Flowers for LawKay

I like gist. I enjoy talking. The easiest way to kill my spirit is to shut me up. There is nothing too mundane for me to talk about. You can ask my family if you don’t believe me, they are the ones I torture the most with my incessant chatter. If something good happens to me, my family will be the first to know. If I am pissed, they are the ones I run to when I need to vent and/or need someone to talk me out of the vengeful plan I intend to carry out. My family is my non-judgemental haven. They always come through for me. They will always have a front seat viewing experience of most of the happenings, and events in my life.

So, it was quite ironic that I only just started sharing my blog posts to my family WhatsApp group late last year, even though I’d been posting on the blog for over 5 years.

  I think I’m a fantastic writer. I’ve known this since I was 14 years old — when my English teacher who I was always at loggerheads with called me aside after reading a story I had written for the mock examinations, and exalted my writing skills to the highest heavens. A compliment from your mother or best friend is one thing, but when your enemy commends you, just know that you have made it in life. If I’m being honest though, it wasn’t that my teacher hated me, he just detested the fact that I liked lazing about the place. I, on the other hand didn’t like that he constantly picked on me for being lazy. What irked me more was that I wasn’t the only sloth in the class, so why me?!

I’ll just console myself with the belief that he saw so much potential in me, hence why he focused on ensuring that I didn’t waste it. We all know by now that his efforts were for naught. Instead of winning the Pulitzer Prize for literature, I ended up in the soul sucking profession that is called Accounting. That’s a story for another day…

Anyway, I realised after penning down about 4 or 5 articles that my stories always revolved around my mother. If you didn’t know me from Adam, and you chanced upon my blog, you would think (and you would be right to assume) that I was raised by a single Mum — my Dad hardly ever features in my stories.

  And the thought agonized me — that my Dad could read my blog posts and walk away wondering if he was an absentee father. I kept racking my head, trying to figure out why that was, why I never wrote heart-warming stories about him. I started trying to think of a story that I could write, where my Dad would be the lead, but I just kept coming up short. So I decided to refrain from sharing my posts to the family group until I could do right by my Dad.

Today I will be talking about my first love: way before I really discovered the gluttonous pleasure of food, the joy a pair of beautiful shoes could bring, or the unconditional love of my mother.

So let’s talk about my Papa, shall we?

  First of all, if you think my Mum is funny, then you aren’t ready for Lawkay. My Daddy is humorous in a stress free, non-dramatic, but highly effective way. He is very vain about his looks — a trait he shares with his wife and passed on to their spawn.

Even though I look like my mum. Even though I’m passionate, extroverted, and wear my heart on a sleeve like her… hold up this post is starting to be about her, I still favour my Dad to a large extent. My Dad and I have the same oblong shape of face; God knows that I would have really preferred my Mum’s oval shaped face. My beautiful legs are from him — God thankfully knew what he was doing here because I don’t care for my Mum’s legs. My intelligence, my love for books are from my Dad. My father possesses one of the most beautiful minds I’ve had the good fortune to encounter in my lifetime. My handwriting – the original one before some wicked seniors in secondary school made me change it – was similar to that of my father. His calligraphy is simply exquisite.

 My stubborn nature which exasperates people at times but boosts my tenacity to push though challenges is from him, my siblings and I exhibit different varieties of it. My Dad, unfortunately is the most stubborn man I know. My not so obvious but very wide nail beds are from my Papa. I constantly curse the fact that I inherited his wide-set feet anytime I have to squeeze them into a gorgeous pair of killer heels.  My mother has a full head of hair which she was generous to pass down to me, my father decided to do me one better and greatly inconvenienced my grooming routine by blessing me with full body hair — It’s TMI, I know that. I also do not recall promising you a fairy-tale.

That’s one of the things I regret taking from him, that and my varicose veins. Another thing I regret inheriting from him is asthma — I was the only unlucky child in that regard.

Patience and applying myself I skimped on however. I’ve yet to meet anyone as patient as my Dad, I really wish I was tolerant like him. I’m like my mum in that regard — we both have a low boiling point, or as one of my secondary school classmates described it in his entry into my slam book  “… a tendency to go over the edge.” My classmate was lucky that he was long gone by the time I figured out the meaning of that phrase, I would have definitely showed him crazy for desecrating my slam book with that unsavoury statement.

