Chrysanthemums for Dad

I fought with my father almost everyday as a teenager.

Back then, all I thought was that he hated me, and there was the suspicion that he wasn't my legitimate father. I searched for clues in random actions to support the theory to no avail. I was a rebellious teenager. Headstrong, recalcitrant, belligerent, uncouth, and my father loved to go for his cane (or just about anything that was close by).

My father would flog the living demons out of me by 11pm, and summon me to his bedroom by 12am to study scripture with him. One of the things my father did for me that I'm grateful for now, even though I didn't quite appreciate it then, is the knowledge of scripture that he introduced me to.

I remember many of those nights. He'll call me up from my sleep and we would read scriptures together; him enthusiastic, me frustrated. In a way, I preferred the beating to the long hours listening to him explain scriptural parables. It was hard life, being the kind of teenager I was and having the kind of father I did. At some point, you begin to contemplate your exodus from that house or from this world.

"My son, no matter what you think I have done to you, I am your father and I love you." he would say, opening the floor for another night of back and forth with Solomon's wisdom.

"If you think I'm hard on you, go and stay with someone you think would be easy on you and see if you will not run back to me."

Whenever he said this, I would try to make a mental list of the people I hoped could replace my father. None would come to mind, making my father's words more weighty. Sometimes, he'd say something like "I only chastise you because I love you. Whom the father loves he chastises" and it would freak me out. You mean this man would not stop beating crap out of me? Just to prove his love for me?

See die!

But the thing about the mind is, it grows and adapts fast. So, mine grew and adapted fast and soon the beating didn't feel as bad as before. My father would whip me with his leather belt on my back, or hit me with the crossbar for our door, and I'll look him dead in the eye, unflinchingly. He would be taken aback for a moment, then he would reply

"so you're now a cultist abi?"

My father helped me learn a good number of things. Even while we were sworn enemies, he made sure there was always a book in my hand. My father, in his very observant nature, was the first to notice how much I enjoyed reading. It started with fiction and grew to eschatological books and other philosophical materials (most of which I had a hard time understanding). Then, it grew to history and geography.

My father fueled this passion, a lot. First, totally ignoring the fact that I was unruly and disorganised at the time, my father opened up his bookshelf to me and permitted me to read whatever books I felt inclined to from the stash. Suspicious as it was, I grabbed the offer and started off a journey that took off with fiction and culminated in poetry.

I read so hard and so long that my father soon started to express concern because most of what I read then wasn’t related to my school work and he was worried I’d fail in school. I failed often, couldn’t pick up on Physics and Chemistry and dumped my ambition to study Engineering (as my father had predicted, by the way). I began to take more liking to Literature and Drama, spent some time with religious literature too and always had stuff to discuss with my father.

It turns out that he enjoyed explaining things to me, a way of showing off what little knowledge he picked up from primary school. He did it so well that I caught up on things that were way past my age at the time. We would stay up late into the night, discussing the life of Christ, the battles of David and the speed of Asahel. It was here I really started to get my father.

Eventually, our relationship evolved. We went from sworn enemies to best friends. From rivals to partners, to the extent that he would often call me to his room late in the night to discuss the most intimate plans with me. Often, plans that my other siblings never get to hear about. And, I've managed to learn some of my father's persistence and patience.

As an adult, I often worry that I may not be half the father my father is to me. I definitely count myself lucky to be one of the many with the kind of father I have.