Many Years Later, I’ve Become the Witch Father

Photo by gaspar zaldo on Unsplash

It is the second year anniversary of my father’s death, and of all the memories I have of him, the one that comes to mind today is that of a short trip we once took from our small home town of Ondo State to neighboring Akure in south-western Nigeria.

A Father/Son Moment

At the time, my first driver’s license was a couple of years old. It was the age of roaring passion for beards, women and the wheel. It was also the period of endless errand requests from parents who were happy to be absolved of some of their responsibilities. Incidentally, it was also the time of adolescent fervor and that rebellion that marks the onset of independence.

That fateful day had started off with my father giving what seemed like a half-hour lecture on the benefits of driving safely. I rolled my eyes for the most part of his speech because I’d been driving my mum for years prior, and I had a 3-hour out-of-State trip under my belt visiting my younger brothers in boarding house.

My father’s pre-drive speech, albeit well-intended was unnecessary.

Little did I know that this innocuous admonition would lead to a non-stop prattle that bookmarks our shared memory to date. This event remains one of the few times I have defied his authority, only coming second to my vehement stand…