Joanita Male
I try to write from inspiration. While it was Father’s Day, I found myself writing about the women who held me. That was the story that wanted to be written.
A few days later, when Father’s Day has come and gone, I find myself writing about my father. Perhaps my rebellious streak has something to do with it.
Like many African children, I grew up with expectations. Work hard. Do well in school. Follow the rules. Those things were certainly part of my upbringing, but if I spoke only about them, I would not be telling the full story. What I remember most is that my father was there.
Every school day, he dropped me off and picked me up again. At the time, it felt entirely ordinary. Looking back, I realise how much consistency was hidden inside that routine. Later, when I went to boarding school, both my parents came for every visitation day. Every single one.
As a child, I took all of this for granted. It is only with age that I have come to appreciate the love hidden in that kind of consistency.
My father also loves children in a way I have rarely seen. Not just the giggling children with bright smiles and chubby cheeks. All children. The shy ones. The noisy ones. The ones covered in dust from an afternoon of play. The ones crying inconsolably. He picks them up, cracks a joke, and somehow they always seem to love him back. Long before I knew the phrase “baby whisperer,” I knew my father had that gift. He loves children simply because they are children.
One of my favourite memories is one I never actually witnessed myself. I was born while my father was out of the country. The family story goes that when he returned, my siblings rushed to greet him, but he walked straight past everyone and headed for my cot. I have no way of verifying this story, but I have always loved it. Perhaps because, even as a child, it made me feel like I mattered.
For all his warmth, my father also has a scientific mind. He was accepted to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), which I still think is incredibly impressive. He never went, choosing instead to remain close to his family. The older I get, the more that decision seems to tell me about the kind of man he is.
As I grew older and became convinced that I could outreason him, our disagreements evolved. My father discovered that arguing with me was often an inefficient use of time. Instead, he would listen patiently, tell me, “I’m going to think about it,” and then proceed to do exactly what he had planned all along.
If I had to describe my father in one phrase, I would say he is a man with nine lives. Time and again, just when circumstances seem to have counted him out, he finds a way back. Stronger. Wiser. More determined than before.
I wrote recently about the women who held me, and that story is true. But so is this one.
While I have been held by women all my life, what a blessing it is to also have a father with a generous heart, a brilliant mind, and a love that shows up, day after day.
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