Ode to My Father- (OTF)

As you may recall, I am working on my first book “OTF” – Please enjoy the following excerpt:

Dad has always been a fascinating character, so weekends were very movemented in our household. On Saturdays, he would “sleep in”, which for him meant waking up at 9a sharp, such a waste of sheets. He’d wake up and wear a Gitenge House Robe with matching Gitenge House Shoes. This was the early 2000s in Kigali, right after they fake-prophetized the World was ending, and well before Afro-Fashion was fully in. His friend had opened a boutique and patronize, he had.

He’d start the day by accidentally waking up the whole house with loud off-key singing. He loved those boring songs from the green book “Indirimbo zo Gushimisha Imana – Indirimbo zo Kuramya.” By this time, he had stopped believing in organized religion, but he never stopped praying with us. His prayers were never lamentations either, always gratitude. In addition to that, every Saturday morning, without fail, he’d give us a warning about not getting pregnant. He’d say “Boys are bad. I know because I was one. A boy and a girl will both mess up but only the girl will suffer the consequences. Pregnancy is not a thing you can hide.” He was raising four girls alone, I imagine a lot kept him up at night.

Around 10a, he’d make it to the living room and a host of family members would be waiting for him. They would always greet him with “Papa Sandrine, we were in the neighborhood…” I later came to understand, this was code for, “things are tight financially, help us out.” This is the African way, whoever makes it first in the family is in the obligation of helping the others. Academically known as “Black Tax”. Dad never complained. He’d welcome them, and we’d have breakfast together. I do recall some of them being haters of mine… They’d say “Chouchou, you are an undisciplined child, So aravuga, nawe ukavuga — Your father speaks, and you speak?” After their departure, dad would explain, “traditionally, a father is to be feared; you laugh too much in my presence, it confuses them.” Then, we’d spend the rest of the day at Cercle Sportif, kids swimming, adults by the poolside eating brochettes and drinking Stella Artois. After which, we’d pass by the vidéothèque, near Kiyovu petrol station, to rent couple movie DVDs.

On Sundays, he would drive us to church while engaging in fascinating monologues about the ills of society and how the church does little to solve them. He’d say “Chouchou, aya matorero yose narayagenze, nasanze nari naribeshye —— I have been a member of most churches in Rwanda, something is off.” Still, he insisted on driving us every Sunday because he didn’t want to block our spiritual journey. He wanted us to come up with our conclusions. Once, the choir sent me home because my dress was allegedly see-through. Dad laughed uncontrollably and blurted out “Iyi Ngutiya?” Funny enough, a decade later, he embraced religion again. Finding out JW was the only denomination that did not kill in 1994 Genocide Against Tutsis moved him. I often tease about not seeing him on the side of the road with pamphlets evangelizing like others do; he tells me “We do what we can, my daughter…”

Weekends were also a time to advise housekeepers on how to start small businesses, “Umuntu akaba yazagura nk’inka, cyangwa n’ingurube – ninazo zihenduka”, I’d hear him say. The previous housekeeper, his pride and joy, went on to open 2 mini “Alimentations”, build a house, marry, have twins, and now is the family vendor for every weddings/major event. Dad told this story to every person he employed. He understood these jobs as necessary for the local economy, but he always felt a burden for people having to dedicate years and years to work & live with us.

He’d say “Chouchou, she is 19, much older than you, frankly much more hardworking than you, why should YOU have a higher level of education ?…” Sometimes, he’d try and put them in school, but often they’d refuse because faced with more immediate needs. Come to think of it, in their home village, they too must have faced a “black tax”… Years later, I came to understand the meaning of privilege when I found myself in America on a college campus debating the privilege white families have over black families. Privilege is not merit. Is it luck? Fate? I don’t know but it is not earned through hard work or ability. Dad found others ways to help. Seasonally, we were made to sort through our clothing and share with Assiah, our beloved Muslim housekeeper who had children our age. The truth is, dad gave us such a happy childhood, it never occurred to us we didn’t have a mom!