Nothing excites me more than my father’s voice on the other
end of the line in the morning. It just rubbishes everything and whatever
doubts I have about affection. It is most assuring. Making me not depend on the
‘good morning beautiful’ from seasonal people because that one guy always
assures me of one thing, he has thought of me enough times already (and prayed
for me).
I do not believe that men forget or do not value birthdays,
they just choose to ignore. I count myself lucky because my father is one big
fan of birthdays. He has never missed any of mine or my mothers. I remember all
those toffee sweets and cakes and goody goody chocolates I got on my birthday
without forgetting the orange quencher juice coloring everyone’s lips on Tracy
Day; 9th of March.
There was one particular birthday I remember crying. Partly out of being homesick and because I was so mad that the teacher didn't let
me talk to my father. I had gone to boarding school when I was still quite
young, but I was doing better than those who had lost keys and no longer had
locks to their boxes and lockers but mine still hang on my neck. C’mon don’t laugh,
it was the safest. Keys fall out of
pockets and in to pit latrines, someone can pickpocket you *jK* but somehow if
you do not hang em on your neck chances of losing them was quite high. I couldn't
take chances so I took control. Lol. Don’t feel woishe for me, it made me who I
am today. I couldn't have chosen otherwise, maybe an option of showering with
warm water and better food.
Where were we again? Uh, crying on my birthday. I was
turning 9. Imagine. And the teacher wouldn't let me see my daddy. How cruel? First
term in boarding school, no mid-term just visiting day and no food or snacks was
allowed. Cruel again. But I didn't die. So I remember it was around 6:15ish, we
had already had supper and I was walking to the class block because prep was
about to begin. A friend of mine told me that my dad was in the administration
block and I thought she was teasing probably because she had heard me talk
about my past birthdays and how I wished I could get goody goody. I partly
believed her and waited outside the class. I couldn't miss. I didn't want to be
told; I wanted to see him with my own eyes at least.
6:25. the bell went
off and we all huddled to our various classes like we always did before we got
canned. Very barbaric. I sat close to the window looking outside. 6:35, the one
time I took a break, he had already passed my class almost at the gate. The class
block faced the sun and the gate, so it was as if I watched him walking to the
sunset and I watched his steady steps, blue paper bag in his hand; I could
smell the sweets and chocolates and all those confectioneries, until the long
shadow aligned with his silhouette and I wanted to call him out.
Love can make you do
crazy things; I was about to prison break out of that class. I didn't think
twice, I rose and ran out the door, and towards the washrooms which was near
the fence. I knew a spot so I called out “daddy” and he looked to my direction.
I waved frantically as if to make up for the hug and he smiled and waved back
with a huge consoling smile as if to say “the sweets will be waiting at home
darling, I will make sure nobody touches them”. He didn't risk coming to the
fence.
Tears started rolling, I couldn't stop. They gushed out
like fountains. I wanted to go home. To my daddy. To sit on his lap and play
brick game together. To have my sweets.
I felt sick and just stood there as he signaled
me to go back to class, I think he imagined the number of canes I could be
served and he didn't want to be the cause of such a harsh birthday present. Luckily, no one saw me do my little illegal
business and I walked into class sniffing. The nosy ones who asked what was
wrong I told them it was just a terrible stomach ache and they left. At least I
got a card delivered though.
Bottom line, dear men, do not deceive us you forgot our
birthday and ladies if he honestly doesn't remember it, you probably don’t mean
much to him but they are not my dad. *and that’s none of my business*
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