MY FATHER'S FEET

From a beautiful family, I was born,

But intricacies befell me

So I chose to fly away without wings

With a future to ponder

But how does one do so without anywhere to begin from?

Maybe from my father’s feet

If I could write about my father, I'd highlight his feet. How I've always wanted to religiously walk in them. if I could write about him, I'd write a whole memoir.

So let me tell you about him.

As a child, my brother and I sat on his feet. We’d look up at him as he sat on the sofa. He told us bible stories every night before sleep overwhelmed us. He told us about Noah, Abraham, Elijah, Queen of Sheba, Daniel but our favourite was about Jesus. From a very young age,we were nurtured to be the beautiful souls that we are now.

With me, he taught himself how to be a dad. How to properly love a daughter. How men like him never uttered the words ‘I love you’ but did everything that would assure you, you are loved. Finally, at twelve, on an April night,I slipped to my bedroom and behind me I left words floating in the air. Something that was between a whisper and a rant ‘I love you dad’ with the hope he’d say it back. He did. My brother followed suit. So it became a habit. Randomly saying I love yous. So now I am afraid of boys or men who are too quick to utter the words, show me instead. Let me do it first even if it means waiting for twelve years.

My father owned a camera. Long before people owned smartphones. Every Christmas he went to households that had booked him for a photo session. I followed him. My tiny feet would jump where he stepped on and it was fun. Stepping on his steps was somehow a safety precaution. I saw a god in him. His steps were huge and with time I couldn’t keep up so he would turn and carry me on his shoulders. Interesting how memory digs deep into those times. Upon arrival he would do his job, his smile was infectious. Infectious in such a way that made the woman with a mean demanour always, smile. Or maybe she was just infatuated with the lenses.

My father is tender and soft-spoken. Tender hearts like his give birth to fearlessness. That’s why ladies like me exist. I have learned to believe in the beauty of my dreams. The courage to discourage any lingering toxicity, learning and relearning habits and walking away from things I consider not for me. I have cradled my problems too often, wearing a beautiful smile as a mask and in some cases being referred to as formidable. I am a fearless black woman, my father’s daughter.

My father is a preacher, sometimes. When he preaches even the toddlers often stay calm. I wonder how he does it. With him, I believe in ‘finding favor with God and man’. The charisma he carries around would swipe people off their feet. Often we’d get into a public service vehicle and he’d vibe with a complete stranger. I want to be like him. His feet have walked in places of all emptiness and bounty, and his faith in whatever he believes in never ceases.

My father has protected me in all ways he can and often he forgets what the world does to daughters. I think it equally pains him to see me heartbroken. The other day he called just to make sure the birthday gift I got wasn’t from a random guy who would break my heart. He asked if it was from my crush when we were in first year, the other one I cried about or the boy from civil class. My answer was definitely no, and he let out a sigh probably relieved I wasn’t out to serve him some boy drama or a boring sigh that meant this could be another heartbreak coming.

We’ve had moments where we let silence between us prevail. In such moments I get mad at words for standing still in my head. In a myriad world like ours, we look but sometimes do not see. We let silence speak for us when things are too heavy to be addressed at the time. Maybe by staring long enough, we’d transmit thoughts to each other. Our gaze may be to fill the mind with what is before us, the image. Given all these, I am not sure I can trace my father's head without looking, maybe his feet. The ones I've jumped into when I don’t really know what to do. What would have dad done in this situation?

On the eve of the election, school election, Dad called and said “You are a leader. Leaders like you are born, not made. Against all odds, win or lose, there’s only one winner. Do not be broken, expect anything, do not cry, stay strong, you have my blessings.” The way he said everything came off like he had foreseen my almost win. Good thing his words lingered. I didn’t cry, I didn’t fret, we came off stronger and more fierce than before.

I believe in heaven, the kind that my father believes in. We hope against hope that one day the love of God will not disappoint us. We will walk in all glory, my feet after yours,his, like it has always been. What are we if we are not the light of the world. What you see in me is an extension of my father. Just an extension, he’s far more caring, loving, forgiving and happy. Even in the figment of my imagination, I can’t really trace out or fit in his shoes. Figuratively speaking I am contended with wearing shoe size 4.

“I want to insist that our being alive is beautiful enough to be worthy of replication.” ~~Ocean Vuong

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Hello lovely readers!!

read, I hope you enjoy this particular entry

I also hope dad, you get to read this, lots of love

I've been off on a long holiday and a break from writing

share, like, comment, feedback is highly appreciated.