My Dear Boy: Turning Sixty

Reflecting on Six Decades

I suppose for most people, except those who, as a matter of doctrine or belief, do not observe celebrations, birthdays are moments of significance marked with both reflection and revelry. I would not suggest I am given to the latter except under duress.

From yesterday into today, I have received many congratulatory messages across numerous platforms to celebrate this momentous day. Family, friends, neighbours, the church community, acquaintances, colleagues, and well-wishers have contributed in ways that have made the day exceedingly memorable.

One such endearing message came from my father, including the phrase, "My dear boy." In that simplicity of language, my father had encapsulated the span of 60 years into a single memory and recognition. [Facebook Status]

The surprise of my birth, announced by a telegram dropped through the letterbox at 7:00 AM, invited him to attend the maternity home immediately for formal matters concerning my transfer to a larger hospital for neonatal intensive care for premature births. Then the realisation that that child is now 60 must be profound.

Heartfelt Tributes and Quiet Celebration

Brian, my partner, wrote a proclamation that should, at some point, be recorded as a dramatisation of a town clerk announcing at the entrance of a city hall the significant occasion of a diamond jubilee.

The low-key event I preferred took place in the Manchester Cathedral library within a bible study group, where we had, amongst other things, a cheese platter and cupcakes. Then, in the evening, my neighbours, who had put up "Happy 60th Birthday" banners in our corridor and on my door, took me out for a meal.

As expected, I also made full use of napping time, so I missed many calls on my phone. Some I was able to return much later in the day.

Staying True to Myself

Some who would think one should have had a grand celebration or now prepare for one, but that is not what I want, need, or desire. I am not the partying type; the prospect of it is already draining my resolve, and I hope I can nip it in the bud before it gains support, currency, and momentum.

Thank you to everyone who has graciously afforded me love, recognition, consideration, and greetings for my birthday. May the joy of Christmas and the best things for the New Year be with you, your kith and kin.

On parental interference and sundry matters - III

A Problem Child

I have a blessing; I still have my parents who are alive and well, but we have a situation where we are estranged. This estrangement is probably because they are embarrassed or ashamed of me, and that is something we all have to deal with in life when it comes to how we live and the choices we make.

In those circumstances, I have taken measures to manage their exposure to these things, sometimes by reducing or eliminating communication.

For those children who have made their parents proud without having to sacrifice anything of themselves, I guess you are doubly blessed. The stars were aligned, maybe angels were even singing to the shepherds in the fields, as wise men journeyed with presents of gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the East to herald your birth. Oh, the prophets foretold it all.

I was not that child; I was different, difficult, and diffident. I was at one time smart and then considered stupid; for a while, trusted, and then not trusted. I was a handful to my parents, yet a product of the environment I was in.

We Were Not Friends

My African parents made many assumptions about what they thought I had learnt from examples that were not always obvious, for instance, the handling of money. Heck! My father is an accountant, but tell me, how do you pass down the genes? I guess only one of my siblings pursued a career with any semblance of that profession, so much for the power of example.

My parents are of the generation that maintained a certain status and stature, with a school principal for a mother, someone moulding impressionable young lives. The pressure to perform was even more stifling, the need to impress was necessary, and every failing was condemned with such excoriation it left an indelible mark.

Then I failed. I failed woefully, twice. I started courses at two polytechnics, both ending with the advice to withdraw. When I look back, I realise I was clinically depressed; my mother had Psalms and white-garment prophets on the rolodex of that time, and I found religion. I had finished secondary school at 15 and was starting all over again at 20.

A Different Parent

The difference this time was being under the guardianship of an uncle, my sadly departed Uncle Cash, a close relation who had experienced failures early in life but had become very successful in his chosen profession of insurance.

That relationship was different. It was not built on a yearning to show power by demanding and comparing, but on engagement and an appreciation that I was a person first, with my own beliefs and persuasions that could be accommodated within his mentorship and guidance. My parents backed off a bit, and I thrived.

The purpose I gained moved from setting goals to make others proud to achieving success for myself. I had the power to make my own decisions, based not on what others thought, but on what I thought was best for who I was, what I was doing, and what I aimed to achieve.

We Are Really Strangers

In their eyes, I could very well still be the child they once knew, because we grew so far apart from the day they sent me to secondary boarding school. They knew one child; I am a different man, and their child still.

In the same vein, my parents have changed from the people I once knew, even as some characteristics remain, and we have never really had the time to compare notes about who everyone turned out to be.

I have issues and misgivings, many of which I have written about in my blogs. I think I have had a reasonable relationship with my father and a rather volatile one with my mother. Even as I think of them and love them, there are elements of past resentment and abandonment that have taken hold as I review their parenting of me as an individual.

My parents, I can understand, have their concerns too: they have a firstborn son who is gay, has never married and will marry a man, has no offspring, and whom they have not seen in decades. And I am comfortable with all that, because it is my own life and not theirs.

Let's Do This Again

On my Facebook page, I have a friend request, the inspiration for this blog, because it is from my father, who I once blocked, then unblocked, but did not re-establish the friend relationship. After all, he conflated the situations of parent, participant, and policing.

Allowing him to participate in my social media activities meant that he began to police me, and then I got the message: “The earlier you make a good change in your lifestyle the better; it is not too late. All the best”. I was 53. I am going to be 60 in December.

You know what? I’ll accept that friend request.

