Random Conversations With My Father: On “Boys” And Their Influence
- Olatorera Dickson-amusa
- Jun 30, 2022
- 10 min read
Updated: Jun 29, 2024
Note: I am starting this series in honor of my daddy's Birthday. The stories will lengthen as the years pass. Here we have for 2022 , 2023 and 2024.
My daddy taught me the power of words. There is no conversation too complex, or mundane for us. We have an opinion on every topic under the sun, even if it is just one sentence. When I was a child, my daddy had a wardrobe full of books, and only books. It was like heaven to me. By the time I was ten years old, I had read so much that every time I closed my eyes I could (and still can) successfully drift into a fantasy world of my choosing.
From Greek mythology, to Sven Hassel's books on World War II, to Lobsang Rampa's astral voyages, to Wilbur Smith and Dean Koontz. Daddy had it all, and I read it all.
He has never ignored a conversation with me, even when I was little. There was simply no topic too ridiculous to be discussed. Together, we are children of the earth, historians, philosophers. We tear concepts apart, and glue them together again. I can never accurately record the beauty of our conversations, but I aim to try. And that is all that matters. Happy birthday Daddy.
On Charisma And Boy Code
The use of the word, “boys”, not as a plural term, but as a title for a massed group of persons, whose only similarity is their shared masculinity. And that is usually enough.
“Boys” will do anything for other boys, as long as that shared masculinity is present and well acknowledged. “Boys” are strong, loud and cheery. This is not an allusion to gender stereotypes. This is about the “boys” title. You need to hear my father tell his stories of himself and the boys, to understand. You need to watch my brothers bond with their friends to truly appreciate what I am saying.
“Boys” are not picky about who pays for food, or who contributes the most for transportation. “Boys” talk about girls with this frank confusion that lets you know they really have no idea what they are saying.
My daddy is standing in front of me now, wearing his favorite joggers and no shirt, stirring his coffee and telling me about the mass action of boys when he was a young man. He was always a team leader, and I believe him. He has natural charisma. Today's discussion is triggered by the actions of an alumni member of the university of Lagos, where both my parents attended, oh so many years ago. Let me break into the story to tell another one, because that is how discussions with my daddy go. Stories lead to another, and I'm now listening to my daddy explain how he nearly drove the car into the gutter waving at a two year old child. The love of children runs deep in my family. We are all suckers for little fingers and missing teeth. Daddy says he saw the little one standing on the other side of the street, beside a Keke(tricycle). She waves, he waves back and loses control of the car. It must have been very minor because I don't hear about it until this morning. This leads to another train of thought, this time an observation from me. I say how Hausa people are so humane, never hesitant to lend a helping hand. In this case, a group of kind Hausa men gathered and helped my daddy push the car out of the gutter. They didn't even ask for money (although most people don't, they just expect it). Daddy had a spare #1,000 naira note, and he gave it to them. We drift away from that, and back into the alumni story. My daddy never says, “as I was saying...”. He says, “So, that guy, I really hated him...", “or those days, I was...”. And that's how I know to pick up the thread, and that the discussion has moved back into the present. The hated guy is a pushy Igbo man who was in the same set as my dad at school. In Nigeria, set means university people of the same year, irrespective of course, hostel, etc. This guy in question is all grown now, and is still as pushy as ever. He now has the added disadvantage of having attained professor hood, ie, he has a PhD.
According to my daddy, if this man was annoying before, now he is simply unbearable. He lords his opinions over others during conversations on the alumni WhatsApp group, and delights in making other people sound stupid. That's never fun for whoever happens to be on the receiving end. It's easy to laugh at other people's mistakes, until it's your turn. When this lordy man and my daddy were both at school, they were bitter rivals. My daddy was popular amongst the boys, and Lordy was infamous. He was an aspiring politician (personal observation, they're the worst) and my dad was a cool student with the ability to influence others (they are also the worst but as I seem to have inherited that tendency, I won't be too thorough in discussing their demerits). The truth is, the moment you are determined to dislike someone, that person subconsciously begins to gravitate towards you, biting on your nerves even more. This is all on you though, because you are spending more and more time watching the person than usual. That's what happened to my daddy. He began to notice how rude the Lordy man was to lecturers and fellow students alike. And inevitably, one day daddy and Lordy man clashed. Now, daddy pauses the narration to take a sip of coffee. After this, he begins to iron his shirt, and he takes up the story again. I have heard this story more than ten times, but I will listen again and again. For me, it is the re light in my daddy's eyes as he relives the old days. I can picture him as a young man, even more vibrant than he is now, handsome, carefree and deeply confident. As the story goes, one day, the Lordy man was exceptionally rude to a lecturer, and it irritated my daddy deeply. As I listened to him describe the feeling, I found myself relating deeply. I too have stood up for the elderly, for the underdog, and sometimes for people who are genuinely wrong but are standing alone, so why not? Anyway, they exchanged words, and the Lordy man threatened my daddy with some form of “boys” action. You know, get him beaten up, etc. Of course, my daddy laughed in his face, and then issued a challenge of his own. He told lordy man to “forget about ever getting into any position of power in the campus”. Daddy pauses his ironing, and his eyes shine as he recalls daring Lordy man to bring the fight to his hostel room. I'm made to understand that this kind of challenge among boys means “i can take you, without any help. Do your worst”. Of course, Lordy man did not show up. Bluster does better when it sounds off from a distance, after all. Daddy is done with his ironing now, and he slips on his shirt, goes to his room. He leaves the door open though, so I can still hear him when he talks. We have a subconscious pattern during our conversations, whereby the listener tends to follow the speaker around, until the narration ends. From kitchen to sitting room to stair landing... As long as the voice can be heard. True to his word, daddy set out on a campaign to ruin Lordy man's chances of getting elected. Smear campaigns are easier when your opponent is already unpopular. If Lordy man's current behavior on the alumni WhatsApp group is anything to go by, he was already firmly disliked by a lot of people. My daddy simply reminded them. He laughs as he tells me, “i just said, ah, you want to vote for so and so? Have you forgotten that he did this, did that?”
