When polygamy was predominant, people were all over the place advocating for monogamy citing all sorts of reasons. Now, monogamy is widespread and happens to be the thing, but others are out there claiming their loyalty to the concept of celibacy. So, I would say, it is not about love. Neither was it a while back.Of Deadbeat Dads and Runaway Fathers II
And were it about love, then people had only one chance to love and be loved.
What I mean is that if you are looking for love and you land on the wrong person, then you have opened the floodgates of polygamy and polyandry in your life. The next events and unions or relationships will be just that. Relationships. No basis. No integrity. Just vague justifications. But polygamy tended to offer a panacea to this confusion. It allowed you to mask that you lack love in your life. It also prevented from and guarded you against the fraternity of deadbeat dads and runaway fathers!
Nonetheless, when all is considered, among all the six grandmothers that you had, i always had a deep affection for one. May God rest her soul. And as an advice to you, marriage is not a bed of roses (Unless you mean the thorns from a rose). So you can imagine having many of such. I managed. But methinks only a few can manage polygamy. Therefore look patiently, search diligently, and identify the person who loves you. Doesn’t matter how her face looks. This is where I reaffirm that fools should die, because they will think that, even in this, there is room for mistakes. They will test it with everyone they come across and the moment they realize there is not a pinch of love, they will run away. To the list of deadbeat dads and runaway fathers!
Go where you are loved.
Son, coming from a man who has grown to the very life expectancy expected in Africa, handling six wives and myriads of children, this piece of advice should be taken seriously. I know there are men who have achieved more. But I am talking of my truth. What I know from people who have walked the path before me.
So, I had asked grandpa, what he has to say about polygamy and his answer was, go where you are loved! Contrary to what expected, I did not ask him about my real biological father. Because I already knew stuff.
I think it is time for me to talk about the third truth. The truth according to the natural laws. My truth, son. You see, I had a father too. Yes, I did not come about as a result of budding. Anyway, biologically, I should have one. And I definitely do. I know where he lives. I know where he works. I know the matatu route he uses to and from work. Usually, these parameters from enough intel to help you find someone.
Why haven’t you looked for him? What are you waiting for? Arent you curious? People will always ask with breaths stinking of childbirth.
The answer is simple. I don’t want to. One reason is that we, him and I, aren’t sure he wants to be found. Secondly, I have imagined how it would play out if I decide to pay him a visit.
Knock! Knock! Knock! …more but feebler knocks interjected by shaking knuckles
…who is there!
…uhm! Its me (hata wewe ungesema nini?)
Scenario1: he swings his door open. Eye meets eye. Inspects me fromhead to toe (that’s when I realize I have very ugly shoes on and I should have worn the other ones). And asks “how can I help you?”
…am man… am your… fuck it!
Scenario2: the door opens and reveals him. He looks at the guest and it hits him. He’s two seconds from fainting but he gathers all the composure he can conjure.
…honey, who is it?
Its no one, sugar, I think the neighbor’s dog is at it again. He says. He then takes a piece of paper, jots something and shakes my hand.
“I know. But just go. Give me a call, please call me, or anything. We will met and talk,” he says gesturing the thumb-pinky ‘call me’ signal.
I nod in understanding.
Scenario3: “sugar” is the actual door opener
Scenario4: one of the products of “honey and sugar” opens the door.
You see son, I cannot possibly think of all the possible eventualities here. It could end up better, or worse than I think. But you will agree with me that this situation is very tricky. Somebody will delude him or herself and claim that I am a coward citing epistemologically anchored clichés such as “I am a fearful idiot” or am “I think too much” or “I should face my demons.”
Granted, they could be right in their own arena of thinking, which is dependent on their relationship with sophism. In a nutshell, I am just saying they are entitled to their opinions. Nonetheless, as everything plays out in my mind, I see one thing that is constant, son. Others may play out differently, but one thing. Every time that door slides open, I see myself as a belligerent whimsical imp with daddy issues burgeoning and smearing my whole façade. Son, this is not the reason though. I will forever avoid seeking an engagement with my biological father because, for whatever reason, he was not available for me when I needed him the most;
Son, methinks that if you were not available for your son through his younger and teenage years, don’t bother being there in his twenties. It makes very little sense.