Blog - This is my life, this is me

Blog - On parental interference and sundry matters

Blog - On parental interference and sundry matters - II

Remembering my stepmother

 A propinquity nativity

It is a case of interesting provenance for another word cannot be found to describe the fact that my stepmother was only 14 months older than I am. Sadly, today, one speaks in the past tense because today would have been her birthday and she passed on, 4 days after her birthday 2 years ago.

On reflection, I consider the perspectives of relationships and the understanding of what goes on between different people. For there are viewpoints of who she was that my half-brothers whose ages would have been representative of my sons have, and that of who the larger parts of the family have as concerns her.

Deference of association

In my case, I find myself more of a neutral party as I never met her, I only knew of her, and we were introduced over the phone by my father long into their relationship. I immediately adopted a respectful deportment to my father’s wife and accorded her all that it necessitates.

Our interactions over the years that we communicated were cordial and friendly, each deferential to the other even as I fielded concerns and complaints whilst trying to mitigate and ameliorate issues as that relationship became estranged.

In my view, I thought there were situations where my father could have been more gentlemanly, yet I was never conversant with the intricacies of their affair. The history and reports relayed to me would suggest it was a stormy and sometimes unhappy marriage, but I was too distant from the setup to give it any assessment.

In resignation to fate

Therefore, regardless of what others thought of her, I could not fault her even if she had many faults, what I remember was trying to call her on her last birthday and we eventually talked. The call that received on that fateful Wednesday morning from my brother, left me in shock, I was coming to the end of my walking exercise, and I literally collapsed on a bench for a while to get my bearings.

Conversing with my brothers, we worked at facilitating her obsequies as I thought about how our then-recent engagements might have unwittingly been loaded with some premonition; certain critical responsibilities would come my way just as a matter of course and in recognition of the limits to which other parental obligations can be met.

The sadness is palpable in remembrance, more so for my brothers who would surely miss her and her presence for significant life occasions. Life is fleeting, how we leave legacy matters, and for those we have met, we hope we have contributed something significant and positive for them to remember. To my stepmother, rest eternal and may your shortcomings be forgiven.

Blog - A chapter closed suddenly

Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú: A time for healing

Part I: Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú: A town of pain

An appreciation of Baba Cole

Joel Adebambo Idowu popularly known as Baba Cole, that was his nickname and I never met him, he died 4 years before I was born, he was my maternal grandfather. I have only recently begun to hear much about him. There are many ways we are supposed alike, he was an anglophile and an archivist, some sort of encyclopaedia of knowledge.

From what I have learnt and there is much more I need to flesh out, he was a literal man, of considerable influence, a prince of the town and a member of the ruling council of the town. He had three daughters, my mother being the middle one, there is a rumour that there might have been a brother, but no one has confirmed that to me.

Standing true for justice

Much as he respected traditions and conventions, he was not ready to sacrifice people for those causes and for that, he paid the ultimate price. As it transpired, an emissary was sent to our town from the neighbouring town just at the time when certain fetish practices required a stranger to be sacrificed to the town’s deities.

My grandfather made the case that an emissary from the neighbouring town who was to deliver a message and return with a response could not just disappear somewhere between the towns separated by 5 miles of forest and lands, it would be incomprehensible and incredulous. He won the argument, and the stranger was spared to return home.

Sacrificed for integrity

However, some traditionalists took umbrage at his intervention and through a combination of mystical and malevolent acts, my grandfather took on a sudden fit of involuntary body reactions and died. I inferred the rational and the irrational becoming a narrative and that has become the story of my grandfather, he was sacrificed to the malevolent forces in Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú when he stood in defence of an innocent person against the system.

That is how at around the age of 19, my mother lost her father and strangely at 19 I also had this break from the concept of Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú that grew to epitomise my reticence to visiting Nigeria. If I were to create a narrative, I embody the spirit of my maternal grandfather who is owed more than an apology for the wickedness meted out to him when he rationalised against the irrationality of traditions that should have gone into abeyance.

Beyond redress to healing

I cannot say if one needs to ask for an apology from Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú for what happened to my grandfather, much as I am not asking for an apology for what I have experienced with my father. Some things we cannot change, but there is much we can work towards reconciling that we might have the courage to do the greater thing, the boldness to write better stories, and an acknowledgement that we can find some healing after all the real and perceive hurt.

Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú has been a spectre, a haunting, a looming danger, sometimes a fearsome place that suggests a mountain of the strangest beings seething with malevolence and evil, or we have just allowed our imaginations to get the better of us and our rationality. It is a process calling for progress. I think my journey has begun.

Narratives matter and they have consequential significance even if they might seem trivial to others. I have had experiences dismissed when what I heard and saw changed me into a completely different person. Much as there are perspectives to have, the more important thing is to seek the good rather than foster the bad. Beyond my introspection and the times, I have had people counsel me, I hope I am amenable to guidance and instruction. One should never be in a position where the only resort is for God to send an ass to talk to you. [Bible Gateway: Balaam, the Donkey and the Angel]

Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú: A town of pain

A cause for appreciation

Waking up this morning from a dream that left me thinking I could do better with courses and causes, and I meant the kinds of courses of choice to travel and the causes that should be supported, the focus came back to myself.

When I spoke to Brian yesterday, I found every excuse I could, not to call my father on Father’s Day, I even checked as we were speaking if it was really Father’s Day in Nigeria, and then I got two Father’s Day messages from my brothers. Meanwhile, everyone online was celebrating Father’s Day and more poignant were those who shared memories of their fathers who had passed on, either recently or a long time ago.

