On Days Like This

It's been almost a decade since your dad died, but you remember it as if it were yesterday. He was wearing his navy blue polo (the one with bleach marks on it) over a pair of jeans so faded that you had forgotten its original colour. It was his habit to wear a particular set of clothes so much till they were worn out, even though he had several other clothes to choose from."Enwere fault na transformer. Kam ga amezi aya. Anam a bia." There's a fault with the transformer. Let me go and fix it. I'll be back. "Those were his last words to you before he slung his work bag over his shoulder and walked out the door. But whenever came back. Oh, wait. He did come back- in a hearse. You remember his funeral. When his body was brought in, you wanted to see him for the last time. Those who wanted to see the ozu were in a queue. They went around the corpse in an anticlockwise motion, then went out the door. You joined the queue, quietly moving as the line moved. The coffin was white and had golden carvings shaped like petals at the sides. It had its lid open and was placed on a table at the centre of the room. It reminded you of a white grand piano. As you drew closer to the coffin, you could see him. He was dressed in the same suit like the one in the picture of him and Mama on their wedding day, his wedding suit. He looked white. When you asked Mama why, she explained that it was because of the embalmment at the mortuary. You knew what embalmment was, yet you imagined him being caked with layer upon layer of the liquid foundation Mama used for her makeup. His face was smoother than it used to be. He didn't have the lines at the corners of his eyes that appeared whenever he smiled. The three folds of skin that looked like miniature ridges on rich loamy soil etched on his forehead had disappeared. He looked calm, peaceful and young. You could swear he was just having his regular nap, except for the heavy attire and the small white cotton balls in his nostrils. You wanted to reach out and touch him, but your hands remained at your side, unable to move. You wanted to call out to him, but your throat felt dry and your tongue heavy. You could feel the tears stinging behind your eyes, threatening to escape. So you blinked several times to hold back the tears. Mama had said you shouldn't cry so that the village people wouldn't poison you with their fetish charms in the pretext of wiping your tears. They were not to be trusted, she had told you. You wished he would get up and hug you tight and tell you that he had actually been electrocuted, but he had fought through high tension electricity and forced his way back to life so he could return to you and Mama. But then you walked out the door with the rest of the procession, and he didn't stir. You didn't cry that day and the day after that. Now you cry all the time because you think of him all the time. The only picture you had of him-a passport photograph you detached from his employee appointment form -was ruined in an unexpected rainfall while you were returning from school. All you have now to remember him by is the mirror. So you gaze at it all the time. When you look in the mirror, he's there. Your lips are just as thick as his but more effeminate and almost as black as his but a shade lighter. Your nose is just as flat as his but smaller. Your eyes, just as tiny and as bright as his but softer. You don't use makeup for fear of detracting from the semblance to him, which you so cherish and hang on to. You know you shouldn't dwell on the past, but you can't help but wonder how different life would have been were he alive. You beam when people address you as Adannaya-her father's first daughter-because you like to be associated with him in every little way. When you try to solve a math problem and get stuck, you cry because he isn't there to help you out as he used to. Ond ays like this, when the tears bite, you let them. When your vision blurs because of the cloud of tears forming before your eyes, you don't blink to hold them back. You let the tears pour. And when people ask why you look gloomy on such a sunny day, your lips reply, "I'm fine, "but your heart says, "My dad died on a day like this." Dayo looks nothing like your dad. Besides the dark skin, they couldn't be more different. His lean stature and bulgy eyes are a far cry from your dad's toned muscles and tiny eyes. You look at him and smile. You've been smiling more often lately, and you know it is because of him. When you first met on the tracks, you had grazed your shin, and he had offered to help. "How will it heal when you're petting it? If you're the one gansef, and someone is treating you well like this, will you go? Stretch the leg. Put your weight on it. Don't be doing like pepeye," he had said. You smiled, your first smile in a very long time. You didn't know what pepeye meant, but it sounded funny. He was Yoruba; you could tell from the way he pronounced "how" as "aw" and "heal" as "eel". He makes you happy, and that's the most you could ask for." Dad would have loved him," you think to yourself.

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