On: A Man Like Papa Mifa
This article is best enjoyed whilst listening to the song “Eyes Fall” by Ocie Elliott - https://youtu.be/xivjxGMbSXg
When I was about 4 or 5 years old, I started to live alone with my Dad in Ajaokuta, Kogi State. He was a civil servant working at the Ajaokuta steel plant way back when. My mom worked as a teacher in Edo state, so she would often only come to visit me during the school holidays. I was told that I learned to read from quite a young age, thanks to the hordes of old newspapers my dad had. But basically, I think my routine for learning at that age was quite simple: whatever I saw him doing that looked productive, I tried to do the same thing.
I remember one time coming back early from school and deciding to learn by repeating what I had seen my father do over a million times already. So, I took my “food warmer”, where my meal for that afternoon had been kept, and decided to take a stab at heating it up. It was a process of his I felt confident and familiar with: he would turn on the electric hot plate, wait to see the hot rings heating up, and then places the food into a container, place it on the stove, and let it steam a bit. The good thing was my food was already in a container, so I simply followed the exactness of the other steps. No sooner was I seated in the dining room when I perceived the smell of burning plastic. I dashed for the kitchen in a bid to try to salvage whatever was left of my food.
It’s funny in retrospect but I remember back then feeling more disappointed than sad after the incident. And my disappointment was a bit more to the fact that despite seeing how he had done it hundreds of times, I had somehow managed to fail to replicate his genius. At that moment, I am sure that in my feeble mind, I may have lowkey doubted our paternal connection. When he returned, his reaction was to burst into laughter. Turns out, plastic and heat were mortal enemies. He even commended me for taking all the right steps as he had always done except one: “Next time, pour your food into a small pot and then put that pot on the hot plate” he advised. I wiped a little tear out of the corner of my little eyes. “I am proud of you for trying,” he added with a smile.
Those words “I am proud of you!” sounded more gratifying than the meal of yam porridge I had later that night. I would later feel even more special when I overheard him bragging to his friend who asked after me saying: “Ah, Mifa, he’s inside o. He is a big boy now. Nursery 1 and he can heat his own food when he comes back early from school.” Yes, my dad conveniently ignored me nearly starting a fire hazard in an attempt to be like him. Instead, he chose to make it seem as though I was already a champion food heater in my own right. It was the best feeling ever for me at that age. A father who was proud of me even when the moment was not necessarily my proudest. Not just proud, but proud enough to brag to his friend.
It’s funny how we are never so fond of our parents as kids until we become adults and start to see a lot of their character traits in ourselves. Thankfully for me, I have taken after most of my father’s endearing qualities, save for his sometimes brooding composure. His selflessness for one is as remarkable as his own unawareness of it. Some years ago he bought himself a motorcycle. As someone who enjoys being on the move, and ever since losing his beloved Vespa and Mercedes 230E to old age and rust, he needed a new toy. The bike became that — or so we thought. I would have you know that my dad has probably spent more time selflessly transporting others with that bike than he has actually ridden it for his own leisure as was intended.
I grew up on morning devotions and quiet prayers. My dad prayed like he lives his life —worry-free and straight to the point. He hates wasting time. And it’s one of the many things I love about him. And just as much as he hated wasting time, he disliked needing to force people to do the right thing. His philosophy was as simple as it was biblical: “if you know what is right and refuse to do it, that’s a sin.” So, even as kids, chores were never forced on us at home. If the rug was dirty and he noticed it first, he picked up a broom ad swept it himself. And the more we saw him do that the more we sought to always beat him to the punch and thus tidy up before he could even notice. And as time passed we became just as fastidious as he was.
I daresay, having seen my dad lift up a couch from under a million times just so he could routinely sweep the dust and dirt underneath it, to this day, my sweeping feels incomplete if I haven’t lifted up my own couch to do the same. Plenty years on and I am still learning from him by repeating what I’ve seen him do. And it warms my heart to know that he is still as keenly observant as he always has been. He still finds happiness in being able to go out of his way to help others. He is still the same man whose kindness toward others continues to inspire me to be better. So much so that even on days when —like my favorite food warmer of blessed memory— I get burnt under the heat of life’s perpetual hot plate, I can always know that he will always choose to see the best in me.
And I sincerely hope that time grants me the continued privilege to bear witness to his legacy in my life for as long as I am able to do so. I hope I can make enough to send him and his wife on a vacation that lets them see the rest of the world in all its beauty. But until that time comes, I will have to settle with simply using the one gift I have to tell this amazing man how much he is loved, appreciated, and adored by all his children and those whose life, I am sure at some point, he may have inadvertently touched in kindness. Happy birthday Papa Mifa. May you continue to age gracefully in strength and wisdom. Have a blast!