In my wakefulness, I realised there was a lack of appreciation for the fact that I still have both my parents and they are thankfully doing well apart from the vagaries of old age. However, there are issues that I need to address about relationships that I only began to review as I stepped out for my walking exercise.

The town of my parents

I have a consequently very useful and good relationship with my mother, I cannot say that much about my father, and I think I know where that stems from, it goes way back to one event that seems to have defined so many things. It is the confluence of the irrational and the rational in what we call our experience that becomes the narrative whether it is plausible or not, makes no difference to the existential relevance of that perspective to the person involved.

My father, our little town of Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú with its big history, my maternal grandfather, some aspects of numerology which could just be coincidental, but one cannot ignore patterns of a sort.

Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú or Òdo Àyányẹlú in Ogun State is not to be confused with Ìjẹ̀bú-Ìjẹ̀shà in Osun State exists with a history that could hair-raising as much as it is intriguing, that it leaves people from there either quite passionate about the place or seriously averse to being there. We all have been touched by an enduring aspect of that town that even my mother would pass through the town on her way to a consultation without stopping to see anyone.

It is the retirement home of my father and many of his peers, yet you can mistake the place for a stairway to heaven, but like my paternal grandmother who lived to over a hundred years old, longevity has blessed many even as tragedy has befallen some.

Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú became a project and a dream, its children, many of whom from my parents’ generation travelled abroad for studies returned with aspirations to build their village, give the upcoming generations better opportunities, and infest their children with the same enthusiasm. We all seemed to play along, as it was where we met with cousins, developed new friendships, and had amazing conversations with lively elderly people. We looked forward to visiting, but the novelty began to wear off.

The schism and falling away

In my case, it was sometime in the middle of 1985, we had gone to Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú for some event and then some of my friends invited me to party in another town. I went to ask my dad and he might have had his reasons, but he did not grant the permission for me to go, and I shamefacedly passed my regrets to my friends who from what I learnt had a very good time.

Much as I was a difficult teenager, I was not given to vices or the kind of criminality that would involve the law, I can say in many ways, I was quite restrained and more so with my religious inclinations, but between my father and I, there has always been this simmering conflict that by the end of that year, I left home and did not see my father for probably another 18 months after.

For that refusal of permission to go to that party, I swore to myself that if I ever were to return to Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú, it would be in a box. I have not returned for 37 years and in that time, I missed many significant events that would have required my presence there or thereabouts.

On reflection and possibility

Then maybe as I thought about this morning, there is an undercurrent of fear that if I do venture, that might be the case, I do not know, and I have not attempted to test out the premise. It has become a kind of handicap, and this is the first time I am sharing this information, for what it has done in terms of our relationship is my seeking to define myself so differently from my father as much as possible without totally succeeding in being that different.

However, with that recessed in my memory commanding my inclinations, great import has been that distance has helped avoidance along with other explanations that could be summoned to protect the situation I have created for myself.

After a morning of introspection, I did give my father a call, I might even see a path to visiting Nigeria after 31 years, I don’t know if I will see Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú again, but I can understand how a complete breakdown in communication and relationships can instigate lifelong consequences. Gosh, I have nieces and nephews I have only met online, I am known of, but who knows me?

Postscript: My father launched a book about the history of Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú in April this year, there is much to learn about who we are, where we are from and what defines us. I saw the draft and my copy is wending its way to me, he is a formidable and quite accomplished gentleman.

Part II: Ìjẹ̀shà-Ìjẹ̀bú: A time for healing

Thought Picnic: Our patriarch at 82

Trying to be good

Today brought a rush of emotions that caught me between a sense of duty and one of common humanity with decency. More promising for me was that I am persuadable even as some would consider me rather obstinate to the point of being quite obstreperous.

It is not my nature, I just seek a place where I am not under mental stress or strain, avoidable situations are just that, avoidable except for extenuating circumstances demanding some different action.

An occasion to speak

Today, the Patriarch of the Akintayo family, my father clocked 82 and that comes with some challenges presented by age and circumstance, that I find myself thinking the blessing of old age comes with its share of misery as you watch people you once knew become persons of the past in their passing.

Then there something else that appears to engage too strongly, that which time does not seem to heal, relationships founded on conflict and friction, issues unresolved but allowed to fester. You are asked to let bygones be bygones unaddressed, if only it were that simple.

The prayers of expiation?

Yet, someone can whisper in your ear and advise gently that you review a situation. Whether it is serendipity or propinquity, you are soon in conversation with the stress easing away for some gladness if for a moment from both sides, the satisfaction that maybe there is a higher cause that can give all a new lease, for time is not on our sides as it once was.

To my dad, a very happy birthday, the renewal of strength, the comfort of knowing that he is loved daily even through the difficult issues and the best times of long life without sorrow. Sometimes, I think the prayers of old parents are at one time deep and moving and then maybe in expiation of the things they did long ago that their children find hard to forgive and forget. God bless you, dad.

Feyike: 5 years on and the memories

My kidulthood was over

You were the reason mummy called me into her bedroom one late evening to have our first adult conversation, she was probably in her second trimester with you when I, totally oblivious and that is strange having been schooled in noticing when girls get pregnant with the whitening of their eyes and their constant spitting, along with the morning sickness. Maybe it was the familiarity, for apart from my immediate sister, I had never really noticed when my mother was expecting, the babies just arrived after a few days away.

