‘I Love My Father’

…I kept mouthing to myself, inadvertently tuning out each taxi driver that hissed for my attention outside of Murtala Mohammed Airport. I dragged my hand luggage ferociously, knocking the heel of my right converse. As the 33-degree sun radiated against my surface, I noticed a sweat patch forming through my Dragon Ball Z hoodie and I could only imagine if there were any dry patches left on the Naruto T-shirt under it. I continued to walk aimlessly, only stopping to tell the miscellaneous Nigerian that I did not have any New Year money for them. Unfortunately, the combination of my inauthentic accent and bootleg pidgin just drew more ‘miscs’ towards me.

Bibi was the only domestic that still worked for my father after all these years. Thus, he was just the right person to put me out of my misery. With one honk of Daddy’s new BMW X5 followed by his vintage four-finger wave, I was able to flee the scene of MMA chaos relatively unscathed.

‘Ahh Mr. Tunde, you’ve become big o. Welcome!’ Bibi beamed as he exaggerated the strength required to carry all 12 kilograms of my suitcase into the trunk of the car, making sure to flex every muscle on his 5’7 frame. Perhaps this Oscar-worthy performance warranted 500 NGN.

I could forgive Bibi’s patronization. After all, he had not seen me for five years. No one had seen me for five years. Including and especially my father. To be honest, the only reason why I came back ‘home’ was to offer my condolences for the passing of my Aunty Jola, whose funeral I had already missed. You see, she wasn’t an ‘aunt’ that was related to one of my parents but *the* ‘aunt’ that was actually my father’s second wife, who I refused to acknowledge as any sort of maternal figure. If it were up to me, I would have still called her Ms. Balogun, which was her title when she was my father’s personal assistant. In addition to her other arbitrary job functions, she served his food on his day off and then would slurp under his office desk as he too sucked all the juices willing to ooze from the marrow of his chicken bone. However, it wasn’t up to me. My father’s cane — a wooden stick wrapped with heavy wire — always made the decisions. And with each pound of flesh that was ripped from my back, my youthful insubordination slowly subsided. Ms. Balogun — in both my head and real-life — was no more.

Despite all of this, I still loved my father. I loved the man even though he buried my mother and married a woman half his age, 18 months later. My affection for him never dwindled as he moved us from our Ikeja GRA house to a semi-finished plot in Lekki Phase 1, leaving every single picture of his first wife submerged in the dirt of the mainland. After all, this is what a son is supposed to do. Love the man whose sperm played a 50% role in your conception and whose finances played a 100% role in your education. So loved him I did. Love him I would continue.

‘Mr. Tunde, Shebi you still school for America?’ Bibi asked, trying to make small talk as we were fully immersed in ‘go-slow’.

I nodded. In actuality, I had been working at a consultancy in Toronto for two years now. But it was easier for me to let Bibi and everyone else believe what they wanted to as opposed to letting them into the new life that I had created and quite frankly enjoyed. Before long, we had reached the first Lekki roundabout and my heart decided to mimic the palpitations it produced whenever I came home from Secondary School in the late 2000s. Watching our black and gold gate slowly open, I could only wonder what iteration of my father I was going to meet at the front door. The two-time widower too busy mourning his much younger and much more docile wife? The breadwinner whose fatherly duties remained secondary to all occupational, recreational, and hyper-sexual responsibilities? Or the tyrant who imposed the finest line between tough love and abuse? By the time Bibi opened the trunk and made his way to the boy’s quarter, I had decided that none of that ultimately mattered. Because I loved my father. And I would love all versions of him equally.

It turned out that none of them opened the door to greet me upon my arrival. Instead I was received by an unfamiliar house girl (was her name ’Happy’ or ‘Happiness’?) quickly followed by my father’s brother’s daughter, Temilola. Now 16, I couldn’t help but notice the pimples on either side of her temples and the dark spots scattered across her mango-ripe face. If puberty had been cruel with the texture of her skin, then it had been much kinder in other areas, as she carried the height that my father’s side of the family possessed with ease. She certainly did not resemble the 10-year-old girl who would run around our kitchen as Aunty Jola tried in vain to teach her the intricate steps of frying plantain — to the delicate shade of orange-brown that her Uncle Femi liked. However, she even more so looked like the beautiful paw-paw that my father was always so quick to call her right before signaling for her to sit on his lap so he could caress her shoulders.

