👁 Father’s Day weekend post.

The Rain.

 It rains for half the year in Africa and doesn’t for the other half. When it rains, it pours and when it doesn’t rain, dew is hard to find. 
It was an early July morning in Abakaliki, one of those weeks in which the river Ebonyi burst its banks and little baby tilapia swam alongside you in concrete roadsides of clear water, accompanying you to your Aec lectures. Rows of market women leave their wares in the rain and seek shelter, appearing only when you approach with money. Rows of ice fish and okra sitting in the rain. 
It’s a fun day but only in retrospect because: 
A few fathers are on involuntary neighbourhood patrol. With heaven and earth joined as one heavy grey sky filled with relentless rain, they haven’t left for work yet. They corner a callous fellow in the streets, 
Fathers : (in unison) what did we just hear? What happened? 
Callous fellow: (with great feeling) it’s her fault, she has no respect for me! 
Fathers; you know, every time you do something extraordinarily stupid, we shake our heads and think, No, there’s no way he did that. Nobody would be that stupid. That’s why we wanted to hear it from you. 
Father 2: You can’t break into another man’s compound to try and beat up His daughter because she has no respect for you! She’s not supposed to! It’s an idiotic thing to do especially if she’s not yours. What is wrong with you? 
Father 1: You’re lucky she was upset because she couldn’t make rent this month and she used that energy to deal with you because we would’ve done it for her and you would’ve died! 

Little children with pot bellies and tiny white teeth smile broadly at you, happiness through shiny eyes as you walk past the primary school near your lecture hall and you smile back because even though there are pictures of pot bellied children dying from kwashiorkor  in history books. These children are pot bellied because money is in short supply, Okra and iced fish are in season and supply so the mothers over cook and over feed. The rain starts up again as you learn but even though you can hear it thud the roof, there’s only a few droplets on the window near you. You look at the window as the teacher continues and think about Dad, his fatherly smile and the hot tea he made for you when you heard him up early getting ready for work and woke up early with him to get ready for school.  Our bigger brother found out when he was ten years old and told the rest of us. 

The fathers nod at you as you head home after lectures. They will only share that story of overinflated egos at Christmas over yam dough and roast turkey egwusi, pricey, manly food when it might become a little funny. For now, neighbourhood’s quiet. We’re good, are you good? 
It is well. 
Happy Fathers Day. 😊

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