Out of the Shadows, Into The Light

Today I set sail on a noble quest. A crusade to wrest back what is rightly and squarely mine. My Fatherhood.

Kids. At the dinner table last night,  it just occurred to me how my three daughters (God bless them, I love them) buddy-buddy me too much. I sat back dumbfounded as I witnessed them break every rule in our meal etiquette manual. Cartwheels around the table. Singing as they ate. Whenever my gaze caught one of their cheeky looks, they winked. Winked. Winked! Imagine that. Winked! When did I start to let this conduct slide? Growing up, if ever I attempted such spirited behavior, a pounded version of me would most definitely be served at dinner and the liquid left-over poured out at breakfast. Huh. And then they have the chutzpah to call me all manner of names. Pops. Daddy-o (said with a twang and words to go along). Imagine that. And it does not help that Mona is away this week. I even heard one of them tell the other how much fun it is when it’s Pops home. Am sure if this eureka moment dawned in her presence, Mona would say it’s karma all over. You see, not too long ago, it was me leading the girls in dancing routines around the table. It was I organizing every conceivable competition, replete with awards, between servings. After eons of protest, she gave up. To her, we ceased to be at the dinner table. When provoked, she rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. That is if she did not threaten violence. 

Anyway, ndi musajja, like we say back home. I take the bull by the horns. I own the problem. So, in keeping with ingenuity, I mentally crafted my immediate term solution to reign in this present anarchy. Simple. Tell a story. A most captivating one, given the tumult on my hands. Oh, when the Lord looked down to bestow upon men gifts, he said to me was given the art of story-telling. So I opened my mouth to do what I know to do without effort. You should have seen them jump back into their chairs. I told them the story of Africa. How ours was the cradle of civilization. I took them back to the first century; to the powerful kingdoms of Kush, Kanem Bornu, Songhai, Buganda and Kilwa, the city-state on the East African coast. I told them about the Queen of Sheba, the Ethiopian monarch who was a woman of great wealth, beauty, and power. And how she, with her retinue, paid homage to King Solomon in Jerusalem, laden with gold and other prized gifts. I told them about the great Shaka Zulu and the influence of his mother, Nandi. I recounted the tales of the Ngoni Migration and it’s leader, the indefatigable Zwangendaba, and how our native tongue has similar words with many other Bantu languages. I told them about the great University of Sankore in the ancient city of Timbuktu that had one of the largest libraries in the world and another at Jenne that was famous for training doctors, and how folks came from all over the world to study there. “Wow!” they exclaimed. And then I reminded them about Egypt and how indeed, as we had seen at the Museum in Cairo, the great Pharaohs of Egypt were black Africans. Then the questions started. That I could handle. I was only glad to eat my meal in peace. 

Kids. I heard about the fellow who wrote a book. “The 7 Rules for Raising Children.” And then he got his own and changed the title to “The 7 Suggestions for Raising Children.” Just for the sheer need to re-establish who “The Daddy” is, I came up with the NO Plan. “Skippitty, dippitty daddy-o, can I use the internet?” NO. “Pops, may I go over to Kendi’s house for a sleep-over this weekend?” NO. Tough this, but I must do it. Sanity must return to these quarters. The critical KPI being a change in the way am addressed. No, I don’t ever wish to be referred to as “Daddy.” Ever again. That title has been adulterated. “Father, can I use the internet?” Yes, of course, my child. “Father, may I go over to Kendi’s house for a sleep-over this weekend?” Why, sweet child of mine, by all means, yes. And if you wish, I’ll call her parents so you can go over next weekend too. 

Ah, the little things that make all the difference. If only they knew. 

So it was today, when I picked them up from school, we passed a pet shop. And then Tanya, shouting from the back of the car, asked if she could get a poodle for her birthday present. I took one sweeping, knowing look over my shoulder and as if on cue, they all shouted, NO! It’s working. It’s working! I mused in satisfaction as we turned into the traffic to head home. Then I remembered Snowball, The Hamster. The last pet that called our house a home. Now, the first thing you need to know is that Snowball, The Hamster, was really a glorified rodent; an excuse for a well fed rat. 

Snowball. He was a spur of the moment decision. A mistake. In our house, that is, with my most heartfelt apologies to sensitive animal aficionados. As a reward (commuted to a birthday gift), Tanya had elected to get a pet. When she finally decided, she settled for a hamster. Our sincere hope was that once she got to the pet shop, she would be distracted by more comely and colorful propositions, perhaps a caged bird like the Cockatoo, the kind that featured in the Rio animation. But No. She wanted the Hamster. And the Salesman Extraordinaire (read “The Daddy”) was out of town. Overpowered, Mona called me to reinforce ammo. I talked. And talked. And talked. No deal. As a last ditch effort, I pulled out my proven trump card – the divide and rule ace. Even that didn’t work. Little Jaszy, always the eager one to play goody-goody was also not budging this time round. Clearly, Miss Tanya had done a good job of rallying the troops. They were singing off the same song sheet. With a concert of three little girls now turned militant activists, my default switched to benevolent dictator. The phone became a potent weapon. Even after they walked out of the pet shop, I was still meting out verbal threats, warnings and ultimatums. That did not faze this little victorious army. The non-verbal communication that was coming through: You can say all you want. We got want we want.

And then, not too long after, the novelty wore off. Snowball went from War Hero to Zero, to downright neglect for days on end. Little Care. No Love. His corner got darker by the day. His cage was a fancy one, complete with storage and a spinning wheel for recreation. But that, like they say, is that. Save for the security and solace it afforded him, his was a joyless existence. Talking about him at the dinner table became taboo. It evoked memories of a war that was never supposed to be, let alone won. A war that left a vanquished general with a chip on his shoulders. And then Christmas came and we went on holiday. Nobody wanted to talk about how Snowball was supposed to survive for a month, all by himself. To our humanness, we stacked up his storage with food and water. As if that was all he needed. One month later, we were all in shock to find him alive, fatter even! It is at this point that a decision was summarily arrived at to put him up for adoption. Equally surprising, that call came through only a few days later. 

Snowball. For as long as I breath, I’ll never forget how he got his groove back. We drove to the neighborhood mall to meet his adoptive family. I was too ashamed to engage them. I had no answers to give if they asked details. How regularly did he eat? What is his nap time? No, I was not going to tell lies. I watched from a distance as Tanya handed him over. Him and his life belongings; Food, House and Farewell Card. They were over the moon with excitement. They kissed him. They took him out of the cage. Who does that? And then they called him a new name. Not Snowball but a new name! Reminded me of the observation that the Lord’s beloved friend, Peter, made towards the end of his life.   

But you are the ones chosen by God, His “royal priesthood”, His “holy nation”, His “peculiar people”—all the old titles of God’s people now belong to you. It is for you now to demonstrate the goodness of Him who has called you out of darkness into His amazing light. In the past you were not “a people” at all: now you are the people of God; God’s instruments to do His work and speak out for Him, to tell others of the night-and-day difference He made for you—from nothing to something, from rejected to accepted.*

That day, Snowball, the most neglected hamster of them all,  met a stranger who already knew his name. His new name. For him now, it was not going to be the usual humdrum, bland existence. No Ma’am. You are never the same when you get exposed to the Sun. 

Adieu darkness. Adios heartbreak and sadness. Enter The Light. Kiss The Sun.

Uncanned Joy. Sheer Delight. Ah! The freedom that comes when we step out of the shadows. Into the Light. 

*1 Peter 2:9