On: Trickles and Fountains
This article is best enjoyed whilst listening to the song "Dawning of Spring" by Anson Seabra - https://youtu.be/7B2ZW50HZvk
Yesterday was my father's birthday. He turned sixty-something and I remember calling him on the phone and he alluded to the fact that his new age might just be his football age. I burst out laughing. His comment had come after I playfully quipped, "Daddy you don dey old o". It was a funny moment and a surreal one too. My dad has never been one for long talk so it was no surprise that after the pleasantries of the call, we were done in less than two minutes. But something about this particular call lingered. And it wasn't his comment.
"Daddy you don dey old o" became so hauntingly vivid as an echo in my mind as soon as the call ended. My dad was indeed getting older and inching all too close to the golden age of seventy. And in a perfect world where I was the sort of success I daydream of becoming, I would fly him out of the country for a vacation or send him a chauffeur with a new car, and he'd be having the time of his life, enjoying the golden moments of old age as he watched his children blossom with a broad smile spread across his face.
But nothing about my world is perfect. I'm his first son and I still have days when I am by myself, close to tears, when examining the tragedy that is my unfulfilling life. I still feel insufficient in not being able to take care of my siblings even when they thankfully appreciate the little trickles I can offer. Recently, in fact, I confided in a friend, my fear about how much I feel like I am not even living, just merely coasting through the dreariness of existence, one moment at a time. To this day, I silently still evaluate my worth by all of the things I cannot afford or give to make the lives of those I care about a little less shitty.
Yeah, my world is far from perfect, which means my dad, who is rightly getting old as I had quipped, cannot even enjoy all the perks that being a parent should afford him in a society like ours. I daydream about this more than anything. I see myself giving my parents the sort of treatments befitting for kings and queens but with a little touch of humility: an all-expense-paid trip and all that good stuff. I think of how much, I'd be joyed to see the smile and subtle dread on their faces the first time they'd board a plane to fly out of the country. I imagine I'd have them take awkward pictures of the places they visited and have my dad comment playfully on how much the cold in America cannot be compared to the harmattan in his own village, Ososo. I often imagine all of these things and I know it's easy to say "oh but all of these are possible with time and effort, blah blah blah", but time is exactly why it broke my heart to realize the truth that my playful quip had meant.
Time is kind but cruel in so many ways. One of which is how it shows us the possibilities of a future and then quietly unravels the illusion. As a kid, I was a firm believer that my parents would be around to reap the fruits of their labors. I could see that future clearly: me, successful and taking care of all their wants and needs, and they, easing into old age with a warm smile and the wrinkled lines on their faces relaxing thanks to the comfort their children have provided. But I grew older and with each new year added to my existence, I see as their wrinkles deepen. I see how much they have continued to endure and sacrifice for their children and how much they, nevertheless, still appreciate the little trickles of gratitude they get back. Sadly, these little trickles feel like absolute nothings in my eyes, because with each trickle I am reminded that in a perfect future like the one I envisioned as a kid, trickles ought to be fountains.
I ought to be helping relax the wrinkles of their old age not sit idly by and watch as they deepen. And in all honesty, I try. I really do. I try to be the son my dad needs. And from my interactions with him, it may appear as though I am being just that. But that is just how my dad has always been: non-expectant. I don't know if he has a mantra for life but I suspect that if he does it probably would be something very motivational and optimistic. And of all his many traits, I wish this were one I could wholeheartedly emulate. I wish I could stop seeing the aging demon looming menacingly closer to him as the months and years roll by. I wish I could stop seeing how shitty my life is in the grand scheme of things and how little of a contribution I am able to make to help them ease into the warm embrace of old age. But I can't. I try, I really do. I just can't.
Or maybe I don't want to.
Maybe seeing things differently and in a more positive light might aid some level of complacency on my part. Maybe I choose to be worried and bothered about age creeping in on him just so I could be motivated to start checking more boxes in ensuring that he and my mother are able to, at least, have a bite out of one of the proverbial fruits of their labor. And indeed, I think subconsciously it does help that I am able to recognize how shitty my life is and how much I still have to figure out about who I am. There is a sense of absolution that comes with knowing where you are and understanding its value, even if such value might not necessarily be positive.
I figured my dad at his present age feels the same way. I reckon on nights when he thinks of his life until this point, he is able to know that each moment only mattered because they led him to the present where he is. And I would assume that somewhat like me, he worries that time is moving too fast, but not with respect to his aging, rather with regards to him witnessing his children grow old. And maybe, just maybe he remembers what it was like to be my age and how much the questions and worries I now ponder on, were also thoughts that once mirrored his.
Or maybe he just wants to sleep by 6 pm as he is wont of doing; and all I am doing here is making assumptions on the behalf of a man whose entire life since I had known him has always been about instilling good, god-fearing values in his kids whilst being selfless to those around him. And I guess that is the part that really hurts too. The realization that someday, soon, I'd be confronted with losing him to time and in turn losing the opportunity to at least make his bite out of that proverbial fruit of his labor, worthwhile.
Nevertheless, even with my many troubling thoughts and ruminations, I still found time to send him a little cash to "buy coca-cola and biscuits" to celebrate his day. I also did the performative post on Twitter about him and littered my WhatsApp status with his pictures; responding perfunctorily to some of my contacts wishing him a happy birthday. It all felt like I was compensating for something else and truthfully I was. And I probably would have continued to feel this way if I hadn't gotten a reply from him, some four hours later, after I had sent him the "coca-cola and biscuit" money.
"Thanks for your message, may God open the best ways for you sooner Amen".
Something about that message made me tear up. There he was, offering a prayer of appreciation and hoping the future holds something better for me, even though he had no idea what that said future was or if he would even be in it, neither was he even privy to the knowledge that his son was as unbelieving as they come. And I must confess, at that moment, briefly, my reply of "Amen, daddy" was as believing as it would ever get.
I know none of this (writing all this beautiful nonsense) means that anything actually changes with regards to my constant dread and worry about my parents’ aging. But I would admit to the fact that at that moment of receiving his text, the trickles did feel like a fountain for once, and I can only hope I am able to sustain it for as long as time kindly lets me have both of them around.
Cheers.
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