Blog #10

HATE

If anyone got to know me, the first thing noticeable would be my manners, morals and ethics. As we know, these things are intangibles and cannot be purchased at your local 99 cent store, and therefore is either taught or learned. With that said, the sensible assumption would be that I was raised by the perfect mother and father. Well, that’s a bunch of bollocks. My mother isn’t the perfect mother- but is the perfect mother for me. Referring back to one of my earlier journals, my mother is not the most affectionate woman there is, but she definitely is the most thoughtful, kind, and helpful. If not for her, this assignment would be non-existent to me as my attendance in school would be imaginary. She saw my brother through 4 years of college and is doing the same for me. Most single parent, especially single mothers can NOT do a quarter of what my mother does, call me a bragger or boaster, but that is my story and I’m sticking to it. But enough about her, though I could go on for decades about her, lets get back to the topic at hand, the man, the lie, my father. I actually feel disgusted and embarrassed to call such a person my father for every person whose life he touched, he affected negatively. As far as my knowledge goes, my mother was not the first, and I, as part of his kids will not be the last. He was the classification of what I consider to be a waste of life, I know, yes rather harsh, but someone who wanted nothing more than to see his own children suffer, and might I add ensured of it, and also beat on his wife constantly for no apparent reason does not deserve to be alive. Death is not something that’s should be wished upon anyone, but paying respect at a funeral is by choice. If that man was to pass away this very moment as you read this, my life goes on-for the better.

Most children have some type of positive or enjoyable memory of their father, whether it be something as simple as watching professional games together, going fishing or even assembling his/her first bike. Well, I don’t. I actually have nothing but gloomy memories about this guy, and I hate to be so pessimistic about him, but that’s the simple truth. “BANG!” was the sound I remember hearing when I woke up on the floor of my room, funny thing is, I went to sleep in the top bunk bed, but the noise and the shock factor snatched me out of my sleep and threw on the floor. My brother awoke at the thudding noise of my body hitting the floor, and in a matter of seconds. We realized that my mother was being tortured a little bit after midnight. We ran to the room to find our beloved mother in the vicious hands of him. I sadly remember this particular scene like it happened yesterday. His hands were balled up in her shirt as he stood over in the corner of their room. “deji, Junior, please go and get help” (she called my older brother junior) was what she told us to do. Before we turned to run out the room-BANG!, another noise except this time it was twice as loud and we saw where the sound came from. The asshole had been head-butting my mothers head into the concrete wall-keep in mind- 99% of Nigerian houses are made of bricks and mortar and this time, my father drew blood from her. Luckily for us, our prior concern of running for help had worked itself out as the second blow to the head awoke our next door neighbors. “DADDY LEAVE HER ALONE, PLEASE LEAVE HER A-“ SMACK!!. He slapped me across my face before I could even get out the second plea to stop the violence on my mom. My ears rung for what seemed like forever as I fell down and started crying myself. In her discomfort and pain, I remember my mom trying to come to my aid and he just would not let her, it seemed to me as if Lucifer himself possessed him. Luckily for me and her, my brother had made it to the door and let the neighbors in. like angels sent from next door, they ran over and tackled him from on top of her all to my satisfaction. As they interrogated him, I did the same in my mind also wondering what she could have done to deserve such animalistic treatment. All I remember him saying was “she is my wife, and I can do what I want with her, now please leave my house!” I contemplated for a while; approximately 4 hours on why he would beat abuse her in such a terrible way till I woke up the next morning sleeping in the arms of my mother. Her head was terribly swollen with lumps the literal size of golf balls, and a cut across her forehead. I was afraid for I thought she was dead. “MOMMY PLEASE WAKE UP!”, and at the sound of that, she opened her eyes slowly as if they were shut together with gorilla glue. I started to cry, and my brother joined along, and amazingly, my baby sister who was then 2 years old slept through all of it. I was glad that she did. My mom apologized to us for having to witness such treatment and assured us not to worry that it wont happen again. As optimistic as she was and wanted us to be, that would be just the beginnig of the worst that was yet to come. I approached the bastard and asked him why he beat my mother and his response was said as cold as ice “ you will understand one day”. Till this day, I wait to hear what I couldn’t understand then. That is the earliest memory I have of that man, and rest assured, it is not the last, nor the least graphic. If I still have your attention, I want to take a minute to ask you- based on what you’ve read so far, could you find within your heart to forgive, or forget such actions if you witnessed your father ill-treat your mother that way??. Well, before you put such thoughts in your thoughts, I hope you never have to witness such violence regardless of the parties involved.