Anyway, the conversation went along the lines of, I am an older woman now, as she was just shy of 40 and I 17, exactly a month after her landmark year, well, our birthdays have always been a month apart in and out of leap years. Yes, an older woman having a baby, and this was unexpected, but we now have to pull together and recognise that some responsibilities would fall on us over time.

My deception was complete

Much as she felt that this information should be shared with me, I was not having the best adolescence, my first year at Lagos State College of Science and Technology was going to be an unmitigated disaster doing Chemical Engineering, my performance was woeful, it was not even good enough to be asked to repeat the class.

Meanwhile, I had pulled a switch to Yaba College of Technology (YabaTech for short) for Electrical Engineering where the faculty had to be given proof that I was still 16 when we had the admissions interview, the underlying issue that many would call unseriousness and was patently clinical depression, carried along into that stint, I just rarely understood why I was in a class, the new beginnings for mother and child too divergent for concern or consideration.

My situation was dire

What would a nursing mother do with a child who is supposed to be smart but cannot understand anything going on in his lectures? I had never used drugs, that was not the problem, I just had a fog in my head that I could not clear, that religion became the steadying rail for my mental health until things began to clear up was the background in which Feyike arrived.

That week in which Feyike was born was when I moved into the YabaTech hostels, I was a parents’ nightmare, for when my mother was in hospital I had stolen money out of the kitty in her wardrobe and then had to face an inquiry against the conviction that she put aside some money and it had somehow disappeared, indeed, I was a nightmare, everything I could do wrong, I did.

My behaviour was atrocious

For the hostel, I snagged that by writing to the accommodations department that I could not stay with my uncle, even my parents found a copy of that letter when I did not arrive home on time having been on the new students’ jaunt to Badagry and Cotonou. I guess I was excused serious punishment that my father was always ready to mete out when I explained the situation.

I did not attend Feyike’s naming ceremony and for that, I faced the full wrath of my father, this weedy kid against the brute force of an angry and menacing bully, I asked for it and I got a lot, I never escaped being a child. Some encounters with my father in those times have so defined the quality of our relationship since then.

My religion was unhelpful

As I was rarely home, I did not know much about the illness that put my baby sister in hospital many times, and sometimes for weeks. I returned home once to lift her and there must have a dislocation in her arm, we soothed her with lullabies and lulled her to sleep. Many times, I prayed fervent prayers for her healing, hoping for a miracle and much else, but there was a radical change in our family unit.

Medicine only seemed to provide temporary outcomes, my mother’s inclination was she was in deep spiritual warfare for the soul of her first son and the life of her last daughter, she found a prophet that had some answers to whatever ailed all of us and got stuck in. My father with all pretensions of rationality hated religion even if he did the basic church attendance and community group activities, he could be persuaded to do the full fetish rituals, which had the accoutrements of the macabre. I saw a lot and said very little.

My knowledge was deficient

Invariably, I never knew how ill our Feyike became over the years for most of the time I visited home, she was in remission from another hospital visit or bout of illness, everything I know I have learnt mostly after the fact.

When I was told that she had fallen very ill some years before her passing, I made enquiries through some doctor friends of mine on Twitter, they found the medical notes and history that for her apparently chronic illness she had not been adherent to her medical regimes.

Probably, a trait in our family, we hate medical regimes, it took a medical emergency for me to face up to the reality of my own situation, and now, I have been on at least 3 pills a day for over 12 years. It is just part of my life.

My mourning was early

She had end-stage renal disease requiring dialysis thrice-weekly dialysis and consequently needed a kidney transplant for hers had stopped functioning. I saw a medical abyss ahead, and began to mourn, long before we knew much more, the system in Nigeria, I did not think could sustain her dire medical needs and my sisters put everything they had into trying to keep her alive.

We were somewhat in a losing battle, and towards the end, Feyike herself was donating money raised for her own treatment to others. On the morning of the 18^th of October 2016, my middle sister called, Feyike had left us.

My sister was my daughter

The way our story was intertwined seems to be much more around what I was going through than what her own experiences were because I had left home in the second year of her childhood and everything else I know of her is through conversation than observation. Yet, she to me felt more like a daughter than a sister, she would have been the sole beneficiary of my estate, it was her name on the life insurance policy I took out when I bought my apartment in the Netherlands in 2001.

Maybe, I was something like an absent father, one she knew was somewhere out there in the periphery, not intruding but interested, I cannot tell. I know I miss the snatches of conversation we used to have, the hopes and dreams that seeped into the ever-present sense of hopelessness that something might just change for the better.

She lived her life and when she died, it was a great release from lifelong suffering and disease, a baby, a girl, a lady, a woman, a person who touched our lives in immeasurable ways, some difficult to put in words, but time becomes a store of the fondest memories that can never be forgotten, recalled for sombre occasions like this.

 

Oluwafeyikewa, 4^th November 1982 – 18th October 2016.

A chapter closed suddenly

An alarm at dawn

What a day it was in which it has been difficult to collect my thoughts and reflect on life as a transient. I woke up to the alarm that is both a sound from my mobile phone and the vibrating wristband tracker, it cannot be ignored and that is at 6:05 AM.

