Who I Remember My Father to Be

The father who wasn’t mine but the only father I knew.

I never knew my father. I don’t know what it’s like to look into my hero’s eyes. Feel his arms around me. See the look of love and pride, looking back at me.

My grandfather. Everyone called him Pa. He was my father and until his death, my mother.

A product of an English father and an African mother, he didn’t look like me. But he loved me. Cause I was his flesh and blood.

Pa never said I love you.

But I knew his love for me ran deep. Because he sent his wife packing because she didn’t want me around. He gave up his life to take care of me.

I was only 9 months old.

Our relatives still joke about how he used to put me on one side of the hamper on his donkey. To balance the load, he would place stones on the other side.

It was Pa who would wake me up at 5:00am and dunk me in the nearby river. Because he claimed it was good for me. Who knew?

He willed my childhood land to me. It was his way of making sure his love for me did not die with him.

Pa didn’t know how to say I love you. But he showed it. Each evening I heard it in his voice as he read to me. While I sat at his feet on the back steps leading up to our…