//

Mr. Yamba watches Disney movies with me. He observed that, from young, I had a penchant for Arts and Entertainment , so he put me in choirs and drama and debate clubs. He taught me that word, penchant. I told him I wanted to become an actress when older, like Genevieve Nnaji, and he would rent out feature movies from Afa’s shop, and reenact specific parts with me. Blood Sister was his favorite. Mr. Yamba always says my eyes twinkle like the little stars. He kisses my forehead every night, and takes me on dates to my favorite spots, and buys me beignets and yogurts and parfaits. He is perfect. We share inside jokes usually, especially about the time Marie pronounced Filet filette. Mr. Yamba was born to be a wordsmith, that is what I often tell him. He efficiently whips up the most mellifluous poetic pieces in his downtime. He is the reason I write today. He reads my work, and although I hate how critical he gets of them, it is a blessing to have my hero read my work, and even with his sometimes cruel-and-unfair-to-me critique, he says he loves my work. My creative pieces remind him of a hungrier, more passionate, less money-driven Ivo, he tells me. He shares this work with his schoolmates, via a Whatsapp group, and asks for feedback. His friends praise my work every time, and I think one or two have subscribed to my blog, http://www.theramabelle.co. Lovely men. I call them “uncles.” Mr. Yamba works far, and he works hard. On his trips back, he regularly returns with Shea Butter and cloves from Ngaoundere. He whisks both ingredients together to create a supple, enriching concoction, and tells me to use on my skin. He often massages me with this minty, woody, calming blend. I massage him, too, particularly during our Saturday talks; when we decipher the innards and outards of life. He cooks meals with this mixture, too. He’s currently living the life of the Epicurean, so “everything sweet, everything earthy, everything delicious,” he boyishly recites, smiling as his beady eyes get lost in their lids. Additionally, he arduously believes this change in lifestyle has contributed to an extension in his height. This, from someone I have dubbed 2 meters. Mr. Yamba teaches me to be as welcoming as a toddler, as discerning as the bees. Mr. Ivo Yamba is bliss.

//

You were a brilliant, creative mind. You wrote books, and you waged and led wars. You taught and raised the country’s most important brains.

You drove me to school daily, me and my step siblings. You would pick me up from mom’s every weekend, and we would drive to Limbe, and Kribi, sometimes just stay at yours until Monday came searching for us. You would do your utmost best to visit me in Mankon, in school during Visiting Sundays, and when you could not, you would send a handwritten letter to me via mom, and she would read it to me as I struggled to drain the tear-filled buckets that became my eyes. Father’s day was not popularly celebrated where we came from, but because of you I wrote poems, and stories and bought gifts to celebrate the day. And today, I do same.

Scratch. Scratch that.

You were not there, you have never been there. In the deep of the night, when I’m suddenly awakened, and I feel like a bullet has been shot through my chest, that void is a result of the non-memory of you. To make this clear, you are the shot. When I pull my hair out, when I clench my fists, it is to escape the painting of you drawn up by my childlike imagination. Again to make it clear, you are the reason. You are reminder that mistakes are not evitable, that mistakes are inherent actions and that mistakes are intentional. That mistakes are an Achu stain, that not even bleach, not even American standard yellow-dye can cover. You represent a sadness, a monumental madness. And you, do I remind them of. But you, will I never become.

I am happy that I did not buy the gifts, and I am happy that I do not need to buy the gifts. Of what use, of what use would they have been? Do you recall the calls? Remember the messages? Of course you don’t, but where did those land me? Where did they land us? What even is us?

//

The Father never shuns me. The Father urges me to go, and watches out for every foe. The Father is a lit candle in an ENEO-stricken home. The Father is the shepherd, and I’m the sheep. I am the prodigal sheep, and the Father drops everything and everybody to look for me, and bring me home. And when the skies are a deep, intense blue, and the moon is its most pronounced visitor, I cry to the Father. And when my eyes are at rest, the Father, He watches over me like the king of the jungle does its clan. The Father has a tissue for every overwhelm. The Father, my chief, He hands me a handkerchief. A fichu. And the Father fills me with hope, with hope for Utopia, for heaven, my haven. And one day I will talk to the Father, in a purple-green crocheted garment on a mountain’s acme, as my face faces the clouds, and He will heed his daughter’s voice, and He will hug every hurt, and He will pamper all pain. The Father celebrates me when my enemies make a jester of me, and He humiliates them, as I watch, seated front row. The Father clothes the roses, and houses the eagles. The Father feeds the orphans, and directs the fish. How much more will He protect little ol’ me?

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Hello readers, this expression via chosen words is an insight into the writer’s mind – a perfectly rendered reading of her interactions with and expectations of who a father is and ought to be. A mirror? A friend, with you till the very end? An option? A let down? Solace? Soul’s place?

Rama Kem for The Ramabelle.