FATHER'S DAY: For he was a jolly good fellow
What you need to know:
"Growing up, the one thing I so finely felt was the absence of the man I barely knew. When my peers talked about their fathers, I had no reference to make. That hurt. In my community, children whose families had no father were despised by even the poorest, most pathetic of all creatures."
My father died when I was 10 years into this world. What took his life, I am exactly not sure, yet. I guess I have never been man enough to want to confront the truth. The death certificate says one thing. Conspiracies say something else. There’s got to be a mortal killer. These stories. They’re part of us. He is gone. What does it matter? Well, it matters. A lot.
Growing up, the one thing I so finely felt was the absence of the man I barely knew. When my peers talked about their fathers, I had no reference to make. That hurt. In my community, children whose families had no father were despised by even the poorest, most pathetic of all creatures.
The life of an orphan, a widow. Difficult. They called us names. The children of mothers without fathers.
Wild cats. That is what they called us. I know not much about these cats – except that they are active mainly at night when they search for prey. Mice. Rats. Reptiles. Insects.
I was a little boy when I last saw him. In his final resting place. Twenty-eight years down the line, I have never been able to get that image out of my head. His peaceful face. The graveside.
I never got the chance to talk to him – man to man. I was a little boy. Confused. I knew I would never see him again. My childhood innocence would not let me perceive the trials and tribulations that awaited us.
He was a good man, my father. He loved his bottle. But he loved his family the most. One day, coming home late at night, he woke us up, sat us at a table to sing and pray as a family before retiring to bed.
The butt kick he gave me once after I attempted to jump onto a moving vehicle, I cannot forget. Before I knew it, I had wetted myself.
The one and only time I remember him disciplining me in a more manly way – over 30 years ago. Never forgotten that, in a kind way.
By his graveside, my siblings and I had no chance to say anything. Little things we were. The moment was for the big men of the clan. Of the village.
But, if he was to be buried today, I would’ve told him to relax, for he was leaving my siblings and I in good hands, with a woman who in many ways deserves to be celebrated with the millions of heads of families on this Fathers Day. His widow. My mother.
I would have eulogised him for being a jolly good fellow. For he was a jolly good fellow. And so say all of us. Happy Father’s Day, dad!
Daniel Muhau is Foreign Desk and Opinions Editor at The Citizen. Twitter: @DMuhau
