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ARTS AND CULTURE

I wish he were here

  • 06 May 2020
I saw my mother in pain several times. I witnessed many episodes of her in physical distress, in emotional distress. I have been with friends and lovers and have seen them in difficult times, emotionally and physically. The same way people have seen me in distress, seen me cry. But I never saw my dad in tears, not as a kid growing up, nor much later as a young adult.

It’s probable that he wasn’t the crying-type or was the type who had to hold it back and let it out in private. I cannot be so sure. I, however, knew how to read his face and invisible emotions, and knew when he wasn’t at peace and when he was angry. You always knew when he was happy.

Did dad hide his tears? Were there any reasons? Was there ever a time he wished he could just be himself and let out hidden emotions? His fears, tears. Or even his secret joys? Was there a need to be strong, to be a man, to not show other faces of his?

I am here asking questions to my dad in his absence. Asking a man who’s been away for over six years. Asking a man who will never return. Asking a dad who is now physically nonexistent in my life and that of my siblings and my mum, his wife. Asking a man who died at age fifty-two. Asking a man whose death certificate read cardiac arrest and many other medical terms that I have now erased from my brain.

As I write this essay, I am playing a song by Lyta featuring Davido. It’s titled, Monalisa. This is my first time listening to this song. Before I came to my laptop to start this piece, the song came up on the TV and it hit me. This is what I need right now, said my melancholy. A song. A song to walk me through blue ruminations.

A line in the song reads: ‘my love for you is sure’. Here is a simple declaration, yet weighty. While the song appears to me as a projection of unrequited love, or perhaps the longings of a new lover wet with emotions, it strikes chords beyond the lover-lover line of communication.

'I have yet to wrap my head around the fact that someone told me, to my face, in the thickness of my pain, to not cry because I am