I wake up that early with the hope that I can get in 10 to 12 kilometres of brisk walking before I start work, it fulfils my 10,000 steps and a bit more. That is what I had done, and I was on the home straight with just about a kilometre to get home, when my phone started ringing.

As my wristband was not vibrating, it had to be a WhatsApp call, that early, what could be the matter? I saw it was my brother, my middle half-brother and thought we were to continue a conversation we started some days before. I had planned to get a mobile phone for my stepmother and he was going to do some research and get back to me.

Catching up to history

Meanwhile, my stepmother, a young 56 celebrated her birthday on Saturday, we did not get to chat about her birthday until Sunday evening, but I had sent a message to her to congratulate her. Her voice was a bit hoarse and I advised just as I had a few weeks before that she takes some honey to soothe her throat, it was a jocular conversation, we laughed and bantered, wishing each other well.

The conversation I had with my brother the day after related to the mobile phone acquisition, he wanted to touch and feel the phone rather than order it online. He was going to tackle some legal matters the next day at a place that brought some history into view. It was then I learnt that my stepmother and my father met in that town when she was a student at a technical college. Pieces of a backstory were being cobbled together over the last few days, I was listening, learning, and understanding.

Opinions in broad daylight

The union bore some handsome sons, literal carbon copies of my father in his much younger days. It was fraught with issues and problems, everyone with their viewpoints. A marriage encumbered by strife cannot necessarily be the fault of just one. Without bias, I will suggest my father can be the most reasonable person and at another time utterly and implacably unreasonable. I appreciate that my opinion will not be a shared perspective, but at this time, I will not point fingers.

I never met my stepmother, I heard a lot about her, we were introduced on the phone over a decade ago by my father, almost 20 years into their marriage. I maintained a respectful and pragmatic conversation with her and extended my conversation then to my half-siblings without meaningful engagement.

We talked and laughed

Over the years, we built a rapport, and I did find a more fruitful engagement with my second half-sibling. He became the conduit for conversation and communication. My resolution is my half-siblings are very much part of my family regardless of the historical issues and the estrangement between my father and my stepmother.

There is a core responsibility to maintain cordial, friendly and brotherly relations in spite of and despite our parents, I am wedded to that principle, God give me strength.

Now, she’s gone

None of this could have prepared me for what I heard from the other end of the phone, a neighbourly misunderstanding, some agitation, apparently a fainting spell, possibly a collapse, an attempt at resuscitation, but no, all to no avail, my stepmother was no more. The shocking suddenness of it all was like a body blow. I was near St. Peter Square as I sank unto a bench and keeled over, this could not be happening, but it had already happened, a life full of hope and promise had been handed over to the dreams and aspirations of her children.

I could not begin to imagine the palpable sense of grief and sadness that had enveloped my brothers as I began to inform people who knew her and understand what needs to be done. She was interred according to Muslim rites and what we now have to do is embrace our brothers, celebrate her life and look to the future with the hope that dreams and aspirations come true. May the gentle soul of Dasola Akintayo rest in peace.

I will be a son but can’t be my dad

A drama in my head

There is an American situation comedy series titled, How I Met Your Mother, I have never watched it nor do I know much about what it is about apart from what the title suggests.

On my walk this morning, a whole series of conversations played out in my mind, possible conversations with my dad that I expected might end badly that I resolved to put it to one side, but what transpired between the dramatis personae in my head was vigorous and vituperative, I was angry, probably too angry.

A question seeking answers

The other conversation was between my mum and me; we have developed a friendlier and communicative rapport, I enjoy it. I was going to introduce a topic with humour and move it on to the fact that I was feeling unnecessarily stressed out by my dad. He is becoming as impossible as he is inconsiderate and obdurate; I don’t use those words lightly and they explain to a larger extent why we have much conflict.

Then a sense of exasperation overcame me, I felt like asking my mum, how did you meet my dad? What was the significant moment that brought you both together as husband and wife? Materially, without the union of these particularly significant people, I would not have existed, someone else would have been born in circumstances and situations quite different from the one I have inhabited.

A son a bit different

It is almost like the bane of life, a fate over which there is no autonomy or agency, we happen upon a state and wish upon a star, each second, minute, hour, day, week, month, year becomes a story writing itself as each moment passes. You then find that of the things you can neither change nor alter, you make peace, make do and make the best of it towards telling a better story.

Where I might have found my dad to be a reasonable listening person, I find I have not been persuaded of the reality of that thought. It saddens me, but I will not agonise, I find that it is our attitude and our forbearance that gives us the means to deal with many things, especially the difficult. I will be a son but can’t be my dad.

The father in me on Father's Day

I could have been a father, I’m not,
For that, I have no regrets,
Not that I can do anything about it now,
Good old chemotherapy coursing through my veins,
Carried the sentence I probably knew it would,
You cannot by yourself create new life,
It was not something to cry about,
For it is my story to tell.

I do have a father, he’s a man of 80,
For that, I am utterly grateful,
Not that we do not have many disagreements,
Good old desires that a son turns out differently,
Carried through life objecting to your control,
You wonder if he indeed is your son,
It is something in which you agonise,
For it is your story to tell.

I know I am like my father, I do,
For that, I’m ambivalent,
Not that we know enough about each other,
Good his integrity and community spirit shine through,
Carried by his sense of great responsibility,
You ponder on if things could be better,
It dwells on the matter of father and son,
For it is our story to tell.

