Hi Dad,

I hope you’re getting better. Odi mentioned your severe seizure. He says recovery is slow but steady. You’ll get there.

On my sunny balcony at the Albert Dock I sit and write. Sunshine’s a rare treat here as you know. It’s strange living in the same city as you now, we’re still settling in. I’ve thought of calling. There’s so much I want to ask you, to understand the man you were.

I can’t call. After all these years I’m still scared of being shut down. Scared you’ll use “respect and honour your parents!” as your trusty tool to end conversations you don’t like. It’s a tool that served you well on one hand but on the other, it’s stopped me being heard and stopped us bonding.

It’s been a long time since Glasgow. I left 12 years after you did, Odi may have mentioned that to you. I’ve never asked him if he did – not sure why.

I cling to the little joys we had; hand in hand, dropping Christmas presents off to aunties and uncles in Baliol Street, pausing so I could squidge the snow in my mittened hands. As a child, I knew we couldn’t afford much. Watching The Lion King and Toy Story on VHS as a family was so special. You getting me a wee Irn–Bru and Milky Way when you could pick me up from nursery was the best. You always nodded and said hello to the fellow black men you passed by. They did the same. I look back at this now with an older head on my shoulders, I didn’t understand it as an infant. The first time I saw you do it I thought they must be my uncles, but it happened a lot. As a school kid, I realised it was camaraderie before I even knew what that word meant. Did you feel isolated? Did you miss Nigeria? Mum did for sure. She’s been back a few times since you left. What a time we live in now where I can lock eyes with a fellow black person from afar, only for us to pretend not to see each other as we pass by.

You studied by day and did ad–hoc security shifts. Something always seemed to weigh heavy on you after work. You would sit in your old armchair in silence. Tufts of yellow foam would ooze out of it while you drank your McEwan’s lager cans. Then with no words spoken, you’d go to your bedroom and shut the door. Shutting out your family. Sometimes Mum would frown. I never saw affection between you and her. Not once. I’d cuddle Mum and stare at your bedroom door, sad my dad didn’t want to play.

Dad, what happened at work?

You told me, as a child, I would have to work twice as hard as my white peers. You were right by the way. This country’s not always a welcoming one. I’ve got a heavy chip on my shoulder because of work; rarely feeling enough, regularly feeling scrutinised, speaking out then being silenced and expected to be grateful. Did you face the same? If so, all that on top of trying to provide for your family. I can’t imagine. I was constantly angry with everything; our tense family dynamic, hostile work life, and my experiences as a woman that showed I had no idea what a decent man was. I finally did therapy. It was tough but crucial. It resulted in gaining self-love, self–respect, and the ability to communicate my feelings. I appreciate talking about feelings was not a norm you were afforded as a black man trying to make it in 90s Glasgow and why being highly educated was your North Star for us all. Understandably laziness was not tolerated. 90% wasn’t enough. Fear and hard work were what you instilled in us. It’s hard to shake off the fear. Is that what Grandpa instilled in you?

I admire Odi’s ability to have a relationship with you. I’ve consciously avoided that. Perhaps I’m immature or perhaps I was more exposed to your behaviour when you left. Or maybe it’s both. Odi was just a wee baby. I had to support Mum.

Vincent prompted me to reach out. Not because of anything he’s said, although “You should try to speak to your dad, he’s getting old, I just don’t want you to regret it” is said to me annually. Maybe it’s a bit about what he’s said but it’s mainly about who he is. Ireland, India, Guyana and Liverpool form his heritage. He’s thoughtful and supportive. He snuggles up to me when he needs comfort. He sees me. I reciprocate – he’s taught me about affection and its importance. His parents are partly responsible for this. There’s no fear in the home they’ve created. There’s hard work, but no fear. Instead, there’s communication, laughter, support, love, safety and that Scouse humour that I adore. It was an overwhelming family dynamic for me at first, but I’ve learned to embrace it.

I never met your parents. You mentioned they separated when you were young. You mentioned it only once when showing me photos but never mentioned how that separation affected you. Even though I’ve experienced this, I would still like to know how you feel.

Parents separated, bringing up kids with little money, navigating a new country as a person of colour, along with so much I don’t know about. Life must have pushed and pulled and strained and drained. But you achieved so much, despite your family being collateral damage along the way.

I’m open to hearing your side of the story if you’re open to sharing it. Writing may be hard for you now, so if you call I will listen. If not, while you recover your health, I hope you have healed from your hardships even if our relationship cannot.

With love,

Elo

Image credit: Christina Deravedisian