Of Deadbeat Dads and Runaway Fathers

But you see, you are my son. You will be my son. Always my son. And I know that you have the special blood that runs within my veins. No, son, do not get me wrong. We are not in the lineage of akina Albert Einstein. We are not geniuses (I think at this point I should speak for myself). I have nothing much to offer and claim credit for and render me a genius. Just some useless blog and an old pair of shoes, which has been eaten lugubriously by the Nairobi tarmac. But son, unless your mother will come to me with the babe, guess what phrase, triggered by the boiling hormones and a treacherously clinging blastocyst from another man (This happens a lot by the way son), you have my DNA in you. I see a shapeless head like mine, carrying mild and shy eyes, an ugly smile, and a chipped tooth. I see a mind that looks deep into things and comes up with the bigger picture. In you son, I see a guy who has seen and has experienced more than his age can accommodate. A person, who through observation, has lived ahead of his time and back. Son, I believe you can handle this. Partly because, you have no choice and partly because there is no simpler way of putting things to do with the deadbeat dads and runaway fathers.

Of deadbeat dads and runaway fathers

Let us skip the pleasantries, shall we? Okay, I would ask how you are doing but am pretty damn well sure you are good. You see, the thing about being on earth (or should I say, this dimension of life) is that you do not get to be fine. Granted, a majority of the dwellers will say they are, but, well, it has become an irksome norm, son. So, if you were here with us in the Mexico-Maize-accursed earth, I would ask, son. Nonetheless, it is my sincere hope that you will take this letter with the maturity is deserves. Sigh… I know. Yeah I know part of you is now, perhaps, engrossed in the process of enkindling the sharps of the swimming tail. This, as you will discover in the use-deficient education system, is a phenomenon called spermatogenesis. The other half of you could be femininely bouncing within the bounds of the fallopian pipelines. Or maybe you already walk among us. These days, you can never be too sure. Smh. Anyway, young or miniature as you maybe, I am having this conversation with you, son. Do not assume that, in our time, there is a right time to talk about these things. People do not talk about these things. Unless, of course, the judgmental eyes and twitching noses of condemnation are equivalent to productive talk. All am trying to put forward here, son, is that this topic is very explicit and requires parental discretion. Were it meant for someone else’s son or the general population, I would put a grand banner titled:

But you see, you are my son. You will be my son. Always my son. And I know that you have the special blood that runs within my veins. No, son, do not get me wrong. We are not in the lineage of akina Albert Einstein. We are not geniuses (I think at this point I should speak for myself). I have nothing much to offer and claim credit for and render me a genius. Just some useless blog and an old pair of shoes, which has been eaten lugubriously by the Nairobi tarmac. But son, unless your mother will come to me with the babe, guess what phrase, triggered by the boiling hormones and a treacherously clinging blastocyst from another man (This happens a lot by the way son), you have my DNA in you. I see a shapeless head like mine, carrying mild and shy eyes, an ugly smile, and a chipped tooth. I see a mind that looks deep into things and comes up with the bigger picture. In you son, I see a guy who has seen and has experienced more than his age can accommodate. A person, who through observation, has lived ahead of his time and back. Son, I believe you can handle this. Partly because, you have no choice and partly because there is no simpler way of putting things to do with the deadbeat dads and runaway fathers.

Uhm,,, well, one of the reasons am talking about this with you is that I do not want you to be confused and clueless like I was. Maybe its observable that I am fumbling in the way I articulate issues here. I think the stains of that unguided mayhem still cling and follow me like a shadow. I was never told these things and the little learning that I have acquired is just that. The little learning. And who better to share with than you, son.

Son, people suffer a lot out here. Society has surreptitiously crafted certain ways in which we should live our lives. Certain models of life. Certain links that people seek to have. Heck no! Let us call it as it is, son-It is people who have initiated these links and clichés and limited lines of thinking. What is society, anyway, if not made up of many persons. So, let us pick a word, son. A phrase perhaps. A meaningless set of words. Men are dogs. The link that is called a relationship, which to a higher level is called marriage, is one such mediocre state of the mind that make people suffer to the death (yes son, to the death). Guys intentionally and inadvertently stab, squeeze, and even abuse life out of each other in the name of relationships. This is the link that brought rise to the term men are dogs. This is how it happened, son;

Someone (most likely a woman) faced some hiccup in their link called relationship and was in the process of crying and hating other human beings (most likely men) and saw two or three or four… or five (son, they can be many sometimes) chasing their female counterpart with their shafts steady and ready for plunging. With a momentary shake of the head, savoring all the philosophical virtuosity they have acquires, concluded and uttered:

Men are dogs.

