A Fatherless Generation (3)

My father did well for himself. His father; my grandfather died when he was less than ten years old. That meant he had to live with his uncle who had about five wives. My father’s addition to the family was quite welcome because that meant that they now had a servant in the house. Whatever needed to be done in the house which the wives would rather not have their children do, Dekunle was there to the rescue. He shared with us on many occasions; especially when he wanted us to remember our fortunate we were, how he had to fill up about five drums with water drawn from a deep well. This he had to do every morning before going to school. So he had to wake up very early, while his cousins were still sleeping, to make sure there was water for everyone in the house. Then he had to walk about 5 or 10 kilometers to school every morning. After his high school, he started working and also started paying his own uncle for the room he was staying. My father loves documentation and he still has receipts for the rents he paid before eventually moving out.


Through hard work and God’s favour he achieved all that he achieved. The rest they say is history. The boy that was maltreated eventually became the financial pillar of the whole family; a philanthropist of some sort. Yes my father did well and many times I am very proud of him. There were times though that I wished I had a better relationship with him. I wish he had a better means of communication with me and vice versa. I wish he talked with me as against talking to me. A father should help cultivate the warrior in his son and not make him timid. He should help prepare him for the harsh realities of the battles of life. When the lover in his son is confused his love should provide clarity and guidance from his pouch of tested wisdom. I wish we had a meaningful time of togetherness and his encouragement in my aspirations.


This is quite common with most African fathers. Many of them grew up not having a close relationship with their fathers; hence they cannot give what they never had. This does not mean that they never loved us, it is just they have their own ways of showing it. As I said earlier, I thought I was adopted because of the hardness of my father, but there was a day I went through my father’s wallet and to my surprise there was only one picture in it; mine. I was baffled. It changed my perception forever about this man. We never went fishing together back then but I had the rare privilege of being the only child he took for jazz concerts. Then there was the time that I had chicken pox. My beloved mother would not touch me with a stick because she was scared of contacting it. Without any show of fear, my father administered all the medication even though I looked like a masquerade. I was broken hearted when about three weeks later he came down with the same ailment, which almost took his life. These are some of the things I would never forget about my father.

Together, we can achieve more. Cheers