First Gentleman with Wilson Orhiunu
Email: babawill2000
As I stooped to wash the tyres of my car I experienced a flight of ideas. I was transported to my youth in Suru-Lere, Lagos, Nigeria. While some hip hop musicians might rap about being found in the Club, I do solemnly swear, I in those days could be found in the mornings washing my dad’s car. My thoughts continued as soapy sponge hit the metal till I reached a conclusion of gratitude. To wash your dad’s car daily you needed a few essentials which I was blessed to have.
For one, you needed a dad with the means to buy a car and you also need the type who comes home in the evenings having spent the day at work. This simple act of coming home every evening meant that I had a routine forced on me. It takes a whole village to protect a child and I was protected. As soon as his car turned the corner into our street friends would warn me and I would shoot upstairs at great speed to take refuge at the dining table pretending to read. Young friends looked out for you for they knew that you might suffer an ‘extra-judicial’ punishment if you were found playing downstairs when you should be ‘reading your books’. Sentencing was usually instant – brisk slap without trial. Guilty until proven very guilty!
Looking back, having domestic chores forced on you meant you had discipline. You learnt to do the house chores whether you felt liked it or not (incidentally very good training for street running in winter; what’s feelings got to do with it? (ala Tina Turner).
It was a good thing my dad knew the value of education. He also was a creature of routine. He did however cook up some laws and charged you without your prior knowledge about the existence of the said law. He explained the law after he had punished you. In those days the military government were in the habit of coming up with Decree Number XYZ as the mood took them and Nigerian parents were contaminated with this habit.
‘Do not speak pidgin in this house’ is one of those sudden laws you had explained to you after experiencing the shock of a brisk slap.
However, it was good to have a dad who was not in prison. Prisoners do not come home every evening. They earn no income in Nigeria and that would have meant certain penury for us.
Fast forward to 2000 and I am a dad of a young teenager. I noticed that things have changed. I still washed the cars and drove everywhere. The teachers have no power to tell the boys what to do but I look back at those days with gratitude. That is because my son was in a football team and there was a routine. Training mid-week and matches on Sunday.
There were times that the teachers or I could not get our ideas through to him but one person who could was the coach. If he substituted you, you came off the pitch. It was like being in the army. A player might not agree with the logic of being on the bench or being played out of position but you did what the coach said. ‘Authoritarian’? Yes! Good for young boys? Yes indeed!
I hoped I showed a good example in the things I did, but you always need outside institutions to reinforce what you say.
My dad in his time had the help of teachers in putting me on the straight and narrow. Teachers had so much power when I was in school.
I had other chores at home. I polished shoes till they reflected images and ironed clothes. Today my shoes are clean and my other nick name is Iron man. There is something about boring routine that seems to get embedded in your DNA. Having made sure my dad’s clothes were ironed all those years ago (I had no choice in the matter), I have now developed into a person who cannot stand wearing rumpled clothes.
I have come to see that a youth is but an apprentice without pay. He just does what he sees his father doing and gets stuck in doing what he was told to do from a young age. I remember once going on an errand for my dad. The person I was meant to see was out so I came home. He sent me back to sit and wait till he came back. My father was just not interested in excuses. I would have preferred a dad who had low standards. Who was not too strict, who did not expect so much from me and let me eat my meat before my rice. My father was my lot and it made me what I am today.
We never celebrated father’s day growing up. I did not even know the day existed. Looking back now every day was father’s day for me and my neighbours. In the block of flat where we lived each dad was nick named according to the first or last born son. The father of Johnny was called ‘Papa Johnny’ and that way little Johnny got his identity. Fathers were very powerful figures on our street. Once you saw a father’s car parked in the drive way you knew that your friends indoors would be on their best behaviour.
In summary, I was privileged to have a dad’s car to wash and a dad’s clothes to iron. Those were the first inoculations of a good work ethic that makes me unable to contemplate life without working today.
Without a father in the home the local gang leaders in some cases become the ‘father figures’ that fill in the gap. Being a gang member increases the chances of dying a violent death. Looking back that would have been my fate if I joined a gang. My dad would have killed me!