About a month later when I was comfortably seated in the living room being a fatty, stuffing my face with ice cream on a late Thursday evening as it was the last day of school. No more curfews, no homework, no anything, except play and eat. The excitement of the summer vacation was short lived when he came barging into the door demanding the presence of my mother. Out of shock and fear I went numb as my body, lips and hand went cold. I thought that would be the day I would meet my maker, which technically was him, but we all know what im referring to. Out of anger and frustration of my mother’s absence, he lashed out at me smacking the bowl of ice cream and cake out of my hand, and snatching the spoon out of my mouth. “I said where is your damn mother”. I softly answered,” I don’t know.” Boy o’ boy if I knew then that my inability to provide him with the answer he was speaking would blown his load, I would have lied. Like a lion stalking its prey, he sat in the corner chair behind the main door-patiently and angrily waiting all that same time for her to walk in. If only I could have warned my mother about what anticipated her. As soon as she walked in, he remained seated still and waited for her to turn around. My mother knowing me and being the second best friend behind my brother saw and read my fear struck eyes and knew something was wrong. As she turned around to see what was in the corner, a very swift and mighty SLAP met her across her face as she fell down to the floor. She immediately began weeping asking “what did I do now”. He responded to her question by repeating his action, and then answering, “WHERE ARE YOU COMING FROM?!”. If any of you remember back to when you cried as children- how difficult it was to muster up the courage to talk while crying. The head constantly moving up and down like that of a lizard as you tried to catch your breath and speak at the same time. If you haven’t figured it out yet, that was my mother that night. A grown woman broken down to tears, AGAIN as she gasped for air and tried to answer him. “YOU WILL DIE TODAY” is the next thing he said as he walked like a savaged beast towards the kitchen and looked for the nearest knife within his vicinity. THANK GOD my mothers brother was coincidentally on his way just to pay a random visit as he knew of my sperm donors abusive ways and wanted to make sure everything was all right. As he walked in the door, the asshole was walking back towards my mother with a knife in his hand. He sprinted as fast as he could and pushed my father to the ground, twisting his arm till he let go of the knife. If not for my mother’s brother being there at that particular time, I personally believe I would have witnessed my mother die, worst of all, I would not have been able to do anything about it. How was I supposed to have been able to live a normal life if it actually transpired?. We had to move to my grandma’s house about and hour away; for that was the only way we were going to remain safe from the deranged lunatic. My brother and sister had to be picked up from the friend’s house at which they were staying and brought to meet up with us at our grand mothers house. I had nightmares upon nightmares about everything he had done to my brother, my sister and me even while over at grandmas that sleeping seemed to be impossible for the slightest noise, or any type of rumbling made me jump out of my sleep as I thought he was at his shenanigans again. I thought for a very long time as the years progressed what my mother could have possibly done to make him behave in such sadistic manners, and couldn’t seem to bring myself to any conclusions. I asked my mother and all she had to say was that “I’ve always tried to be there for him, financially and emotionally, that was all I ever tried to do.” Obviously, I couldn’t think of approaching him to question him and possibly get some type of answer form him for I feared for my life. This was the dilemma that continued even when we got back home. His nonsense went on and on and the only time I found peace was when I was close to the cousin of death-sleep.

I could go on forever bout all the negative things that was said and done by him, even his mere presence after returning home from work cleared out the room as if a smelly fart had been released in the midst of a crowd, but nothing had a bigger psychological effect on me than what he did a few years down the road, five years ago to be exact when he did what I would presume would be frowned upon by God himself. After returning home from an evening with his mistress (how did I know that was where he was coming from?- I don’t know, I just did) being 18 helped me make better sense of the late night outings and the frequent phone calls to the house by another woman. Anyway, he had a rough night I assumed, and decided to do what he did best, take it out on his family, though the beating was no longer done for we had moved to the United States and this country does not take domestic abuse lightly. Even then, there were still scuffles that we heard in our room beneath theirs. So, he came home and for no apparent reason, picked on my sister who was then 12, called her upstairs and started hysterically screaming at her with emotionally crushing words. We all raced up the stairs to see what was going on and this was his response, “so you’ve all decided to gang up against me, okay no problem”. He took my mothers bible, placed it on the floor and said “ I swear to god who made me, I disown all four of you.”…..i just got shcll shocked all over again writing this. I was hurt from his prior actions, but certain words can be forgotten, and physical wounds will almost always heal. This on the other hand was different on all levels. He had disowned us, his children, his kids who never wronged him. I was hurt, very hurt to be exact. I began to think to myself why god had cursed me to be the son of such a human being. I wanted to hit him in his mouth with all my might, but I was paralyzed. My body no longer obeyed by brain. I remember just walking out the room, down the stairs, into the playroom and sitting in the chair, trying to count the particles in the air. My father, on that day, made me hate him. I was worn out mentally, and I knew then that there was no way this man had a chance of ever getting in my good graces again even if he was on his deathbed. I had developed a word that most people consider an overstatement. I had, and still have hate in my heart.

Now, you know a little bit about my father and his ways. The little good that became of all of this is he showed me what not to become when I became a man, which I consider myself to be now. He taught me a very valuable lesson without realizing he was playing the role of a teacher, and I, the student. Hate is not something that should be used loosely, which a lot of people do. I can almost assure you that you’ve heard someone say “I hate you” at least once this year, but let me ask you one last question, am I wrong for hating my father?