The father who wasn’t there

Sometimes men are asses. No, actually, men are asses most of the time. There is a point when nothing else seems more urgent than ourselves, when we seek the pleasures  –  wealth, acts of affirmation, the tail-chasing pursuit of the flesh – that even we can’t fully comprehend; when what grounds us (which, ironically, ends up as what grinds us) are the things that put a wedge between us and the things that matter most to us, like our kids. 

Then one day we wake up. And when we do, we realise that 20 years have passed. The kids are no longer kids, they are grown men and women. And they are bitter. Bitter because they grew up without a father. They went to school where other involved fathers came and went, where fathers paid school fees and fathers came to meet teachers to discuss progress, or lack thereof.

But you were so erratic, so whimsical in your appearance that they never knew if you would ever show up for their visiting days. Sometimes you would show up even on days that parents were not allowed to visit and you would be there waiting after convincing the headteacher that you were going on a long safari and this was the only time to see them.

You would be carrying a polythene bag full of things that were supposed to make up for all your inadequacies: bread, Blueband, sugar, cocoa, sanitary pads, lotion ... a bagful of cheap and inadequate bribery. Then you would hand over some money, a whole lot of it, that you imagined would fill the hole you left in their lives whenever you disappeared.

RETURNING FATHERS

But now they have grown up and they turned out well because they had a mother who stayed the course, who stopped asking for fees and paid it; a mother who juggled many balls in the air (some which fell), who knew that only she could make things turn around. A mother who became a father. And history is littered with them. (Bless you mothers.)

In the run-up to Father’s Day, I have been talking to numerous people about their relationship with their fathers and most have this incredible tales about their fathers’ absence and how that has shaped their lives. The abandoned ones, I call them. What’s more evident as they speak with just the right tinge of venom, is my realisation that you never quite triumph over the absence of a father; it follows you like an orphaned monkey your whole life, and it stays with you and shapes who you are.

Curiously, most of the fathers who screwed up are now trying. These are fathers who didn’t pay school fees, fathers who were never there, fathers who fought mothers and while slamming the door on their wives slammed the door on their children as well.

And these guys grew up with these embittered mothers who while moaning the inadequacies of these men and their eternal disappointments in them, transferred that murky energy to the kids who grew up with what we like to call “daddy issues”, because it’s such an ugly phenomenon that we can only dress it in a euphemism that robs it of its power.

Consequently, the girls’ image of men was altered and the boys, became men even before they had broken their voices. And now that you are back with your hat in your hand they ask you, “Why do I need a father now when I have been a father since I was 12?” There, a son robbed of his boyhood.

These returning fathers, now in their sunset years, are now creeping back when the dust has settled. They try to make those phone calls that make for such awkward conversations. They try to do lunches. They buy gifts. They even sign up on Facebook and like everything their daughters put up.

Suddenly they remember birthdays, and show up with wrapped gifts. However, they remain men from a different generation, a time when men were not known to bend to the whims of emotions or of children. And so it’s difficult for them to be at this point where they have to beg to be forgiven and accepted back; this conflicting time when they are saying sorry by their actions and not their lips. They are trying every day and through all means known to them because age and time has reminded them what’s important, but unfortunately what’s important is already buried in an unpleasant heap of pain and mistrust.

FAILED FATHERS

I know a lady who told me that after her parents’ breakup, her dad wasn’t quite involved in their lives and now, many years later, he wants a relationship with her and she doesn’t see why. “Because he’s still your father,” I told her, “And because he’s haunted by the foolish choices he made when he was younger. Don’t let him go to his grave with such a heavy heart. Save him from himself.”

We are a generation of failed fatherhood. Fathers who weren’t dads. And it’s easy to turn our backs on these haunted men now as they try to salvage what’s left. It’s easy to let them stew in their demons. But to what end? Only fools don’t change their minds, and because they have noted their folly, why not meet them halfway, given that they don’t have that much long anyway?

Most importantly if we, as young fathers, don’t learn from the weaknesses and shortcomings of our fathers, then we would have made the first step on the road to failed fatherhood.

To all the young fathers reading this, fathers making an effort (because it’s not easy), please YouTube and watch the powerful Toyota commercial, “My Bold Dad” as we celebrate ourselves and our fathers who tried – or who are trying now.

Happy Father’s Day!