September 7th, 2001: The once beautiful and serene town, Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria witnessed a violent crisis. Some called it a religious crisis, others said it was political, yet others said it was politics laced with religion. Who knows for sure? September 9th, 2001: World Trade Center bombings. There was no doubt in any body’s mind about the name for this one – terrorism.
Fast forward to September 20th, 2010. I remember clearly as if it happened yesterday. I was standing in front of the ATM machine of a bank, waiting in line to make a withdrawal. My mood was normal. The day was sunny and bright. The sun shone down on everything and everyone and I was feeling the kind of good you feel when you are going to withdraw money. My cousin was with me and we were chattering away about this and that. Nothing this day warned me that I was about to receive the worst news of my life so far. The time was about 10am and that’s when my phone rang. The caller at the other end delivered his message in one clear simple sentence: Sister, the chief has just died in hospital. For many years, we had called him ‘the chief’ and with that simple message, I knew my father was dead. I screamed and stopped listening while everyone started starring at me. I looked up at my cousin and simply repeated to him, the chief is dead and as I said it, my whole body began to shake and my world fell apart and the tears began to flow. The tears still flow at the memory of not being able to attend the funeral. Not because I didn’t want to but because he had left instructions that I shouldn’t.
You see, I was adopted as a child and didn’t even know it till I was, perhaps, 18. I will not go into the long story of how I found out but suffice it to say that it was an unpleasant experience and one that led to a series of hurts and pains between my father and I. It was most painful because I seemed to be the only person who should have known but did not know. And those who knew it used it to taunt me. When I found out, I confronted my father who reacted by becoming upset claiming that I disowned him after he had brought me up and educated me. He took far reaching measures such as calling his sisters and other relatives to tell them that I said he was no longer my father. He changed his will to remove mine and my children’s’ names. But worst of all, he left a last message: I was not to attend his funeral.
It was not enough that my father abandoned me in death. His other children saw to it that they did not speak to me in the events leading up to the funeral, during the funeral and up to this day. They came from overseas, attended the funeral and went right back without as much as calling or asking after me. My father has two other daughters and a son who have not spoken to me ever since. Even his sister, my aunt stood watch and made sure no one as much as mentioned my name. I was like an outcast. I am often tempted to call them or email them or just somehow, contact them. But I cannot afford a second round of rejection. As a friend once said to me, sometimes, it’s best to let go.
I loved you but you never understood. You said I was always fighting; I only wanted to be understood. You never put photos of me or my children on the living room wall in your house or by your bedside. That hurt. You told all your friends about my divorce. That hurt. You turned your back on my children, facing the wall when they came to say hello to you in your bedroom. That hurt. You could have just turned around to say hello. The last house keeper you had called me a bastard and said I wasn’t your child. How did she know? If I didn’t tell her, who did? That hurt. I looked at the programme of events for your funeral; my name wasn’t mentioned as one of your children. My sons were not included as your grandchildren. Oh, how that simply tore my heart out of my chest. Even in death, you hurt me. Even at that, I never stopped loving you.
I didn’t get a chance to say good bye but this September, as I remember you my father, I want to say good bye. I have cried my tears and right now, I am going to bury my pain. Next September, I shall remember my gain and not my pain.
Good bye father.
P.S
A friend of mine read my blog once and sent a message to my pastor to 'please help Anne'. Looking for help or pity is not the intention of my posts. My intention is to share my feelings and in the process, unclutter my world.
