My Sixty - Twenty window

He was born on this day in 1949. Four years after Allied Forces liberated Hitler oppressed Europe and the atomic bomb devastated Nagasaki and Hiroshima; effectively ending World War II. He was born into a world recovering from the 'Great Depression' and into a nation-state feeling the birth pains of independence. Sixty years on and it would appear the world has not changed much; what with wars being raged in far flung lands, a nation yet to achieve real independence from self enslavement and a world economy on its knees.

I always wanted to ask him what it was like being born in those times. Was the world a kinder or harsher, more peaceful or war ravaged place? What impact did this have on him as an African teenager growing up on a continent disentangling itself from the shackles of colonialism and experimenting with the new found freedoms of democracy? Did life for him hold high hopes or was the feeling one of uncertainty and fear from the radical changes of those times?

The thing is, he never spoke much. When he did speak, it was in short bursts with direct emphasis on the subject and with little imagery. He had a serious disposition but he also knew how to laugh. His was a laughter that came from his belly. You could see him physically bob up and down like a cork bouncing on water as it emanated from somewhere deep within him. He liked his friends. He had quite a few. I suspect he warmed his way into their lives with his quiet and unassuming nature. They liked him too. You could tell they enjoyed being around him; even if all that meant was sitting silently watching Roger Moore in 'The Man With The Golden Gun' on Betamax while sipping a glass of chilled Star beer.

His values were felt rather than heard. He was not one to give long lectures on why children shouldn't tell lies or steal from others. As a child, you just instinctively knew that he would be really disappointed in you if you did those things and so, you just didn't do them. This was in stark contrast to his wife who cut a more radical and fiery character. I tell you, there was no table too low or cupboard too high where her cane or worse still her tongue could not reach that offending child. This African woman would not see her children get spoiled; not while the rod had something to say about it!

I recall an incident one sunny weekend. I must have been about six or seven years old. She had gone shopping and returned with a packet of my favorite sweets at the time (Cadbury Bon-Bons); the ones with the soft center which melted in your mouth as you chewed. They were to form part of me and my sister’s lunch boxes for the next few weeks. Well, the said packet of sweets was spirited away and almost totally consumed before my six year old conscience kicked in and I decided to leave a few for my sister. About three or four pieces to be exact! As things go, aspiring thieves aged six (who are not exactly skilled in the fine arts of subterfuge and deception) generally get caught. I suppose he knew that the after effects of consuming too many sweets would be punishment enough for me and so didn't raise too much dust at my 'trial'. Not so his wife, the judge, jury and executioner. I got a good hiding and then fell seriously ill afterwards. Enough said.

They seemed happy together, his wife and he. I always wanted to ask him why he married someone who was so different from him. Was he really in love with her or was he just doing the honorable thing? It most certainly was not family pressure. I shall never know what inspired him to march in defiance to the altar with a woman who did not receive his family’s 'seal' of approval? What I do know however, is that despite the obvious challenges, he stuck to the plot and lived for his family and for his three children.

Childhood rushed by in a blur and soon, I was the one growing to become the African teenage boy. On my first day at boarding school, cowering in fear at the prospect of being cut loose from the apron strings, he was there to open the gates to this new and strange world. "Admission number one three two zero", the registrar bellowed, his tribal marks stretched thin in a wide grin as he handed over my entry documents. I wonder what was going through dad’s mind as I was led to my hostel block, my tin box trailing behind me. I wonder what kind of future he envisaged for me. What did he expect of me besides getting good grades and being a ‘good son’? I never would know. As we parted company that day, little did I know that the hands of his clock were five to the hour with his life force ebbing away by the day. Soon, this man who was the pillar in my life would be no more.

And so, like the title of Professor Wole Soyinka’s, prison memoirs, “The man died”...Within months, time as we knew it stood still. Gone was the opportunity to learn life’s lessons first hand from the experiences of one who had lived them before me. Memories of him were buried and when they were shared, this was done in hushed tones almost as if one risked destroying them by speaking too loudly. The ‘Third Room’ was where most of his belongings were stored. We never opened the door to that room. Things that were meant to be forgotten were thrown into that room and the door hurriedly shut. Even the mice went there to die. I shall write about that ‘Third Room’ later.

Twenty years on, I can hardly recall what he looked like or what he sounded like. They say people you love are never forgotten because they are always in your heart. Does the fact that I hardly remember him mean I love him less? Did I love him at all? Did he know that I loved him at all? Twenty years on, many mistakes, successes and unanswered questions later, life has led me along paths I never believed were possible in the aftermath of his death. I am humbled by the might and benevolence of my creator, for helping my family to move on from that place. The sands of time have no record of this man. His is buried in an unmarked grave in a land no one remembers. For him, there are no memorial flowers. He wrote no books, composed no songs or had any visible wealth. I suppose we, his three children, are his wealth. We will do what we can to spend this wealth (his life and his values) wisely. God willing, we will tell our children about this quiet and simple man who spoke volumes with a nod of the head, his kind eyes and a warm heart.

Today, I pause to remember and honor this man who gave me birth. Twenty years on, I can reach into my heart and say, “Thank you for being the man you were, happy birthday dad.”