Title: His Embrace
Author: Thelma E
The pastor handling the deliverance session was a tad grumpy and melodramatic, acting like God pulled him by the neck to become one. He smelt like old clothes packed in a ghana-must-go with no camphor:
Although I knew he wasn’t as genuine as he thought him to be, I went anyways to please him. I watched as he pushed my brother to the ground in the name of demon possession, he held on to me tightly after I brought out the olive oil forced down my throat saying it was over and the evil spirits no longer had control over me. I was going to tell him I wasn’t being controlled, the oil only upset my tummy but I didn’t, I enjoyed the choke-y feeling.
Fragments of the events that occurred at the local hospital was still fresh in my memory box. His clinging to my brothers limp body on the bed. I understood why he cried so much after he had prayed much, nursed and looked after him for over a month cursing why no one had a cure for sickle cell with no sleep or rest, he couldn’t just stay alive for him even if it was for a few more years, he just died like it was okay leaving him to secure what was left of his emotions but almost sending the doctor into a coma. I knew it was my turn that night to hold him really tight and tell him it was going to be fine though I knew a part of him was never going to return.
I was in the kitchen hearing shouts from the corridor, he came in and stood behind me I thought he was just being silly before I looked over seeing the bruises on his hands and face, he wrapped his arms around me that night, sobbing and squashing me to himself, telling me it wasn’t her fault. I often wondered whose it was then, seeing no one in their right state of mind would casually want to be an alcoholic. I knew he covered up a lot of things for her, and also wondered why he never sent her away rather than cleaning up after her, so I didn’t blame him when I became a wedge between the both of them, he only tried to build a responsible image of someone that didn’t care what was thought about her. In that moment I knew I would never forget how to feel this way. To be held on to firmly.
So now I’m standing here, looking at his face, really dark and oily nothing like that man who taught me how to persevere, divide and conquer or that man with a strong grip that had abundant love and a pure heart. He was laying in this box lifeless, but still effortlessly handsome, running my fingers through the palm that once corrected and comforted me. There he was, My Father, My rock. I almost died when he went away but yet in death he remained my strength and my firm believer.
This post was inspired by a tweet I saw. It stated and I quote “Are Dad’s overrated or underrated” shockingly majority of the answers were the former. So what’s your opinion? Though sometimes on the low, in some cases, unknowingly, The Dad’s do the most.
@iAteThelma_ reporting for Alariwo.Org
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