My father

My father was a complex man. About him, one will hear both beautiful and not-so-beautiful things. For my uncle and aunties, he was their beloved brother. A generous man who loved listening to Bob Marley and Paul McCartney. Even some of my maternal cousins fondly remember the times he picked them up in his taxi and drove them to school. For my mother, he was a coward, and my two brothers’ mom will certainly agree with her. And all my sisters had heard, the entirety of her 27 years, either by her late mother or her aunt, is that our father was good for nothing. Only God knows why her mother, a pretty and intelligent woman, fell for someone like that.

My father was a man who couldn’t man up and be a father. Or a reliable partner.

When I hear stories about his upbringing, which are never told in a lamenting tone but rather as simple anecdotal facts, it all makes sense.

It took many years to get there, but I don’t wish for a different father. I don’t wish for our story to be any different, either. He is part of the seed that created me. I carry with me everything he could not hold for himself, let alone for his children. I carry his legacy, which he may not have even been aware he had. I am part of him. He is part of me. And this will always be true. Our story is a beautiful one because it has made me who I am. And he had to be him for me to grow into who I am. And for that, I will always be proud to be his daughter. And I will honour him for as long as I live.