Wrinkle years

This is one of the few letters where I know the title before I start writing. Before I start to tell you this story of 56 years—23 out of it dipped in love, sacrifices and commitment—it is good to note that a tweet inspired this, 5 minutes ago at the time I wrote this.

The difference, this time, from the last 10 letters is that this took thought. It had to; if it didn't, it'd be a con.

Ready?

"Start small"

Those two words were the beginning of my emancipation. Said when I was an 18-year old passionate boy, my dad had just helped pay for what would become my first studio office.

I was finishing my 3rd year in University at the time.

I was relishing the space. As we walked in the front door—and I write this with a vivid memory—I started talking about my plans for the interiors. "I'd like to have 2 bean bags on the left" "There will be a grass carpet over there for games and rest" "We'll convert this room to a focus room" "I'll get a mural up on the wall there."

I still have these dreams by the way.

But my dad took everything in and gave back those two words, "start small". For an 18-year old dreamer, it wasn't what I needed at the time—or rather, I didn't want to hear that, not yet.

"Support me first", my unconscious grumbled.

2 years later, when I left my studio and I hadn't done a single thing in my interior design arsenal—I smiled as I signed the dissolution papers. Those two words were now my anchor entering this new phase.

"I am starting small", I told myself, "and this time, I'll try do it right".

I still dream big—and sometimes, very impulsive. Half of my ideas are half-baked, the other half are under-funded. But "start small" is one of the anchors when I'm lost at sea of what to do next. These two words only matter to me now, because my dad said them.

18 years ago, in 2003 before my dad would begin his 'side gig' as a director and state distributor for a publishing company, we were poor—not bottom barrel poor, but poor enough.

I have listened to this story more times than I can remember that I can repeat it word for word.

It was afternoon. My mum was teaching at a primary school. 3 years back, they'd just relocated to Akure for the Lord's work. Paul, my little brother, was throwing a particular book at me—and my dad hoping to save me from trouble took the book to keep.

And he glanced through to see what the book was about. He found out that the HQ was in Akure at the time, and he thought that he could be a distributor to states he had been in previously—Kogi and Kwara—and the HQ had no presence in those states.

Right after walking to my mum's workplace to tell her about his idea, he begun walking maybe 4/5/10 km to the HQ. He was 38 years old at the time. A bunch of conversations after, it worked out.

Few years down the line, and life got better.

And almost every week since 2003, my dad would travel every Wednesday and come back on Friday/Saturday, between 12 PM and 4 PM. When I was 10/11, I started traveling with him during the breaks—and I loved it.

As he sped across the Okene-Lokoja expressway, I'd make jokes about how the road was a driving school. The lorries were the assistant lecturers, the trailers were the professors, the Ebira drivers were the stubborn lecturers. Every time, we'd laugh.

Every time, as we approached, just after the turn from the Steel company at Ajaokuta, he'd say "we're about to start our class again" and top it off with a hearty laugh.

As I think about it now, his laugh had lines of worry. His customers owed him money, but his little boy needed to have the best time of his life at least. All of his boys needed to.

His office had an inner room as it was customary for most stores in Lokoja. That was where we slept.

One night out of three days, it'd be a full roasted chicken and Fayrouz. I always looked forward to it. At night, he'd tell me stories of the drunks we had in front of us, or of a particular event.

We'd laugh and gossip about his customers—especially the ones in Okene. Lol. We talked a lot about them, that I knew how the finance books were looking. I mastered the routes, their names and their headmasters. It was an unofficial apprenticeship.

September 2015, on a Sunday night, I called him.

"Dad, there is a course I'd like to learn—Graphic Design. There's Web Design too but I want to start with Graphic Design. It costs NGN 10,000".

When I played that day over in my head one time, I realised something. There was no NGN10,000 anywhere. It didn't exist at the time of the request.

Yet, a few weeks later, October 3rd, I officially started my design career—thanks to a NGN10,000 that came out from the blues. Lol. It's crazy to think about.

Everybody says they learnt a lot from their dads. They wouldn't be where they are without them. They won't be who they are without them.

For my dad, I think slightly differently. He's not the source of my achievements or my identity—even though he contributed to them well.

He's what makes me human—my humanity.

So when he said "start small", I know now that he wasn't dismissing my dreams. He was showing me how to achieve them—or achieve anything.

Standing at over 6ft, for 23 years, my dad juggled being a husband, dad, pastor and boss. His quiet demeanour usually mistaken for naivety complimented his assertiveness, which I once called "stubborn".

For every role he played, my dad was content—always starting small.

From the small gathering under a tree at Oke Aro for church services to a small cathedral with less than 100 regular members.

From directing two states to focusing on one state, and letting others in to independently own parts of the state alongside him.

From raising three kids with the voice of Zeus to chatting like our big brother, he learned to be a father as we grew.

From tapping my mum's leg underneath the centre table before their courtship to 23 long years of sacrifice and genuine happiness, he became the husband role model for me and brothers.

When I write my autobiography, my dad would fill 4 chapters and there'd be a lot of stories left unsaid.

But today isn't about "starting small". I wish it was. It'd have been enough.

Today is about my dad—whose smile, for 18 years, I didn't notice was mixed with wrinkle, worry, faith, hope, determination, discipline and learning.

Today, as I write this with teardrops and chuckles and laughter, I raise a toast to every wrinkle—over the years.

To Philemon Boro. Thanks t'Eda.

Ciao.

PS:

t'Eda is "father" in Oko, my native tongue. I'm from Ogori/Magongo by the way.

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