So, I will not look for him. This is my third truth, son. My twisted memory, which is whirred by confounding times, still allows me to remember how my father became one of the deadbeat dads and runaway fathers. You can call me a son of Nairobi. By the time I knew myself, I was in the city. Dandora phase one, gate number 1001 was my home until they came for me. It was a grey gate which often screamed so annoyingly loud as it was opened. Sometimes, it screamed of hope. Many times it screamed of doom and suffering. You see, there is this thing we call conditioning. Where you get to associate sounds and visions to particular events and phenomena. The knock or opening of this gate was a trigger to one of the most horrible feelings I have ever had. But you know, son, I have outgrown that shit now. It doesn’t scare me anymore.
Behind this gate, son, I will dare say that life was not easy. Everyday survived was a blow against the plans of Belial. It was not this bad until something happened. The gate was never locked as much. Its scream was not really evident at that time. You see, there was no need for keeping me in some sort of prison. Until this man began appearing. He had long beards. He was relatively thin. Looked like he was suffering. You know. But, all the same he came. When everyone was gone to work and I was all alone in the compound, he would peep through the gape gate (I wondered why he had to be this secretive) and he beckoned, son. He would then life me, place me on the unfinished wall of the shop just outside plot 1001, then he would sit next. He would then take out a bottle of soda, Fanta and a scone whose inside was soft and yellow. He would then give me the go ahead to eat and drink. And I would gobble that thing lugubriously, like I had just emerged from a forty day tour at Kalahari, Sahara, and Chalbi deserts combined. Hear me out, son, I was not that angry. It was just a good feeling to eat what he brought.
Nothing is sweeter than a father’s love for his son. Make no mistake about that.
When I was as full as water melon, the guy would go on about how I was doing and who was chokoozaing me. And I would rant freely, murmuring out certain words and the names of newly discovered enemies. And then suddenly, he would suddenly rush me into the gate and bid me farewell. This happened so fast that it resembled a military operation. But it also signified the return of my grandmother, whom I later discovered, did not see eye to eye with this man. He spoilt her daughter’s life, she said.
This became a routine and, well, I did like it, son. Like I said, every little human being, desires and deserves such moments. But, some do not get the opportunity. Things happened. Like cucu warning him that of he ever showed his bushy face around there, he would never see the light of day again. That he would rot in the dungeons of kamiti. But he defied this, he kept coming. He was more diligent, though, never letting snitches and cucu see him. But one fateful day it was a done deal. Cucu came back earlier than expected and was dressed in the full armor of war. The guy could not hide or evaporate into thin air like he used to do. He was caught red handed and he had to face it.
You see, son, all I will tell you about this is that;
Well cultured men do not beat women. Heck, they do not even argue viciously with women. Well cultured men look down and nod in obedience as elders (men and women) read the Qu’ran for them. Also, well cultured women will always make their minds known. It doesn’t matter who is listening. It doesn’t matter whether it is addressed to a man or woman, they will say. Significantly, well cultured women, unlike men who throw punches straight from their chests straight to their opponents, will always clobber their victim with fists picked from heaven and landed aimlessly. Like sledge hammers find their heavy landings on nail heads.
Both my grandmother and my father, were well cultured. So, cucu beat the man, in both word and fist, until she had no more strength left in her. She then bundled me on her back like a dirty rucksack and off we went inside gate 1001. She banged it behind her and that was the last time it was open. The guy was left standing out there, dejected, and humiliated. Pitying eyes of the crowd looked at him, passed, and went on with their businesses. I can imagine the number of times he passed by hoping that somebody somewhere made a mistake and left the gate open. I am trying to fathom the feeling, the taste of his flowing blood as he hugged gate 1001 on a daily basis and whispered;
Boy! Boy! Are you there? Come over here. Say hi to papa.
And in a voice eerie as that of a baroque castrato, somebody will blabber, it doesn’t matter. He ran away. He shouldn’t have. Anyway, look for him.
But son, here is what I will say. I will not look for him. I will not dare disturb his peace and tranquil that time has blessed him with. I will let him be.
Because, run away yes he did, but he went where he was wanted, accepted, and respected.
He went where he was loved!
And to you, son, as I talk these truths to you, I know you will have your own truths. You will wade through murky waters of youthful indiscretions. The realities, conjectures, and vicissitudes that will unfold before you, will bewilder you to your core. It will not matter what people of “normal situations” will think of you. The situation of your birth, childhood, teenage, youth, and adult life will not matter, son. Your ability to rise above the negativity around you and the foul challenges will be the determinant of your will be significant, but it will not be enough. Son, what will matter is whether, from the ashes of your uselessness and bizarre prevailing conditions, you rise and build a legacy that you will be proud of. But above all else, son, since we are talking of deadbeat dads and runaway fathers, I will say this;
Run away if you have to, but go where you are loved.