I could be a grandfather, for my age,
For that, there are no answers,
Not that it matters than much even to me,
Good that situation did not complicate another life,
Carried away from the required sense of tradition,
You think of the message of Father’s Day,
It is one of love and appreciation,
For it is a story to tell.

I wish I had a child, I don’t,
For that, it is not an issue,
Not that the child would have suffered neglect,
Good that I would have eyes, ears, and heart to care,
Carried on the wings of great possibility,
You know it would have amazing relationships,
It calls for a different fatherhood,
For a new story to tell.

Blog - Father's Day on my mind to be continued, at some time.

Father's Day on my mind

Some reflections on fatherhood

On this Father’s Day, it has been difficult to get hold of my dad on the phone. My reflection on it is deep and strange, for within my heart I have much love and much hurt, both have shaped many elements of my outlook to life, to relationships and to the world.

In many ways I see some traits of my parents in the things I do, and in others, we can be so different because of the generational differences and the radical influences of time, manner, and place.

A journey to travel

I am walking towards a better reconciliation and understanding, I appreciate that when my dad learnt clearly of my sexuality, even in his deepest misgivings and regret, he did not reject me, for that I am very grateful. Thinking of this, I wrote a poem of my intimate views of fatherhood from many perspectives, if I tried hard enough, all these paragraphs would be in the poem. Maybe, it is a task for another time.

The job of fathering is never fully done, so, the work on this is one that is in progress. After I left my home for boarding school at the age of 10, everything after that was one of recognition rather than disposition, we have drifted far apart and come close many times, it never mattered to me anymore whether I made anyone proud, I lived my life and tried to do my duty.

I cherish my aged dad; he is a fine gentleman of a certain persuasion. If I had nothing more to say, I still can wish him a happy Father’s Day.

Our mother, the example of community involvement

Our mother, the partisan

My sister, Ibukun Olawepo-Johnson, wrote on Facebook about our mum and her activism, even I learnt a few things too that I had to ask if I could share what she had written, below.

Yesterday I was talking to my cousin about the presidential visit (to Lagos), I told him I can bet my last kobo that my mum was at the stadium in Surulere.

It dropped in my mind that we have a lot of lazy youth in this country, my mum retired from the civil service after 35 years of service. I think she was even kept on for one extra year because of the beautiful work she did when she was in service.

Our mother, the principal

All throughout the time I knew her, she was a principal and she was a principal in all the trouble areas in Ejigbo, Okota and Oshodi where she had running battles with thugs and difficult students, (I would add, teachers and some presumably family friends who thought she did not deserve her position), she fought them to a standstill and won the battle. She was last promoted to special principal grade.

[Some backstory information, my mother was asked to start a school from scratch at the age of 34 in 1977, she created and ran Ejigbo Community High School for probably 13 years. Just over a year ago, I think in the 40th year of the establishment of the school, the alumni of the school honoured her with a commemoration and thanks for her leadership, mentorship and contributions to the community.]

Our mother, the activist

After she left service she was still very active, later when she moved to her house in Ejigbo, she joined the Community Development Association (CDA) group on her street and became the Chairman of her CDA, somewhere along the line she joined politics and she is a strong member of APC in her area.

My mum had the option of retiring and watching things unfold in her community, but she chose to be involved. Even when my younger sister was ill, and she was her primary caregiver, she still found the time to be involved in what was going on in her community.

When glaucoma almost made her blind, she was still attending CDA and APC meetings and activities at over 75 years old. [We were able to get some of the best medical help to save her eyesight. She is even more up and about with community, political and church activities.]

Our mother, the example

It's a shame on all of us that are under 70, we have the power to be involved in our communities, yet all we do is make noise on social media, criticising the government in our various offices and the country without getting involved to bring about the changes we want.

No one will hand power over to us, we need to be involved get involved in politics.

It is time we clean it up if we feel it is a dirty game.

We need to stop all this ranting and noise making, we need to make the next necessary move to bring on change and take our communities to the next level.

The elders will only hand over to the youth if only the youth are actively involved.

Campaign for your own candidate, don't say my vote does not count; go out to vote and ensure that votes are counted before leaving the polling booth. Demand good governance in your locality and attend CDA meetings.

Change begins with you and me.

Start from your house, move into your street, on to your local government area, then your office, all the way until you get to the very top.

Postscript

This characteristic of community involvement is not unique to our mum, our dad is also quite involved in the community also. From as far back as I can remember when we returned from the UK, the renovation of our homestead, the bringing of electricity supply to our village, the building of the new village cathedral, a new secondary school and many other activities to help people in their careers, businesses and general needs.

They are examples of a standard well beyond whatever we have ever attempted, yet they show a way to what can be achieved when we have the commitment, drive and a vision to make a difference in people, situations and communities.

In this, we begin to commend that exemplary lives of our parents.

Your father is on Facebook

Yes, it is him and no one else

This question came from my sister this morning.

“Morning (or whatever), Is your father now on Facebook or one of his sons is impersonating him?

To which I responded, “Your father is on Facebook.”

Even I was surprised that he was on Facebook, but the story goes back to some time ago when I was trying a get a laptop over to my dad. The last few months have involved a lot of impromptu travel related to work that it has been impossible to plan anything.

Time, space and wherewithal

On another note, I sometimes contrast my professional life to that of my father, he was a corporation man with assistants and people he could call upon to do the somewhat important and mundane things. Almost 23 years of my working life has been as a self-employed and freelance consultant, maybe, if I had entered a partnership of consultants, we would have employed an office manager to handle affairs like that.