 The old school philosophy of hard work which my Dad embodies isn’t my style. Believe me, if there is a legal and sensible shortcut I’ll take it. I don’t like stress, God knew what he was doing when he directed one paternal grand-aunt that I’ve never laid eyes on to give me my middle name. A middle name that I detest, and loathe to reveal but states my sole purpose in life — the fact that I like ease. This attribute of mine ensured that my Dad and I were always butting heads when I was younger. He terms it laziness, I call it being smart. Probably why I took it personal with my English teacher then — it felt like my Dad had passed on the baton to him to torture me about my blissful approach to life.

The greatest trait my father gave my siblings and I was the gift to apply our minds. We weren’t brought up to act, and not think like robots. We were taught to ask why, to challenge things we didn’t agree with. Nowadays it shocks me to see how people are unable to independently think for themselves. It’s majorly due to how they were nurtured, and that makes me appreciate my Dad the more.

My Dad was deliberate about our upbringing. We were exposed to books very early. I experienced the delight of the Enid Blyton books, I lived in the fantasy world of the comics I read, I dreamt of the love that my heroines experienced in my Mills & Boon novels, I felt the anger and helplessness of the characters in the African Writers’ novels, I could relate to the protagonists in the Pacesetters series, and when I needed answers to questions about life that weren’t readily available I had my illustrated books based on the various bible characters to sort me out. My Dad took great care in curating and funding my childhood reading experience.

 Once he got home from work, after welcoming him, I would reach for his briefcase and open it (I knew the lock combination) to get the day’s newspaper. I would settle down to read while he took his evening bath, changed into a fresh set of clothes and proceeded to have dinner. Dinner that would be constantly interrupted with my questions based on what I had read in the papers. And he always answered me, he would take time to explain to me, while we both ignored the daggers from my Mum’s eyes. Unless you were complimenting her cooking, my Mum didn’t believe in talking while eating. But my Dad paid her no heed, dinner time was our time, and we had unfettered access to him. Our family games were scrabble, we learnt how not to be a bad loser during those games, we expanded our vocabularies a great deal also during those sessions.

I love how our childhood pictures capture us in our most natural state, engrossed in our everyday lives. Sure, we have the frameable pictures taken on our birthdays or decked out in our Christmas and New Year outfits. But the ones I treasure, the ones that invoke heart-warming memories are the random pictures — typical to the million and one pictures you would see in the camera roll of a young mother today. And back then – way before the advent of the digital camera and mobile phone. When you had to buy a film, snap pictures, then take the film to the lab to be washed and developed into prints – having hundreds of random childhood pictures wasn’t a small feat.

My Dad wasn’t afraid to be different. I observed when I grew up and got shipped off to boarding house that I was unlike a lot of my peers. I didn’t regard my parents with fear/ trepidation, I simply loved and respected them. I could tell my parents if I felt that they were wrong about something. I could tell them that I didn’t believe them if I sensed that they were lying to me.

There was no cheating in my household. During weekends, once we heard the newspaper vendor’s horn, we would all (including my mother) scramble to be the first person to get the paper, so as to be the first person to read it. There was nothing like “I’m older, so I get to read first”. Even my Dad would wait his turn (which was invariably last), even though the money used to pay the vendor was taken from his wallet. If he was going out and needed to read the newspaper before his turn was up, he would beg to be allowed to read. He was the one who taught me about equality and respect. My Dad respected me as a person, he didn’t disregard my thoughts, feelings, views because I was a child. He exerted the same energy and care towards us regardless of our gender.

My Parents listened to us. They didn’t have always do what we wanted, but they listened.  I wish he had prepared me for an unfair world that didn’t mirror his ideology though.

During the period I stayed at home awaiting university admission, my Dad would give me money to buy the newspaper, instead of buying the newspaper at the office and bringing it back to me in the evening. Back then, he knew I needed all the entertainment I could get. When I graduated and entered the labour market, my Dad would buy ‘The Guardian’ on Tuesdays and Thursdays instead of our usual ‘Punch’ so that I could scour the vacancies section. Later he started buying both papers on those days. My Dad showed that he loved me in the little things.

