The day my father died, a part of me died. You would wonder how that could happen. He wasn’t my partner—no, of course not. He was my father and friend. I could see all that he did—his dedication to work, to the church, and to us, his children, and his wife. There are countless times I have seen him sacrifice his last bits of money for us. He gave us his time too and never missed anything that had to do with us. That is no easy feat.
I worked hard at my studies, knowing I would like to repay him and my mother someday. Every time I find myself exhausted during my undergraduate days, thoughts of how hard he and my mother worked come to mind, and I suddenly find myself able to stay awake and read.
My father and I fought a lot. I am sure there were times I acted like the teenager I was, and he got upset. After the fights, he would buy me my favourite drink, chicken, or hot catfish pepper soup.
I lost a huge part of my motivation when he died. I have yet to completely mourn him because I know it will crush me and leave me incapacitated for days. He died, and I saw my mother and my sisters breaking apart before my very eyes. He was loved by a lot of people, and a lot of them—people that we had never even seen before—came from different parts of the world to offer their condolences. It hurt so much.
I already knew that he was an amazing man, but I discovered that he was even more amazing after he died. He served God and people until he died. Even with all his pride and integrity, he was humble and down-to-earth. My heart shattered again.
‘How would I do it, Dad?’, I asked myself a few weeks after he died.
‘This support you’ve given us, serving us even though it was uncomfortable for you—how would I do it?’
‘I haven’t even graduated yet. I didn’t know what I would become or what I would do to survive’. These were the thoughts that crossed my mind, and I couldn’t scream out my frustration and sadness.
‘How would I support my mother and my sisters? Where do I start?. I was so busy thinking about these things and staying strong for my family to properly mourn him.
The people who came around would say, ‘You’ve got to be strong for them now’.
‘Your father was a kind man’.
‘You’re now the father of your siblings. You are your mother’s husband now’.
‘You have to be strong. You cannot break down’.
‘They will look to you for guidance and direction’.
‘You’re the next head of the family’.
‘Support your mother’.
‘Don’t let her feel the loneliness of losing Clement’.
Arrrgh! No one gave a damn about how I felt, though. I lost the person I looked up to. My number one supporter and fan. My friend. I had to lock all those feelings up and keep moving.
It is true that my motivation died when he did, but knowing I have people to care for and support—people I do not want to disappoint—my mother and sisters—I started to put in the work. I gave it my all. I gave all I could, and I will still keep giving. The happiness they feel knowing that I am there for any kind of support that they need is so important to me. It makes me feel content and motivated to do more. I will continue to be better for them.
My immediate younger sister said this to me some months ago over a phone call: ‘We see all that you do. You’d rather make sure we are satisfied even when you’re hungry and your clothes are in tatters. You always give yourself the barest minimum, although it is your right to give yourself the best. We all see it. I see it. You have raised the bar so high, and now that I have a decent job, I can support you too’. I cried after that call, and I am writing this tonight with tears in my eyes.
What other thing can motivate me more than what she said to me? My family is more than enough motivation for me.