It was probably sometime late in November the year I was born that a young beautiful woman brought me into this world; at least, the certificates say so! They say you are either born with a silver spoon in your mouth or you are born with nothing in it. Well, I was born with a wooden spoon. I did not have the luxury of the silver spooned kid, neither did I lack the necessities of life. I had everything I needed-food, clothing, shelter and free quality education.
Before I was born, my father had started a school and by the time I was born, the school was big enough to shut out all competition within the local community. Having a father who owned a school (and a big one for that matter) was somewhat prestigious-at least to those whose fathers didn't. it was all just another form of imprisonment in our lives. Apart from living in a house that bore little difference from a 16th century English fortress with everything you needed, my father also decided to build a church. See, we were of Islamic backgrounds, and when we got converted I guess he never recovered from the initial orgasm of new found knowledge. We lived a kind of "triangulated" life: house to school, to church and back to house again!
Because I came from a polygamous family, this lifestyle was not quite as bad as it should have been. I have 11 brothers and 14 sisters, making a total of 26 children born to my father from 9 wives. My mother was the eight and probably the most hardworking. This is however, an opinion I like to keep to myself. My mother had five children for my father. I am the second from my mother and the twenty-first from my father! Nevertheless, all my father's children, despite our number, received quality education up to University level.
My father was a wealthy man who had his priorities right. He believed in education and he invested greatly in us. He was also very strict. Sometimes, I'd think he wanted to kill some of us to reduce the crowd in his house! There's this incident I that always comes to my head when I remember how strict he was….
I was about eleven years old. I had just come back from summer classes. It was a very hot afternoon, I remember. I had, just a few days back, heard a story about some kind of lizard that turns to a snake when it feels threatened. Now, if there was anything I feared as a child, it was snakes! Damn bloody snakes! They still give me the creeps! Eeeeesh! I wasn't sure which kind of lizard it actually was, so I dreaded them all. Well, on this fateful day, I was to face my worst fear. My mother asked me to empty the already overflowing dustbin. The dustbin was actually a make-shift sack which had to be dragged, creating a path-like track in your wake. We usually emptied the dustbins into the canal just behind the school. My father had bought two opposite lands on which he built the family house and the school, respectively. All we had to do was just to come out of the house, cross the street, and we were within the school premises. So I dragged the dustbin into the school half-heartedly. I headed straight to the back of the compound where the canal sat still, stagnant, and stinking. I was just a few feet from the canal when I saw what I thought was a funny looking lizard.
"Oh my God!" I managed to gasp out.
I was so terrified that for a moment it seemed my heart stopped beating! I thought I counted about four missed heartbeats! Everything sort of came to a screeching halt. As soon as I got back to earth, I took to my heels, my burden dragging haphazardly behind me. I made for the nearest classroom I finally started to breathe.
"Whew!" I thought, "That was a close one!"
To me I felt like I had just saved my life, but that was only one part. I still had to empty the dustbin. From that day, I realized that to think in fear is the worst mistake any person could possibly make. It's even worse than Adam's! I thought in fear, and I came to the conclusion that it would be best if I did not go near the canal altogether, at least for the rest of that day. But I still had to empty the dustbin. My eyes fell on the corner of the classroom, just behind the door and I thought, of all the possible ideas I could come up with, that that would do better than a canal.
I went home feeling quite smart with myself; I just thought outside the box, and it felt good! About three hours later, ii heard my father in a serious argument with the school cleaners and gatemen. I did not really put much thought to it. I was too engrossed in that particular episode of Voltron, my favourite cartoon. Suddenly, my father stepped into the children living room. His eyes were glittering with frustrated fury.
"No!" I shouted before he even asked any question. He looked at me, surprised but still furious.
"Who emptied the dustbin this afternoon?" he barked at me.
"I did, sir" I managed to say after about an eternity of shock. Having our father call your name was generally regarded as a bad omen. We were usually only called upon to answer some query or serve a punishment. It wasn't something anybody looked forward to. We even felt pity for whoever was called.
"Then why did you empty it into a classroom?" he asked.
"I did not!" I blurted out obviously still in shock. To my surprise, he turned away. But it was only for a moment. Unfortunately, that moment was not long enough for me to realize what ii had just said.
"WHAM!" a slap landed on my left cheek. I felt the fury of my father's right hand. What I still do not understand is the reason why I maintained that I did not empty the dustbin into the classroom; whether it was out of fear or out of hope that he'd just forget and not probe the issue further, I did not know.
"It wasn't me, it wasn't me! I cried.
"You are still telling me lies?" he asked, very surprised.
"No, I'm telling the truth. It wasn't me!" I cried out, still too afraid to think.
"What!" he managed to say before he stormed out.
A few minutes later, he came back with my mother behind him. I was still sobbing. I still hoped he would just forget about the whole incident and warn me not to do it again. But, alas! I had committed a serious one this time and I had to face the music.
"Mary! What is wrong with you!" my mother shouted at me.
Yes, I know, I bear the most feminine of names. Fortunately, however, I have overcome the shame. But it still sad, really sad, that of all the names available for males, none seemed appropriate for me. No, I just had to be named after the mother of Jesus! Not even his brother, or his father, or even his betrayer. No, after his mother!
"It wasn't me, it wasn't me!" I kept reciting.
And that did it. The next thing I heard was my father, under his breath, said he was going to flog out every lying spirit in me. At this point, I realized that there was no going back. I was done for. My father went into his room and came out with three belts. He tied my hands with one, my legs with another, and made to flog me with the third. As I was him raise that right hand of fury, I screamed so loud I couldn't even hear myself. My father beat me silly, very silly. The kind of beating where you don't struggle. I just laid down there and promised between sobs that I'll never tell a lie again. Several years after that incident, I was always too scared to tell a lie. I had to put a conscious effort in suppressing that fear each time I needed to tell a lie. We all have to tell lies at one point of our lives. It is part of living.
Well, that was my father. Hard as nail; never tolerated the smallest rubbish or indiscipline from anybody; barely listened to advice from people but barely getting into trouble. I thought he had one weakness though-women. He never had enough. Nevertheless, he still did not lose himself to these women, had and always had a mind of his own. I probably learned this from him.
"Think for yourself; make a decision and stick to it. This is what makes you a man" he would tell me.
"Do not let anyone tell you what is best for you; you know what is best for yourself".
That was him, always emphasizing independence. Everybody should have a mind of their own. He was a strong advocate for living your life like my wanted to; and he did live his life like he wanted to.
That was a very long time ago. It is sad to say that this man I considered very great when he was alive is only but a few traces of memory in my mind. Today I still try to live like he's still with me, watching me, ridiculing me, and praising me. It made me grow faster and think more independently, and in some weird way, made me quite attractive to the ladies. J But I always promised myself not to get too carried away. Once I get married, it is my wife, I and us alone! But before then….God help me!
I am therefore going to live not only like him but also better than him.