And more to the point of this story, he says he utilized the power of “boys”. It helped that Lordy man was already well disliked. Word spread from guy to guy, and then to girlfriends, sisters, all of them. Election day dawned, and my daddy says he was up bright and early, for the sole purpose of ruining Lordy man's chances at winning. I cannot judge that dedication to vengeance, because quite frankly, I'm exactly like that too. It was easy, daddy tells me, as he steps out of his room and moves towards the landing where I've been sitting and listening, one eye on my phone. He simply moved down the queue with his boys, slapping hands with friends and asking each person who their candidate was. If you've seen my brothers, then you can imagine with me just how handsome my daddy was then. He's handsome still, but it has been softened with the venerability of age. At the end of the election, Lordy man had three or five votes. The number changes every time I hear the story. The fact remains however, that he lost woefully. How much of a part my daddy played in that, we can only guess. Fast forward to the present now. As daddy takes the first step towards the stairs, he tells me that Lordy man has once again, triggered people with his insufferable behavior. Apparently, he has been pushy one too many times. I don't exactly know what he did because by this time, I'm not really listening. I also have to go to work, so I'm moving away. But I hear daddy tell me that Lordy man was soundly abused, and then kicked out of the WhatsApp group. Once again, the power of the “boys” has prevailed. So, all's well that ends well. Moral lesson I learned: group action almost always prevails. No matter how strong an individual is, buy the crowd and be stronger.
“Okay, daddy, see you later”, I say as I turn back to watch him go down the stairs.
“ Okay darling, later”, he calls back.
End.
Random Conversations With My Father,2023: The Little Moments
Sitting on the couch, drifting through my phone, bored. Phone rings, I see it's my daddy calling. Wonder why, because he's right outside and I could easily hear if he raises his voice slightly. I pick the call anyway.
My daddy is calling me to tell me that the insect we found in the backyard, and assumed it was a bumblebee, is actually a beetle.
We both agree that it is an easy mistake, since we only saw flashes of yellow as the creature flew past, and heard a distinct buzzing. Phone calls like this are common, always ending with “Okay, daddy ”
“Okay, darling ”
A spirited conversation while he is ironing and I am sweeping the sitting room. We're arguing about the origin of the Yoruba people. We both agree that the Yoruba civilization migrated from somewhere, but he says Saudi Arabia and I say, not likely.
My theory is that the Yoruba came in from Egypt, and we both bring forth our points.
I win eventually, but because I cannot win everything, we disagree on the method through which the Yoruba might have entered Nigeria.
I say they found a link through the Nile, leading into the hinterlands of Africa. Daddy says that's impossible; they clearly took a desert route.
After lots of questions to Google and a poring over maps of the ancient world, it is clear that he has won this part.
Sitting outside watching the day slowly become night because we want to catch the unusual cloud formations. Watch the crescent moon line up perfectly above a star/satellite, looking exactly like DreamWorks logo of a boy fishing, sitting on the moon.
On Coffee and Love, Or Coasters Should Be A Permanent Fixture For Centerpiece Tables
Coffee is a love language for my father and I. Usually it starts with him putting the kettle on, and announcing that he is making coffee. Usually in a funny voice imitating one personality, accent or another.
I am not a morning person but I am almost always awake by 5:am because my primary way of showing love is acts of service, and I want to help prepare my little sister for school.
My father's coffee announcements are always received wholeheartedly by me, because one sip and I am alive again.
Drinking coffee with my dad is being handed a steaming cup of black goodness that you didn't brew. Drinking coffee with my dad is being offered half of one mugful because that's the last satchet. It's going out to buy some more coffee just because my father has the most beautiful dimples and the best twinkle in his eyes when he is happy. Coffee makes him happy, and that makes me happy.
Two days of working overnight on my biggest project so far, absolutely sure I would receive help from my father.
A brilliant idea to wrap up the thatch in fabric and wind it around the frames of the four large baskets I was weaving. Followed by the standard cups of coffee that kept me going, and to be perfectly honest, sane.
Allowing a total stranger into your home, no questions asked because they are working alongside your stressed out child, and regaling them with tales of your numerous adventures.
Stranger now turned friend, whispers afterwards that my father has kind eyes. I agree at once, and I look at stranger now turned friend with new eyes in deep appreciation. Grateful for the reminder that I have access to that wonderful person we are agreeing on, and I can call him mine.
Having a mind full of flashes of steaming mugs sitting on the transparent centerpiece table, without a coaster. They should have a coaster, and the consequences are wet imprints that nobody cares about, until they become obvious and then it's a big deal.
It's having those mugs in your peripheral vision, hovering around watching my father re-iron my trousers because I truly don't care if they have double lines down the front as long as they are not wrinkled. He cares though, about the tiny little details.
It is seeing the mugs on the rug as he lays watching Facebook videos.
Catching his attention by standing in the doorway and saying, “Daddy, how do I get to Wuye/Lugbe/Suleja... from here?’, because I suck at directions, and he is a walking map of the world.
It is seeing him perk up immediately and start routing in his mind, then giving accurate directions which have never failed once. Not once.
Two mugs of coffee without coasters on the parlor table while we chat, standing or moving around. One mug is full of black coffee, and it is mine. His is creamy, but mine never is. The details are proof of love, because I am lactose intolerant and there's never any milk in my coffee.
Fin.
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