‘Cousin Tunde, welcome. How was your flight?’ She asked robotically. A shriek did not precede the question. A hug did not escort it. Nothing that could resemble the excitement expected during a 5-year reunion was present. The only explanation that could settle my bewilderment….was mourning.

‘Uhm… it was good Temi. How are you? Where’s my dad by the way?’

‘He’s in his study. Do you want to go and see him now?’

I nodded. There were so many things I would rather do than return to the scene of all the crimes that I felt my father had committed against me. My skin never recovered from that first slap at six. The first lash at seven. The push against the wall at eleven. My ears meanwhile, still rang from the do’s and don’ts of real men. The thoughts friends and strangers would have on our affairs. The shame and disappointment from raising *this* son. And my eyes? What haven’t they seen? Things to make both his wives roll in their respective graves. But I loved my father. His beatings made me stronger. His lectures made me wiser. And whatever my eyes saw… my life was sha better for it.

Those words, ‘I love my father’, kept escaping my lips as Temi knocked on the Mahogany door.

‘Who is that?’ The guttural voice on the other side demanded, startling us both.

‘Uncle Femi, Cousin Tunde has arrived. Do you want me to come in?’

‘No, my beautiful paw-paw. It is okay. Thank you.’

My anxiety made me oblivious to the puppy-like scurry my baby cousin had as she made her way back to her room. My former room.

‘Babatunde?’

I was also oblivious to the fact that I had not moved an inch myself.

‘Welcome my son. It is good to finally have you home. Sit down.’

I dragged my feet but I did what I was told. So down I sat.

‘Sir…I’m sorry about Ms… Aunty Lola.’ I whispered, making sure to correct myself at the last second. The trademark cane still stood erect next to his liquor shelf. I didn’t want to find out if my dermis could still carry the blunt force behind wood and wire.

My father sighed. ‘Whiskey?’ He asked. He got up and reached for his Black Label before I could confirm or deny. My shoulder tensed watching him go so close to his weapon. My nemesis.

My father began to shoot me ice-breaking questions and I took a rodent sip before answering each one. ‘How is [insert random aspect of Toronto life]?’. ‘What is [insert former friend’s name] doing now?’. What do you think of [insert superfluous US political development]?. As he continued to go through the motions, I started to become motion sick. I loved my father but he started to resemble the overseas uncle who only shared a last name and DNA knots with his relatives. It was in this moment that I saw that our love for each other, born out of fear and obligation, lacked the warmth and authenticity that separated real love from…whatever this was. Anxiety would soon morph into agitation as our ‘conversation’ insisted on doing cartwheels. I became too fed up to care that I was slouching. Putting my hands in my pockets. Not looking him in his eyes. All the shit he loathed… but didn’t seem to mind today.

‘Hey Dad, I’m tired. You don’t mind if I go rest in the parlor do you?’ I asked, interrupting his question on the covid vaccine in the process.

‘No problem but listen Babatunde. There’s something I need to talk to you about. You know I’ve lost my wife now. Your Aunty Jola meant the world to me. I can’t afford to lose my son too. Babatunde, come home. Come back to Nigeria. There is a seat on the board being prepared for you. And I have even told Mr. Peters that I would like for you to meet his daughters. What do you say Babatunde? Let’s do life together again, my son.’

I would have said yes. Honestly. Fuck everything I’ve built in Toronto right? I loved my father and his approval was the single most important thing to me. That was how I was brought up after all. But then I saw the picture behind his chair. His nose crashed against hers. His smile leaned towards her own. Their eyes staring dreamily into each other. He…was my father. But she… was Aunty Jola. The bastard did the one thing for his whore that he never did for my mother. He immortalized her. And thus, it was up to me to immortalize Mama Tunde the only way I could.

‘I love you dad… but I can’t.’