Then, in arranging to send the laptop, he also asked for a phone making the point that he wanted to have a go at technology before he departs.

An unexpected response

As it transpired, I took a few pictures yesterday evening and posted to Instagram with a cross-posting to Twitter and Facebook, I also included a short poem.

The absence of bright lights,
Does not diminish the clear sights,
My face showing the provenance of my father,
Especially now that I've refused to lather,
The unshaved greys are proof of a youth,
Before you say I am long in the tooth,
For many times I was addressed as young man,
I laughed for that was just another fan.

On Facebook

Shortly after it was posted, I received a message with two pictures of my dad from my brother, who then informed me that the pictures were my dad’s reaction to my pictures and poetry. And there was my discovery that my father had joined social media to be engaged under the tutelage of my brother.

Welcome to Facebook

Obviously, my sister is concerned that she might have to temper her views because of the scrutinising pair of eyes of her father. However, I am of the view that if he did not know we were opinionated, forthright, controversial and frank in our postings, he would soon find out on Facebook, and that is a good thing.

He would be proud to know that the privileged education we all had has not gone to waste, we can discuss, debate, argue and banter, with grace, erudition and dignity.

My father is 78, he lives an active life pottering around on his farm or being actively involved in the community. Now that he has the added occupation of Facebook engagement, all I can say is welcome.

For all who care to know, our father is on Facebook.

Ìrírí - How our brotherly love could have blossomed

Pre-term brothers

Just a few minutes ago, I ended a conversation with my father that took us down memory lane with comparisons of realities of life that left me in surprise and shock bordering on rage.

There were many stories but the one I never knew was about my half-brother who before he received a given name experienced the misfortune of being born into an avoidable situation exacerbated by systemic failures in Nigeria.

My half-brother and I were born over 40 years apart, in literally similar circumstances but in different lands. We were both prematurely born, he arrived at just over 7 months, I arrived in 6 and a half months, somehow, we were delivered in maternity homes without facilities to cater for the prematurely born that we had to be moved to better equipped hospitals and that is where our stories begin to diverge.

Our separate lives

On the cold morning in 1965, after I was born, arrangements were made to move me to a major city hospital where as my father recounted to me, I had all the hallmarks of royal treatment – spacious, well-ventilated room, with nurses and medical personnel at my beck and call, I did not lack for care, comfort or succour – I am 47.

My half-brother, let’s call him Ìrírí (Yoruba for experience) was born in Ibadan which at one time was famed to be the largest city in Africa along with many firsts.

He was rushed to University College Hospital (UCH), Ibadan the premier teaching hospital in Nigeria where a philanthropist had previously donated 6 incubators to the Paediatric Unit to cater for premature birth.

Five of six, down

Ìrírí arrived to find that five of the incubators were out of commission but was fortunate for a few hours to have the only functioning incubator temporarily vacated for him to at least have a fighting chance to lay claim on a Nigeria of our dreams.

However, alternative arrangements had to be made for Ìrírí, so when he had stabilised, the decision was made to transfer him to an incubator installed in the private practice of one of the UCH consultants, also in Ibadan.

Ìrírí made it to that practice but at the same time, he became an everyday Nigerian at the mercy of too many things out his control. The incubator was vacant and available but the public electricity supply was down and as if fate had colluded to deprive Ìrírí of an inalienable right, the backup electricity supply could not be provided because the generators will not start.

Ìrírí rests

So, Ìrírí mustered all the strength he had to survive, he wriggled and writhed, panted for breath, desperately hoped that his heart will hold out and many other organs that were not fully developed for earthly experience strained at the limits of their ability without the support they all needed – after trying so hard, they decided this earthly experience was not worth it.

There, Ìrírí drew his last breath bidding the earth farewell but leaving a most indelible mark on the lives he has touched for the short while of just about 36 hours that he was with us – over 40 years after Akin was born in England, Ìrírí could not survive similar circumstances in an independent Nigeria in its 6^th decade.

Time, manner and place

Then my father drew comparisons between Ìrírí and myself; as a poor student just about to take up a job in a sorting office for Christmas, I was born just 2 days after they had moved house, my mother’s labour probably brought on by the stress of moving house, I had the best of facilities provided at no cost at the behest of the government and here I stand.

Back in our home country of Nigeria, everything had to be paid for and it made no difference to the outcome, the experience was harrowing, the prognosis was dire and either as a microcosm or snapshot of the Nigerian experience, the short life of Ìrírí exemplifies so many things that are just not right with Nigeria.

The premier teaching hospital in the country had 5 out of 6 donated incubators out of commission, this does touch the matter of pre-existing incubators or what might have caused a philanthropist to make those donations.

Murder by proxy

Then the matter of usage and maintenance that led to the failure of the incubators that none of the management thought it prudent to either seek new funding from the donor or go on a fund-raising drive which contributed to the murder-by-proxy of Ìrírí.

I do wonder what the philanthropist would have felt if he learnt that the equipment he donated to the hospital had fallen into disrepair that the purposes for which the incubators were acquired could no more be served.

Then think of the many like my dear Ìrírí whose experience of this world was truncated by a system that serves nothing but rank incompetence, mismanagement, corruption, malfeasance and worse.

It ought not to be so, but that is one of the realities of Nigeria today.