 My Dad is the greatest teacher ever, he and my Mum are polar opposites when it comes to teaching. Let me paint a teaching scenario involving my Mum and I.

“Yetunde, what is 2 plus 2?”

Long, fearful and pensive silence.

“ARE YOU NOT HEARING ME? I SAID WHAT IS 2 PLUS 2?!”

“5.” One slap and one well executed knock follow.

“YETUNDE! 2 PLUS 2 IS 5?!!!”

Sobs and stutters… “6! Mummy, sorry.”

“TOLU! GO TO YOUR DADDY’S ROOM AND GET A BELT FOR ME.”

More crying…”2 plus 2 is 3! Mummy please!! Give me some time, I will get the answer. Please I’m begging you!”

“Oya kneel down there. I SAID, KNEEL DOWN THERE! KNEEL DOWN THERE BEFORE I OPEN AND CLOSE MY EYES!”

“Mummy please. Don’t beat me, I will get it.”

Okay, I’m calm. Oya count to two with your fingers. Count another 2. How many fingers do you have?”

Muffled sobs. “4?”

“Only to play that you know. Must I threaten to beat you before you think?! Oya stand up, let’s complete your homework”

 That was how my Mum taught me. Through elimination and lots of tears. Granted we always finished my school work in record time but it was a hellish experience. By the time I had grown the liver to tell my mum not to teach me again, my syllabus had gotten to a level that could potentially embarrass her. I’m thankful because it saved me a whooping, a whooping I was ready to take just to end her beating the answers into my head.

  My Dad fully took over then. That was when I knew that learning could be fun.

There was a night, a night that spilled over into the early hours of the morning, when my Dad had tried all he could to teach me something. What it is I can’t remember now. We decided to end the session as my brain was refusing to cooperate, and bid each other goodnight. I clearly remember that immediately my left palm grasped the door knob to my room, what he had been trying to teach me all night clicked. I called out to him in excitement and shared my new understanding with him. The smile on my Dad’s face was indescribable as we went back to the living room to continue my tutoring sessions around 1am. It broke his heart when he found out I opted for Arts instead of Science class that my aptitude test scores recommended — I’m sure by now that you have started detecting a pattern.

One wonderful thing about my father is that he rarely compared me to my siblings or other kids. He knew how best to encourage me. It wasn’t me versus individual X, it was more about me living up to my potential. This was the case for my siblings too.

If you think I’m lazy, then you haven’t met my younger sister. I won’t elaborate on this topic just in case one of her kids scouring the worldwide web in the nearest future, trying to disprove his/her mum’s empty boast on how she always placed first in class stumbles on this blog. So, when I was in primary five, at the end of the first term, I took home the first position. I’ll have you know that even though I had a chill disposition to school work, my worst position in primary school was 6^th. I remember hiding from my Mum when she came to collect my report card during school break. My brother also placed first in his class as usual, no surprises there. My brother used to be very book smart until he discovered the English, Spanish, Italian, and all those other European leagues.

The shocker was that my sister was the 3^rd best in her class. I remember that after I viewed her report card, I marched to her teacher with her in tow to be assured that it wasn’t an error. That holiday was a uniquely happy one for all of us. For starters my Dad took the three of us to the biggest supermarket in our neighbourhood, handed each of us a shopping cart and told us to fill it with whatever we wanted. Back then we didn’t know anything, I was the oldest and I was barely 8. We shrieked in joy and lingered in the chocolates, biscuits and sweets section. If you try that with any kid today, you are on your own o.

I recall how happy we were as we shopped, and thanked our sister for this open cheque. We knew that this shopping trip was because of her. We didn’t begrudge her, or feel less about our school performance. We kept praising her and thanking her for bringing this windfall our way. We were more than happy to bask in her joy. I’m sure you are expecting me to write that this event marked a turning point in my sister’s academic life, and that she ended up curing cancer, but the truth is that was the best academic performance my sister ever had till date. For the umpteenth time, this isn’t a fairy-tale.

