The father plays the role of the enemy to his children, perhaps uneasy for the world he has plunged them into, perhaps paranoid that they may be too innocent for the world. A hero playing the role of a villain donning the garb in every way.
He is mean and unemotional, reaching for the cane more often than not, he is the figure we all wanted to hate and hated to love but love, we still did.
That face that rarely laughed at your silly plays, haunting your every step as you jump through the fence for old man jerkin’s oranges. That barking voice you dreaded as you rushed off with your peers to steal some wheels from the local beefry.
I grew up with the enemy, often questioned God for allowing me to be subjected to a life of such limited freedom. You must be either very stupid or very brave to stay outside after 6pm when papa was around and one thing is assured, you would be cured of any immediately after.
Why are they ever so different?
Why can’t Papa be like Mama?
Mama never hesitated to give me my favorite sweets, any reluctance can be melted by my sulking face beaming with misty eyes threatening to flow.
I never got a sweet from papa by asking for it, he always gave it to me when he wanted and that was rare. Any request for sweet would be met with a barrage of questions that always made me regret my request.
“Why do you need sweets?”
“Do you know sweets could make your teeth go bad?”
“Don’t you want to have strong teeth?”
“By the way, are your home works done?”
“If Okonkwo has 8 sweets and you give him 15 more, how many will he have?”
Jesus, old man! I asked for sweets not some mathematics exam.
That is the face of the enemy. Our jubilation that Papa is home in the evenings always tainted by the realization that we all had to thread with caution, no wrong movement.
“Papa welcome” We’d greet
“Goodbye Freedom, see you tomorrow when he goes off again” We’d tell our wonderful friend.
My childhood is marred by the flashes of NTA news broadcasters at 9pm, Aisha bello, Kylian Umayo and many others. I never asked for this, what is my business with Obasanjo’s policies? why exactly do I have to sit and watch?
Ok, Obasanjo won the elections, how does this concern me?
But I had no choice, running off by 9pm was more prohibited than crossing the border from Norther Korea to South.
Do I remember the countless midnight movie sessions cut short by a casual name call? Vividly.
Do I remember that subtle joy I nursed watching him get ready for a long journey? How could I forget the moments I relished most, the only times I could run and play till I had my fill, the evening news was not for me, I don’t have to be mindful of my voice as I yelled carelessly in the night.
Mama would give you a loving look full of smiles, admiration and understanding of your childish antics.
Why can’t the enemy be like Mama?
While mama would recoil at the thought of our teacher lashing out strokes of the cane on my back, Papa would ask what I did to deserve it and to him most of the times, I deserved them.
Mama would hug my sad body, wipe my tears and remind me how taking the 4th position in the class exam do not matter, I am not the wrong one, the teacher is wrong.
Papa would ask whether the other students that took the top 3 positions had extra heads. The teacher is not wrong, you are. He would negotiate a reward if I topped the class the next term.
Mama would rush to my protection as soon as she heard me cry; Chinedu has punched me in the face again. He was a peer, not older probably a little less.
“Why would he punch my baby?” Mama would curse, as she got ready to confront Mama Chinedu “Look at what your son has done to mine, my precious boy”
Papa would rather cast a disapproving look at me while I sulked and sniffed in mucus running freely as i cried.
“Don’t be that person son, don’t be that person that runs and cries when faced with a challenge, he is your peer, punch him back, don’t come crying to me” He’d say.
That was cruel and insensitive, why can’t he just be like Mama?
Mama can curse the rain for beating her son, the pains of the syringe is the doctor’s fault, my broken toe from a football match showed my peers played rougher and they were wrong for it.
You don’t want to eat Okro soup? Then don’t. I will make indomie for you or your favorite Oha soup.
What would papa do? I dare not complain about the slimy look of the okro soup; “If you won’t eat that, then prepare to go hungry or go get your own money”
Why does Papa hate me so much?
It is a simple answer, he is the enemy.
“My son will not go to that school, it is far and near a busy road” Mama complained as the posting of my Common Entrance Examination came out.
“Stop that woman, he’ll go, he will learn to cross the road like his peers, they are all not dead yet”
I want another school, my crush Ogochukwu was there, a private secondary school that never flogged or punished students, but mainly because my Ogo was there.
“I have been bullied in school”
Mama would flare up and protest “come and take me to that school to see the monster”
And Papa? “Stand up son, punch him in the face”
“I am leaving home” I remember the night I announced this to them.
His face lit up in pride, he cast an approving smile and offered his hand for a handshake. “My son, life out there is not easy but you can do it, I know my boy and never forget your mother and I are here for you anytime” that was the first handshake I ever got from him, a recognition or perhaps initiation into manhood, that handshake means more to me than the endless handshakes I get every day of my life perhaps that is why I never forgot
Mama’s eyes turned misty, sparkling under the light of the kerosene lantern flickering on the table. The sadness in her face were shouty, the look in her eyes yelled “don’t go my son, that is a scary world out there, who would protect my little chick when I am not there?”
The genuine care and kindness in Mama’s voice could never be missed.
And now, I am at my table tapping at the buttons of a computer writing this down. There is no purpose to any essay unless there is a conclusion, a lesson to be learnt.
When I think about Papa now, I imagine a superhero that I have always mistaken for a villain.
Mama certainly was my first love, Papa was my first hero.
They both loved me endlessly in different ways. Neither love was greater than the other.
While mama tried to show me the world as it should be, Papa tried to show it to me as it is.
The kind, sweet and gentle love of Mama and the strict tough love of Papa provided the balance I needed to live through this world. The world is tough and scary, needs the strong and relentless mind but there is always room for love and kindness.
Now I know, the enemy sometimes can be our greatest ally and the hero you have may take up the role of the villain as part of being a hero.
Who is the enemy?
Father is.