As a young boy, I missed a father’s touch. Every evening, I wanted to sit with my father and tell him why the rivers swallowed the fish. He, on the other hand, just wanted to sit quietly and smoke his cigar, staring out into space. I wanted to plough the field with my father, to make holes on ridges with our heels and bury seeds in them. Instead; father sent me to mother’s footstool in the kitchen.
At my mother’s footstool, I learned great and heroic stories about my grandfather including how he protected his land from invaders – and how, transforming into a swarm of bees, he chased the invaders out of the land. I learned a great deal from my mother.
Years later, as a teenager, I would shudder at how rudely my friends talked back at their mothers. I could never raise my voice within earshot of my father; I would be disowned.
Many years later, on Father’s Day, I would think of him, my father, and what could have been. I didn’t learn to hunt or gather from him but I learned to slaughter and pluck a chicken, at least. He never taught me how to defend myself and stand up to my bullies; no. I learned the path of peace watching him quietly smoke his cigar.
Instead, my father taught me respect for women. Those countless times I was sent away to my mother’s footstool in the kitchen taught me the wisdom of listening to women, and in doing so, it taught me the wisdom of living with women: listening attentively.
All those years I thought I was missing a father’s touch but his imprint was all over my heart. As a man now, I understand why my father smoked his cigar alone and stared out into space.
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Read – My Hero – A Flash Fiction by Leila Nalongo, Kenya
