It was a week after I returned home from Ife, two days
after I sat in tears explaining my failures to my parents, I woke to my father
telling me to dress up. The only other information I got was that we were going
out. I didn’t ask for more. I was taught better. Even though my head was
swarming with questions, the chances that I would get an answer were slim to
none. My father didn’t talk much, he didn’t like to be questioned either. My
mother asked where we were going and I shrugged. She got no reply from my
father but she, especially, was used to this. We took a cab to a riverine area
in Ikorodu. He led with short fast strides and I followed behind; partly
because I didn’t know our destination but mostly because I was much taller than
he was and walking beside him gave a disharmonious picture. The vicinity seemed
to be dominant with white garment wearing people. Most of the children had hair
clustered in a bunch-like-sponge. With their garments and dreadlocks I could
almost see them; bells in hand, head bopping up and down like in a disco,
imitating what they have come to learn as divination. You see my father was
born into a family of ‘the garments’. I say ‘the garments’ because they didn’t
really restrict their colour of gowns to white. My mother had turned him
catholic through marriage, yet he retained his superstitious and prophetic
beliefs. So I wasn’t surprised when we turned a corner to a wooden church;
suspended over a laky mash of water.
A light skinned young man in a pair of jeans
and collar shirt leads us in. It took me a while to realize the young man was
the pastor. After asking my father a few questions, he stared at me and I
looked right back at him. He squint his eyes in a manner that implied he was
seeing something that neither my father nor I could and proceeded with asking
me questions which I replied reluctantly and curtly to. His verdict was that
some people were doing everything in their power to bring me down. He failed to
specify who these people were but he blamed them for my failed education and
other failures. My father nodded slowly; the way one did when they totally
agreed with an opinion. It didn’t occur to him that I might have failed because
he dissuaded me from the course I wanted to study, or because I wasn’t
interested in the course I was given. It couldn’t have been that I lost
interest in going to classes because I was always out of money and didn’t eat
well. It couldn’t have been because their domineering parenting made me socially
awkward and I had authority issues so I couldn’t relate with my mates and older
people especially lecturers.
The
pastor said I had a close female friend who envied me and wanted my ruin. I had
no female friends. He advised me against a fair boy who was taking advantage of
me and at this point I was almost tempted to ask, ‘which one?’ I watched him
watch me to get a reaction but I remained stoic, although my insides were mixed
with anger, sarcasm, regret and some buoyancy. He ended the session with some directions
on prayers to say along with some rites and my father listened aptly. We had a
quarrel about the rites later on. By quarrel, I mean, he shouted at me about
not adhering to the rites. Eventually, we met somewhere in between because I
realized this was his way of showing that he cared enough to try to fix me. I
had to look past the fact that I was broken china and he was trying to stick me
back together with cello tape. I had to look past the fact that he had believed
and told my mother that I was an alcoholic, because the pastor had told him so
even though the only things I was addicted to was chocolate and coffee. I met
him halfway because he is father.
