“Go to school, and make your own money so that when your husband gives you nyokonyoko, you can leave him for good.” Those were words my father would often tell me. This mainly happened as he dragged me with him to his escapades. In those days, going to an alcohol joint with your children wasn’t as frowned upon as in this era.
I was the lastborn and only daughter. My three older brothers were in boarding school. My father, a man of many colours, seemed to have a special fondness for me, which was ironic given our relationship was mainly characterised by his criticising everything I did. It was never good enough for him.
“Just like your mother,” he’d say. This was one of the less harsh statements from him. My mother and brothers bore the brunt of it. He made it no secret that he considered our mother a woman deficient in intellectual capabilities whose only virtue was ‘knowing her place’. She dared not speak back to him-my mother.
Not even when he paraded his other conquests in the little village town with three bars and four streets, if we’d even call them that. Everybody knew everybody. You could easily be sent to the butcher because the butcher knew the amount of meat your family often bought and whether to include fatty cuts. If you had too many bones, it was a message to your parents that they needed to clear their debt.
Despite my father’s transgressions, my mother served him dutifully. She worked harder for his approval. We all did. My brothers would never be caught in any cheeky business like many of their age mates. They worked hard to be perfect in the eyes of our father. We all did. He was well admired by his peers for his acumen in business, his extended family looked up to him, and he was a charmer. When my father showed you affection, you felt like the only thing that mattered.
Of course, such rare moments only happened when whatever you’d done reflected positively on him. Like when one of my elder brothers got national recognition in a school sports competition, he told everyone who cared to listen to him about it. Never mind that he had called his interest in sports a waste of time. “Useless” was a word thrown around a lot in our home.
Years later, I met Bob, a brilliant, charming man with a pleasant face to look at. He was well-known in our circles, but hardly anyone knew him outside of his professional capacity. We met at a conference. He was the keynote speaker. I was also one of the presenters during his session.
After the session, he complimented my presentation. His words ignited a feeling that was quite familiar. There were rumours that it took a lot to impress Bob, so I took to heart every word he said. That was my life for months after that first encounter. The compliment turned into a date, then a few more, and before I knew it, we were dating. I was dating ‘the Bob’.
Suddenly, many people in our industry treated me differently. While I had been making strides as a professional, I gained more respect because, given Bob’s reputation, I had to be worth something for Bob to date me. At the beginning, it felt great. I had ‘leapt forward’ at work, and I was dating a great man, the voice in my head approved—the voice being my father’s voice. This was the kind of thing that he would approve of. It didn’t matter that it had been more than ten years since I moved out of home; I still heard his voice in my head.
I moved in with Bob a couple of months after we started dating. The honeymoon phase quickly faded, exposing the cracks in our relationship. Suddenly, I couldn’t do anything right, according to him. I couldn’t make his eggs the way he liked them; I cut my ingredients differently from him, which was a problem, even though he ate whatever I served to the last spoonful.
Maybe, out of habit, I worked harder to please him when he corrected anything. I had had years of training. I watched how he did his things and replicated that, never asking for clarification when it didn’t make sense, because that would expose my intellect’s “deficiencies”. I didn’t want to alert Bob to that.
The harder I tried, the more I failed to meet his expectations. This extended even to my work. I looked up to him professionally, and his criticism mattered to me. My confidence took a big hit. I could hardly voice my ideas in the office unless I had mountains of data, so that it would work out. My supervisor noted the difference and talked to me about it. I couldn’t tell her what had changed because I hadn’t even made the connection.
Meanwhile, my relationship with Bob was headed south. I knew that he was cheating. I could tell that it wasn’t one woman because I found clues that hinted at it being different people. The two times I had actual evidence, I confronted him. He didn’t deny it and was very apologetic. In the moments of those apologies, I felt loved and wanted. I told myself he had a wandering eye because I wasn’t good enough, so I worked harder to be the perfect woman.
As I was toiling and moiling to be Bob’s perfect woman, my father died. I went home for a week as we prepared for his funeral. It was strange to be there without him. It felt odd not to have him give his opinion on the preparations. Yet, it also felt freeing. I felt bad immediately I acknowledged that feeling.
On the day of the funeral, three of his mistresses showed up. They wailed intermittently from the morgue to the grave site. Those not from our village must have thought they were family members. My father’s death was quick and shocking. He slept on one afternoon and never woke up. His mistresses seemed to be in a mourning competition. It was like they were still competing for his attention and approval. I looked at them with pity and disgust, and yet, I understood it.
I often turned to my mother as all this happened. She didn’t shed a tear. There was more fatigue and resignation on her face than sadness. She never once looked at her husband’s mistresses as they cried out loud and even rolled on the grass, except for when one of them, who was in a short skirt, fell. There were moments of chaos as the women looked around for a leso to cover her. I couldn’t read my mother’s expression.
My thoughts were cut short when Bob put his hand on my shoulder. His touch was like a switch. I imagined my father’s mistresses were like his mistresses. I wondered why my mother was so calm amidst the drama and humiliation. Why had she put up with it for years? Then I remembered my father’s advice on leaving a husband—like him was the silent part. He knew what he was.
I looked at Bob. He was my father. I knew what I had to do. Perhaps, those words were father’s greatest gift to me. It surprised Bob and everyone in our work circles when I left him. Their thoughts didn’t matter, though; my gut was suddenly calm. I wasn’t walking on eggshells daily. I could hear myself think, and I felt a bit of trust in those thoughts, for the first time in so long. Maybe it was the first time in my life. Erasing my father’s voice in my head has been a journey, but I’m grateful I didn’t replace his voice with Bob’s.
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