Granted son, we cannot rule out that the pangs of pain that they were feeling at that juncture were not real. But neither can we conclude that they were right. However, at that point in time, they created a statement that has stuck to the tongue of many an angry woman (let us be fair and say many women who are angry about man-woman relationships). But this is just something that is in people’s minds, you know. No one has ever died from being single or not being in a relationship. Or not getting married. At the end of the day, I feel, son, that there could be higher purposes than being born, growing up in a farm or in the city, getting and education (or not), getting a job, getting a friend, dating, courting, proposing, marrying, giving life to fat kids (or not), feeding them in the evening after work, growing old, and dying. Son, what I have listed here is the chronology that the society has to offer as an ideal way of living one’s life. In no particular order, though. I also have to warn you, son, that this is where it gets controversial and it will be prudent for you to make your own independent choices when it comes to such issues. You will come across proponents of both sides and they will have very strong opinions. Guys from the good book (Bible) point of view will advocate vehemently for marriage but they will not mention to you that there are guys who never subscribed to the institution of marriage. Others will impose their very bad (very bad is relative here, son. Be careful not to compare a bullet wound on the head with a mild migraine) experiences and make you think like them. In fact son, once you join society, you have become part of constant chaos. Thoughts ricocheting in the atmosphere with their embedded opinions influencing, destabilizing, and swaying stand-less imps.  the  And what will always save you is your own intuitive judgment and experience-based decisions. There is not a better feeling than making an autonomous decision (even if you end up being wrong).

But son, I think digressing has become part of my writing of late. I was talking about fake links that have tied guys to the tenterhooks of misery. And these are what comes to mind when I meet people, who are quick to investigate my lineage. I have avoided the question every time it is hurled at me. But this is usually tricky, son. You got to have answers to some questions because if you don’t. Society will look at you. First, it will look at you as like a stranger invading a very perfect world with your imperfections. You will look like a tiny clueless imbecile, who cannot grasp something as simple as the basic relationships you are supposed to have. You see son, it gets tougher when you are a teenager. Because your mind starts to play tiny tricks on you. you begin to feel that you need to match your age with what you know. You begin to ask questions. But that is not the only thing son. Sometimes when you pose questions to yourself, you do not get to answer them fully because, maybe you will cut yourself some slack, son. You will mumble some words lie damn, fuck it. Who the hell cares. And you will move on. But you will not get away with it if it (the question) comes from someone else. You will have to come up with an answer, no matter what. Because it will be weird (understatement of the year). Back in high school, we had these things we called funkies. Girls would come to our school and we had to interact, you know. Like,

Niaje msupaa

Poa

Naitwa Manoe. Na wewe?

Blah blah

So, tell me about yourself…

It usually went like this son. Except for some extreme moments of fail when you would be told to talk to the hand. But that is not the problem, son. The problem is that society has crafted a way in which you as (the boy) the man, get to say, so, tell me about yourself. And she would respond with the hobbies, favorite subjects, you know (no, you dont). Such like stuff. Apparently she would end up talking about her perfect family, siblings, and what not. And then she would wake you up from your daylight reverie by saying..

And you? and son, this is the moment you would wish you just stuck breezing (A thing where you sit under the big tree or sleep in the dorm until the funkie is over)

I know you are thinking easy.  Just avoid that part and talk about the rest. But son, it will come up someday (if not that very moment) and most importantly, you will not forget that you omitted that part. You will ask yourself why you did that. You will try to justify. But son, you will just go round in cycles until you formulate a perfect, uniform lie. Honestly, I don’t know how I got out of the millions of moments I got this question. who’s your daddy? Where is he?  This could mean I have, you know said millions of lies to get out. But son, there are two people I can never lie to. Myself. And you! So, I will tell you the truth. Three truths according to me. First, it is the truth that I am sure of. The second one is the truth that I deduce from the natural laws of life. And the third one, son, is the truth  that I get to learn from the people, who are older than I am. The truth that has passed from one generation to another while remaining as intact as ever.

You see, son. My story is unique, in its own rights. And I would like yours to be unique too. I want you to know that you have a chance of living your own life the way you want and forge your future as you move along. To the end. That brings me to my first truth. The real tangible truth. Son, I had a daddy too. Not daddy daddy but daddy, you get? (no you dont). I had a daddy, who I knew wasn’t my…, you get? Yeah he wasn’t my father. And I knew it from the very beginning. The very moment I saw him, I knew it! Of course there was talk among the 17 children (yeah we were 17 under his care) that I was came with. Mostly it came about when talk of how to subdivide the piece of land emerged. But you see, they weren’t telling me what I didn’t know. I knew it already, son. I think I was six year old then. But I knew. My step siblings were much older, much much older, son. But I also knew they weren’t my real siblings. You see, son, there is something about knowing.

Some things, once you know them, you can never unknow them. Never, son.

Continues in part two…

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