My Dad showed me what it meant to be reliable. During my university days, I would flash him with any mobile line, and I mean any, and he’d always call back within minutes. He would disregard the possibility that it could be one acquaintance or long lost family member flashing him to beg for money. He would ignore the likelihood that it could be a 419ner. So long as he had kids in school, who might be too broke to place a call to him, he would always return any and every unanswered call.

And it had always been so, he had always kept the lines of communication open, no matter what. I remember when he used to work in a bank — that period was the worst with respect to family time. I would cry every morning when I woke up and rushed to his room only to discover that he had since set out for work. I would struggle to stay awake most nights and refuse to go to bed, all in a futile bid to see him when he returned from work, only to doze off on the sofa and miraculously wake up on my bed the next morning.

 It was a sad situation, until my Dad came up with a solution. Every school night, I would write him a note reeling out all the run-of-the-mill events of the day, and leave it on his desk. I would awaken the next morning and run to his desk, to pick and read his reply to me. Based on this new style of communication, my Dad for example promptly knew when the tuck shop at school introduced cupcakes, and immediately deduced that this new addition required that he increase my daily pocket money. I was back to reporting my Mum once again to him in a timely manner, in order to have him prevail on her to stop dealing with me.

My Dad always promised and delivered, unlike someone I know.

He didn’t skimp on anything related to education or health. During my Uni days that was the sure banker way of getting money from him. I will also not be elaborating on that, thank you very much.

He made me realise that it was perfectly okay to be flawed, and still be regarded as a hero, especially because of it. He didn’t have to place himself on a pedestal to be respected, but I still do. I will always treasure him.

Speaking of flaws, I love my Dad even though he had a thing with me taking any form of siesta. I used to jokingly remark to my Mum then that it must have been a condition from wherever he did money rituals that I mustn’t sleep in the afternoon. He had no qualms waking one up from a restful sleep to carry out the flimsiest task. I really detested that about him, and couldn’t wait to move out of the house to settle my outstanding sleep debt.

 I like my Papa even though he can send pesin message die. My Dad enjoys being waited on hand and foot. There is no one too big for him to send message, there is no message too small for him to send you either. I can never forget the evening that the TV remote batteries gave out, and he turned my sister to the substitute TV operator. The poor girl was on call the entire night, tasked with changing the channels, memorising the current programmes, and adjusting the volume.

By the time we all reached our teenage years, we had mastered the art of disappearing one by one from the living room once my Dad showed up, only to regroup in another room to continue our gist. Even a monk would be unable to cope with the frequency of errands my Father would send him on. My Dad would complain about how we were actively avoiding him, and we would retort with how he was stressing us with errands, but he still refused to change. Even up till now, that’s how I know when it’s my cue to leave during my visits home. That is how I know when see-finish and familiarity is entering the equation, and I need to bid him bye so that he can miss and value me more.

 Last year August, when I was vexingly mad about the trajectory Nigeria was on , I decided to vent about it on my blog. I thoughtlessly shared it on my family WhatsApp group, and that was when my Dad read one of my written works for the first time ever. He was effusive in his praises about my blog, and shared it with pride to his loved ones. He never asked why I didn’t write about him, my Mum would have definitely guilt tripped me.

So, why don’t I write about my Dad? I think I need to start with why I write. Most of my posts revolve around things I’d like to change about our society. My articles are usually based on notions we need to challenge in Nigeria, as Nigerians. And my Dad isn’t the typical Nigerian. My Dad is why I have the capacity to challenge these faulty ideas. My Father has shown me that it is possible to strive for the best in everything. That it is important to endeavour to put in your best. Because of my Dad I know that being different isn’t bad, that it is okay to stick out like a sore thumb at times. I know now that it is important to be comfortable in being you, the best version of you. That I deserve to be loved in spite of, and because of my imperfections.

So, Lawrence, I want you to know that I love you unashamedly, unreservedly with all of my heart. The truth is that I don’t write about you because I am fully accepting of who you are to me. I do not need you to change for me. You are my first love, a love that will live in the innermost part of my heart till the end of time.