Five Years Later

When our words outlive us.

When I was 5 years old, my Dad wrote the quote above on a sheet of paper and taped it to the old bookshelf that divided the dining area from the living room.

It was a weird, direct message that I didn’t much understand back then. The placement of that quote meant my older brother and I saw it everytime we sat down to have a meal or do our homework. And every now and then, when a shoelace wasn’t done or a bed wasn’t made, my Dad would pointedly use that quote.

Years later I would come to understand that my Dad was just getting to grips with raising us alone after separating from my Mom. In those early days it was imperative he taught us self-sufficiency and the importance of solving our own little problems when we could — because juggling a magistrate’s job and single parent duties meant he practically couldn’t do everything.

And like all oft repeated mantras, the words sunk into the dark pools of our subconscious, promptly forgotten, that taped up note lost in the multiple cycles of moving from new house to new house. Life went on.

It felt like I didn’t think about that quote for 25 years.

And during that time, change continued to happen like it always did. And while challenges and setbacks popped up here and there, I remember always trying to make the best of each situation and just working through my problems the best I could. It never seemed like there was any point complaining about it when things didn’t go my way or looking for sympathy — I had realised early on in life that doing those never made anything better. So, it was always about tabling solutions instead of focusing on the problems.

It seemed like such a random, inborn admirable trait.

Decades later, after I had had my first child and was sitting with my Dad, we reminisced about the old times. This was years after he had suffered the devastating stroke that had taken his career, his ability to write and had changed his voice. He rarely smiled in those days, but that particular day was a good day.

We laughed about how he raised me on a steady stream of Jon Voight and Sidney Poitier movies, Soukous music and the unflinching discipline of Edo fatherhood.

And then he reminded me of the quote.

And it was so obvious, I couldn’t understand how I had never seen it. That “keep at it” thing I had thought was all me. That internal acceptance that some things were just difficult but you had to do them anyway, because no one would do it for you.

It had been drilled in.

I remember sitting there, looking at this frail man in his armchair, chuckling at a memory. And I stood up, bent over and gave him a big hug. My awkward father who never knew what to do with displays of affection, patted me stoically on the back and told me I had done well for myself.

Lol. At the time I was having a crisis of conscience with my career, repaying loans and struggling with my health, but he saw me and he saw success. It put wind back in my sails.

Five years ago, my Dad died. You never get over it.

I find myself still skipping some songs when I drive because the memories they conjure are too painful. I catch myself staring at my reflection when I shave because I see him there.

And I find myself grateful for a man who helped shape my life through truths.

That’s why the other day, I printed out a quote to tape to the kid’s bunk bed.

They’ll thank me later.