SEE

Yesterday, a friend from the university messaged me.
"Rube, I just read somewhere that your father died. I am sorry."
Simple words. Good intentions. But enough to set me back along a narrow, not-too-well-lit path zigzagging into months and years and three decades of memories. I paused, interrupting my fingers which had already begun typing the reflex" thank you for reaching out. "

I paused and tried to feel my way along the path.
I see my father, sitting behind the wheels, driving us to school. The morning sun is out, the road is lined by students of Best way in their dark blue and white stripes uniform. My siblings and I keep leaning out of the car to shout the names of our friends when Papa drives past them.

Usually, my father would tell us to Shut up and sit down, but it was a new car. A flashy car. He understood our need to show off. To oppress our classmates and friends. Make we shout am well make everybody know say na awa papa get the fine motor. He just smiled and kept driving.

I see my father again, driving through the grounds of the school, months later. Biola calls my attention to it. Your father is here. I look out the window. I nod. Biola says, Is it true your father is using that car to carry people and collect money? Benjamin and Segun had read the note he wrote the question on. Benjamin and Segun came to school from Sango to Ijako. My father started using the car as a cab after his company downsized, plying Sango to Ijako. Benjamin and Segun had seen him.

"I don't know."
I see my father, trying too hard not to be disappointed in my end of the term result, the one he's holding. "Too playful and stubborn" the teacher had written on a sheet with too many red marks. I stay in a corner, measuring the distance to the door, ready to spring. But my father doesn't even look me in the eye.
That hurt more than a beating.

I see my father. New Year's Eve midnight. In church. Deeper Life. He's shooting me a "stand up and pray". I ignore him and keep seated. Everyone, almost everyone, is standing and praying. I am 17. Too fast for his hands. Too old for anything but scolding at home.

The pastor stops the prayers at almost 12. Then at 12 the place explodes with cheers and handshakes and congratulations. My father shakes my hand and slaps my back. His grin is big, friendly, infectious. Me and my brothers, we don't shake shit. Hard guys. We nod at each other.

The last time I see my father. He is recovering from a heart disease. Mama Rube sent me a message, "Your papa no well," and I got on a bus, heading home, making cash transfers I prayed would be more than enough to foot his medical bills. When I saw him finally, I was relieved. He looked the same. He hadn't started to look like what he was going through.

I see my father, in my mind's eye, after the message I was dreading finally arrived. "Your papa don die." I stare at the message and I will myself to be at peace. It didn't come. I will myself to be logical, to do "at least he is in a better place now". It didn't work. I wanted him back. I want him back. I want to restart the previous few weeks: our last row, me seething for hours in the bus all the way East, my phone flashing with messages from my older sister when he had complications again, me ignoring the messages, a part of me however hoping my siblings would step up, the other part of me still too clouded by anger to care, to reach out, to send money. To book an early morning bus home.

I see my father..
I let my fingers type that message. "Thank you for reaching out."