Dear Ìrírí, Rest in peace, my half-brother, Nigeria did not deserve you.

Thought Picnic: I am not embarrassed for myself

We talk indeed

I have the most fascinating conversations with my dad within which I find truth, wisdom, admonition and rebuke – I sometimes have to be on some type of guard.

What really amazes me is the constant demand of parents for their children to reach and I use reach quite liberally, in the broadest sense.

Many are quite aware of the issues I have encountered in the last three years and to the day, it was the first time a doctor noted the seriousness of what eventually turned out to be life threatening but thankfully manageable with outcomes that read almost like miracles of healing.

However, with the loss of health came the loss of many other things that hopefully will find replacement as things change for the better. Having reached that milestone I am being pushed on to things that are not in my purview, seemingly very important to others other than myself.

Hitching to getting hitched

That topic came up again, as apparently, I am according to him married to my computer and it is now time for me to be properly married and get responsible. In fact, this time, I just let that correlation of marriage and responsibility pass.

There is no doubt that with marriage a person assumes some responsibility but a responsibility in and of itself does not equate to being responsible.

It was quite interesting to see his view of things in the conversation we had, as he suggested I would have made a really good lawyer because I have always been quite articulate and could make conversation quite easily and by so doing there was no reason why I could not chat up ladies for the purposes of a relationship and eventually marriage.

Now, I see

I was not prepared from the timescale he suggested for my getting hitched, he gave me a year, to which I had to respond before he interjected and in doing so the real reason for his constant angst for my enduring bachelorhood – he is embarrassed to admit to people that I am not yet married – I for one do not know how those people who have not interacted with in over 25 years will know of my current marital status if he has not been contributing to his embarrassment when he should have held his counsel.

I am not embarrassed by what he identified as my two phobias – the fear of driving and the fear of marriage – to the first, I could write a treatise about how he felt the cars we had when I came of age were too big for me to learn to drive on and to the latter – where do I even start to reason from inability, incapability, incapacity through to total indifference.

Basically, to reiterate ever so strongly, I am not embarrassed by who I am and what I have made of what constitutes the life of I [allow me this construct and grammatical licence]; if there were two of me, I could have spare for regret, I don’t.

This is Akin

In the end, one has learnt to take the affirmation with the denigration and having as much sense as an old cow to eat the hay and leave the baling wire; the hay is the affirmation and the baling wire of denigration in the society my parents come from is what is used to bind the hay into bales.

As for the phobias, the greatest one to avoid is really the fear of just being yourself and I think my dad is well aware of my radically independent streak, the forcefulness of my opinion and the fact that I will only do what I want to do, at my own convenience and in my own time but more disturbingly for him, I most likely will not do what he really wants me to do.

You don’t get named Akin having started off life no bigger than an adult’s outstretched hand and think there is nothing to it – my dad and I are clued into something we would rather deny is a reality we don’t want to appreciate – for all the sincerity of purpose we share, some pretence also has a part.

Thought Picnic: No Parable of the Prodigal Friend

The Prodigal Friend

I wondered why Jesus never told a parable of the prodigal friend, He did tell one of a prodigal son and the redeeming power of fatherly love despite the failings of that son who justifiably should have been consigned to the scrapheap.

The story of realisation and reconciliation is both profound and deep; it is however amazing how that could easily be seen in real life.

As I thought on this, I realised there was no need for a parable of the prodigal friend because friends have a particularly practical significance that is either of clear dedication or sad betrayal.

The involved friends

The practical example of this friendship was demonstrated at a meeting Jesus had in a house where he was teaching, the house was so crowded full of the Pharisees and scribes that no one else could have access.

A lame man had four of his friends help him to that venue, no doubt with the view to having the miraculous power of Jesus heal him. When they could not get into the house, they climbed on the roof, removed the roofing tiles and let their friend down into the midst of the crowd in the presence of Jesus.

As the story goes, Jesus saw their faith and with that he told the lame man his sins were forgiven and he should pick up his bed and walk, which he promptly did to the marvel all present to see the miracle and the consternation of those who debated the issue of forgiveness of sins.

What was clear was what the friends did to contribute to the lame man’s access to healing, most importantly, they wanted him fit and able as themselves than for him to be limited in his interaction with them – a prodigal friend of sorts.

The Prodigal Brother

Conversely, what is said of the brother of the prodigal son is interesting that I am inclined to call him the prodigal brother by reason of the fact that he had status, opportunity and privilege but failed to realise any of that until when he noticed the merciful and loving expression of his father to his brother.

What he always had with his father but never deigned to live in the fullness of, led to his nursing resentment, anger and offence at what was so avoidable if he had availed himself of the standing and the reality of who he was.

Friends can stick closer than a brother, a friend showed such great love that he laid down his life for his friends. It is a matter of character and personality to find friends who are ready to bear you down in your bed into the presence of the biggest miracle of your life – friends are experience and much more but we need discernment to determine true friends from fair-weather friends or just mere acquaintances.

For those who have felt betrayed by those they call friends, have mercy and keep the ones that do really care. For there comes a time when friends do matter, because then, we are totally helpless and needful of them.

Note: The first publication of this blog was full of errors, I probably should have left writing it until the morrow, but I was determined to get it out. In any case, my friend @zebbook on Twitter noticed the poor editing and discreetly informed me of the poor copy. I hope I have repaired the damage; else, I’ll have another look when the daze of my pills wears off. Thanks Bukola.