“How did I get here?”
My breath’s cold— and the air, chilling. Above me, the stars light up the sky. It’s a beautiful night like any other. But in front of me stands the Mediterranean.
“How did I get here?” I said to myself. My legs shiver — buried in wet sands as the water fiercely beats against them. It was almost like the waves dared me to take another step. Fear gripped me. Standing here, on the edge of the Mediterranean in Ganapoli, Libya, I questioned my very existence and my reason for embarking on this journey.
Not far from me stood a floating raft ready to carry the hopes and dreams of young men and women across to Europe. But my fear kept my feet stuck in the sand. As I gazed with teary eyes, I’m dwarfed by the vastness and endlessness of the sea.
They say, “it takes a great fall to know where you stand.” How great, therefore, must that fall be to force a man to have the courage to confront his biggest fear? Standing here, in front of the Mediterranean sea with nothing but a raft — no life jacket, I’m hit with the realisation, that somehow, it was inevitable that I’ll find myself here. Like it was meant to be.
I wasn’t born with a silver spoon — In fact, I was born with no spoon at all. Growing up, I watched my parents struggle to make ends meet. Few months before I was born, my dad joined the police. He knew his family was starting. And to take care of his wife and kids, he’ll need a stable job. So he left his pregnant wife behind and moved to the city for his training.
With sparing visits from my dad in their five years apart, my mom did all she could to support herself and the baby growing within her. While pregnant, she farmed. Alone, she’ll hawk her produce in the market. Until my dad was able to bring us — his wife and three sons over to the city with him.
The city was a step up from life in the village. With every passing month and year, you could see that this man, my father, is up to something. He lived meticulously, with purpose in heart and plan in hand. He dedicated himself to lift his family from the dust of privation.
Shortly after arriving in the city, I was enrolled in a pretty good school. Far better than the one in the village. I remember my mom being concerned about the expensiveness of the school. His response was, “there’s no better foundation I can lay for my children than a sound education. And if it’d cost me to wear rags and work for a fellow man, to sponsor my kids, I’ll do it gladly.”
With that, my mom humbly supported the man she married. This was why she married him. He was principled, honest and committed. If he gives his word, you can take it to the bank. He was that type of man.
We never had everything we wanted, but we had everything we needed. He worked hard. And we all saw it. I believe that was the source of our contentment. We knew if they said “no,” they genuinely don’t have it.
Prosperity comes in stages with the right management. And my dad though lacked the education of any tertiary institution, had the wisdom of one who has suffered and hustled in the street. He spent wisely and invested guardedly.
His sole focus was to provide the life he never had for us. And for a time, I’d argue he did. But a little bit too late.
When we left the village in 1995, we had nothing. But through sheer will and determination, my dad took us from living in a one-room apartment to living in a three-bedroom flat. He bought land and started building his own home. Sadly, a home that his wife, my mother, would go on to complete without him.
He was too good for this earth. While he struggled to keep us living comfortably, he also had his siblings and relatives who depended on him for shelter, food and guidance.
For as many who came to him, he didn’t turn away.
He wasn’t perfect and had his own vices. He smoked! A lot! He often drinks which never ends well. And when his drinking and smoking began to threaten his home and marriage, he gave them up. Something I learned from him that’s stayed with me, is his capacity to take responsibility for his actions.
He made me understand that being a man doesn’t mean not making mistakes. Rather, a real man takes responsibility for his actions and correct them.
Sometimes I wish life was fair. I wish it was a world where people get what they deserve. When I hear people speak of karma and all that bullshit, I scoff. If only you’ve seen what I’ve seen and lived through the things I’ve lived through. Very rarely do good people get what they truly deserve.
In fact, in my place, they have a sad saying that, “good things (referring to people), do not last.” So was the case for my dad.
And so one day… on a normal Saturday morning, some family members came over. Seeing them, I knew something was terribly wrong. And indeed, it was. They brought the news that my dad… the wonderful man who left for work the day before, waved us goodbye and whom we hoped for his return this morning, was dead. It was a hit and run accident.
I remember seeing my mother collapse once after she heard it. The sky fell on my family that day. The sun hid her face. My heart broke into a thousand pieces. I cried! Words could not express the feeling. A wife turned into a widow and her kids were made fatherless. In that very instance, our future became uncertain.
As the days went by, and I’d be doing something, say reading a book, all of a sudden, my mind would start to roam. Like it remembers that something terrible happened, but somehow can’t recall what it is. I would close the book and try to remember what it is. Then it’d come, “your dad is dead.” I’d break down and weep again.
This happened for many years as I grew out of my teenage years. It took me a long time to start to live normally again. I suffered emotionally and had PTSD for years.
My father’s death was the bitterest pill to swallow. His death changed everything. A family, slowly rising out of poverty and hardship, was plunged right back into the dust of all he struggled to raise us from.
He was here — and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone. It was never brought up for negotiation. It happened, and I have to accept it. The pain of death can not be expressed in words. You never know until it hits you. It’s a scar, that never disappears. A void that you’ll never fill. Memories you’ll never be able to erase.
The next time I got to see my father, was in the mortuary. He was immaculate save for a line of darkened blood from his nostril. Which the doctor said was the cause of death, internal bleeding.
And so ended the life of the man who raised me and taught me everything I know. He taught me to be a good man — to say “No Ma’am” and “Yes Ma’am.” To add “very much” to every thank you.
To say a prayer of appreciation before every meal. To be kind and fair to all — both young and old. To give more than I take — to be respectful and to live civilly.
So ended the life of the man who made me love blues and jazz. He taught me to relish the poetic melody of Phil Collins and Celine Dion. To appreciate the lyrical sagacity of Bob Marley, Lucky Dube and Eric Donaldson.
And so ended the life of one of the simplest, modest and greatest men I’ve ever known — my father.
. . .
The waves beat hard at my legs — as if to scold me on the significance of where I stood. This moment, right here on this beach, is a key point in my life — a confluence.
Everything before now has brought me here; my father’s death and my dropping out of school. The death of my brother. The late-night tears of a widow trying to keep it all together — left alone to cater for four children.
A strong woman, who though this memoir isn’t for, nonetheless, stands as the inspiration behind the author whose ink pens these words. All these paved the way here. They’re all that I’ve known.
But across the Mediterranean, lies all that I could become and all that I’ll come to know.
In this heart, there’s fear, grief and tears. But beneath it all, there’s hope. Hope beyond these shores. The same hope Colombus had in him as he sailed the ocean in search of a new world. The same hope Abraham Lincoln carried about as he paced the oval office for General Lee to surrender to bring the civil war to an end.
Death has brought me here. My father’s death set things in motion that has led me to these shores. A death that ended one life but began another’s. A new chapter is about to unfold. What lies beyond these shores and its wave? We’re about to find out.
