Man, What does it feel like to celebrate your dad? I imagine it must be a good feeling.
Personally, I’ve never really had the chance to celebrate mine. Not because he’s dead—he’s alive and well—but because I never truly knew him. All I remember is that we moved from our birthplace when we were very young. My mother took us to her parents, and they became our caregivers. In a way, I grew up distant from both parents. I didn’t really see my mother often, and I didn’t know my father at all. So I guess I became like an orphan, even with both parents alive.
At eighteen, after finishing high school, I had never met my father and barely thought about him anymore. My grandparents from my dad’s side called us to come see them because apparently the grandfather was about to die. I remember arriving at their place and a man stood close to me. I had no idea who he was. So I asked the adults we were with, “Who is this?” My aunt looked at me and said, “That’s your dad. You don’t know your dad?”
I was like huh? What do you mean I don’t know my dad? I stood there confused because I genuinely didn’t.
The strange thing is, even after realizing who he was, I couldn’t bring myself to call him “dad.” How do you call a stranger your father? That day, I remember feeling pity for him, for missing out on his own children, and also pity for myself, because I wished things had turned out differently.
Even before all of that, whenever we didn’t have enough money, my mother would say, “Si mpigie baba yenyu, mmwambie hamna pesa.“(Call your father and tell him you don’t have money). If I had a shilling for every time she said that, I would have gathered a small fortune. And every time I heard it, I got sick to my stomach. How do you call someone who has never been present in your life, all your life just to ask him for money? It reached a point where I told my mother, “I will never do that.” And that was always countered with, “Si ni baba yenu.” ( But he is your father). You know, if I had a gun…
It went on for a long time and even to this day she still says it. There was one time we were arguing and she always finds a way to rub it in our faces that we have a loser for a father. She says, “Baba yenu hawezi wasaidia. Mimi nimeshinda nikimuitisha pesa ya school fees na hawezi tuma.” (Your father can’t even help you, I’ve been asking him for school fees and he never sends anything). I was at my limit. I told her, “That is the father you chose for us, so deal with him. Please don’t ever tell me to ask him for money, and if he dies, just know I will not be attending his funeral.”
That was earlier this year. Even though my mother still uses us as a channel to reach our father, I stopped engaging a long time ago.
Even if I called him today, he wouldn’t know whether we finished school. He doesn’t even remember our names. But somehow, village news always carries back to us how he brags that he has children in university. Every Father’s Day, every time I see people online posting about their wonderful dads, I find myself wishing that was me. I ask myself, why was I denied the chance to have a father who is present?
My sisters and I would always say, “If our dad had been a good man, we wouldn’t be struggling like this. We would have our own home. And whenever someone said we were bragging about our father’s money, we would proudly say yes.” But no. Nothing like that can happen. And it genuinely pains me that my father is alive and simply does not care about his children. I am angry that my mother chose him. Which, honestly, sucks.
I heard my dad is a drunkard. He drinks himself to the ground and takes out large loans just to fund it. Whenever my mum hears about this, she makes sure we know what he’s been up to. “Instead of helping me, he’s out drinking?” I don’t know what she expects us to say. My sister and I once told her some things are out of her control and she needs to move on. Sometimes we’d look at each other and wonder; what did our mother ever see in a drunkard?
Yesterday was Father’s Day, and my mother posted about her father and celebrated him. Her father sends her a little money when he can. And yesterday I caught myself asking, why does my mother get to celebrate her father when we don’t get to celebrate ours? It was unfair. I sat with that question for a while and realized it came from a place of jealousy. And I don’t want to fully blame my mother for my father’s absence, but partly, it is her fault. For choosing a partner who didn’t show up. It was a poor decision that ended up shaping all of us.
What I don’t understand is why children who grew up without their fathers are still pulled into this celebration even indirectly, simply by being surrounded by people who have fathers. Every Father’s Day feels like it quietly reopens wounds that you secretly wish could be miraculously healed. And for mothers left behind, there is also the weight of explaining to their children why their father left, or is no longer around. It is hard on both sides.
Even when a father chooses absence, it is the mother who is left to shape how the children feel about that absence. And sometimes, as a child, you find yourself caught in the middle of adult decisions and conflicts. Sometimes you even hear your mother speaking negatively about your father, and you wonder why you are the one carrying that emotional weight.
I genuinely believe a father plays a critical role in a child’s life; emotionally, socially, in the kinds of relationships we build with men as we grow, or in the kind of man a child becomes.
I sometimes look at a girl I know, posting about her dad; out getting drinks together, travelling, laughing, and then later posting about her boyfriend, fully at ease in that relationship. And I wonder: does she ever overthink love? Does she ever fear getting attached? Does she ever spiral with anxiety in a relationship? And then I think — oh. She has a great dad! At least, that is what I see. And I say, man, I wish that was me. I wish I could step into a relationship without all the weight. But, oh well!
I like my surname, Mapati. It is my father’s name, and it is the one thing about him I do not dislike. I remember sitting with my aunts once, going around sharing our names and our goals for the new year. I was in Form One, still eighteen. When it got to me, I said, “My name is Suzanne Mapati”, and from the kitchen I heard my mother say, with pure disdain, “You’re saying Mapati as if he has ever supported you.”
That made me want to use that name even more. Every single time. To this day, I do not introduce myself with my other names. I use my father’s name, not to carry him, but because it is mine too. I carry the name. And to me, it represents something I want for myself: wealth, growth, and a different future. So, well; thanks for that, I guess, Dad.
I deeply admire fathers who are genuinely present for their children. And I admire mothers who make the choice to give their children two present parents. Growing up is complicated, and sometimes parents lose their emotional connection with their children along the way, simply because they don’t know how to maintain it, but I still hope things become better for families like these.
For those who have a father who doesn’t care, or who has been absent, I hope you know that his absence is entirely on him. He chose it. That is not your weight to carry.
To all the fathers who are actively present in their children’s lives, I believe that is one of the greatest gifts a person can give. To themselves, and to their child.
Happy Father’s Day to those with present, loving fathers. And for the rest of us, well… oops!
