What is wrong?, I asked. It's your father... Dad.. They both replied over each other. Let's go back a bit.
He was not the greatest person, not the greatest friend, not the greatest colleague, nor the greatest husband or the greatest father, but I adored him (only later did that quickly fizzle out to show it's true form). He was my father, my first teacher in more ways than one. I can not say I ever truly understand him, I spent too much of my childhood fearing him, too much of my teenage years tolerating and evading him, and much of my adult life avoiding him, but I thought I knew him a bit, I thought he was above some things.
It is said that "never meet your heroes" because they are often not that idealistic perfect person you imagine them to be, but it's not so much about meeting them as it is about knowing them. I have come to avoid trying to know my "heroes", thanks to a lesson from my father, i learnt pretty quickly to not seek that. This story is one of loss, of discovery, of trauma and the unending quest to heal.
My grandfather was living with us in the city, having been forced here by his children. He was not a kind man (old age and senility will do that to you), I didn't take any particular liking to him or any sense of responsibility of care for him. It was a task, much like being forced to clean the kitchen or toilet, but I did it, being the responsible child I am. He was sick and getting sicker by the day.
Credit: Craig Philbrick
On a fateful day, Daddy decided to take him to the hospital cause he was looking bad. I remember my phone ringing a few hours after and the conversation going something like, Good afternoon Sir, Daddy. "Come meet for hospital (come meet me at the hospital), my dad said. Thirty minutes later, I was at my grandpa's bedside. The man was evidently distressed and clearly not long for this world.
After a while, it occured to dad, that his father hadn't had much in terms of food that day. Go house, go bring food for Aba (that's Nigeria pidgin language for "go home and bring food for your grandpa), he said. Ok Sir, I replied and went on my way. Dropped the food and went back home. Spent the whole night thinking, not worrying, just thinking about what my grandpa's passing might feel like.
At about noontime the next day, my father called me back to the hospital. On getting there, I met this woman at my grandpa's side. I greeted her and sat on the opposite side of the bed. Not long later, my father walked in and went "This woman is one of the nurses, he helped me watched your grandpa overnight and will join you to watch him tonight". Ok Sir, I said, despite the fact that my teeth were on edge. Long story short, my grandpa's ran his time in the hospital and we went home.
What's with that, I asked, genuinely confused. My mum gave a smirk that I will never forget, and said, you have a new brother, a stepbrother, your father has given birth to another child. I went numb. For a moment, I wished I had the naivety of a child, where all I would have been confused about would be why her stomach never bulged all the while, but I couldn't. My father had just had a child by another woman. The family was devastated.
I thought that was the worst, but then my mum hit me. The woman? Same "night nurse" that was assisting me in the hospital. I was scarred by that knowledge. The fact that my father could blatantly lied to me, in my face,like that, like an imbecile, the fact that he could bring himself to be doing that to his family, while his father was dying and we all paused our lives to care gor him, traumatized me in ways I didn't think possible. I never saw him the same way again and we never really talked after that.
It's been many years now, my "stepbrother" is probably a little teenager now, but I'm yet to heal from the trauma that was his birth, his arrival to this world. I wonder if he knows is continued existence is essentially fuel source to the trauma and pain that has haunted a whole family endlessly. And I wonder from time to time, what become of his mum and the illicit relationship that birthed him? Is it done or is it still continuing, but I guess those questions will never be answered.
