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Papa’s Sly

Time is strange, and has a force that spares no men. So i am reminded of a solitary figure i called papa. Now when i thought about it, i realised how much he had aged. He no longer seemed strong, not that icon of strength to whom myself looked up in fear.

His temples no longer shone with the oil he applied to his hair, but were weathered and line, aged by years of toils and sweat. His nose no longer breathed with gusto and aggressiveness, but took in weak heaves and wheezes. His cheeks no longer pink with passion for life, but were sunken into sorry, in inspired folds. His arm small and loose, no longer sinewy and tough, and their flaccid, infirm flesh quivered and shook as he heaved and strained to lift. He no longer stood with ramrod straight posture of a school principal, but was feeble, almost bent double by a whole life of travail and labour. Even his voice, that hallmark of his authority, seemed to have lost its clarity and resonant sonority.

Ours was a strange relationship. For as long as i could remember, he was always a revered and fear character to be viewed from a distance in consternation. I had seen a little of my father since i was little. The only childhood i had of my father were invariably the painful ones. And by our financial situation, he had been nothing more to me than a disciplinarian, a fearful figure whose wrath and ire i tried not to provoke or annoy. He had spent most of his slogging away in prisons, and left most of the nurturing and upbringing of the difference to my mother. And i go to my father for nothing, neither money nor problems i had. Even birds and bees were taught to me by my equally ill-informed and ignorant friends.

I grew up more attached to my mother, a gentle and kind woman who was always the bridge between the father and sons. Even now as i thought of my father, i longed for my mother’s soothing caresses and unguent reassurances.

It didn’t mean that i doesn’t love my father. In fact, i felt great esteem to this man who had spent his best years working hard to raise me. This was where the enigma and dilemma lay for not withstanding what the society dictated. He could’ve been there for my most formative and impressionable years. I on my part had looked to others for guidance and direction. No nexus lay between us except our vinculum by blood.

Ours were distant in our interactions and conversations, which were conducted in contrived and artificial fashion. Our exchanges were always cordial and diplomatic, words are prepared and rehearsed. There was never room for open expression of free emotions, whether anger or sadness. Ours was a carefully preserved and controlled exercise of mutual courtesy and civility. And unsolicited expressions were avoided for delicated relationship threatening, yet will only force us into deeper mutual embarrassment.

Although he never made any deliberate attempt to articulate how much he care, i could still feel that he really love me. And now, the key to break down the wall of silent affection and reluctant expression, was the courage. Yes, courage to be prodigal with our affections and generous with our articulation of it. Only then could we break the vicious circles of estrangement in which we had already squandered half of our lives.