My thirst hasn’t been quenched – a father is an investor
Growing up as the only girl in the house came with the formation of a protection layer and investments. In my childhood days, I would always have to see my father before my eyes; his calm vibrant voice making long echoes in my ears. The way he used to call my name, it was like It was the first name he learnt to speak in his toddler days, “Rotenda! Rotenda!” Even now there can never be a day without such priceless calls.
I was only eleven when Dad became a thirst feeding scheme. One sunny afternoon, while I was seated under the avocado tree with my late grandmother, I just heard, “Rotenda!” Before I could respond, another “Rotenda” was uttered.
I quickly said, ‘”Aa! Baba.”
”May you quickly come here girl,” Dad said. It was the first time Dad called me to his rondavel, made up of mud bricks and roofed with thatching. I walked to my father’s house with so much freedom. Things changed when I passed next to a pawpaw tree, where there was a smelly hog pen occupied by three pigs and two newly born piglets.
”Dad, I am here,” I said as I entered my dad’s house.
“Rotenda, what were you doing there?” Dad asked while I opened his curved, old brown cupboard, full of both big and small books as well as countless papers.
“I was sitting with grandma, she was telling me tales,” I replied as I tried to hop up on a chair.
“Great. Whoaa, you don’t have to sit at all. I called you to give you these,” he replied giving me two books.
“Dad, these books, what are they for?” I looked surprised, wondering if he was about to send me to deliver them somewhere, as hot as it was.
“Rotenda, these books are yours. Go and read for your grandmother, and please close the door when you leave,” Dad said, with a smile on his face.
“Oh , thanks dad,” I said. I left and closed the door behind me as requested. I was indeed the happiest girl on earth.
“Grandma, Grandma,” I called my grandma with excitement. She didn’t bother to ask what the matter was, but looked at me with smile so I could break the news to her. “Look grandma, Dad gave me books to read for you,” I said happily. I got the opportunity to tell stories to her. In my mind I was like, ”Now it is my turn, she has been telling me stories without a break.”
As I was reading out loud, Dad came and joined us, both of them seemed indulged.
Father kept on investing in me with more books. My love for reading grew firm. The more I read, the more I wanted to read. It catalysed a desire to have a book with my name on one da; thus my reading journey built a writer at heart. All because of my father’s role, the very first family author came from scratches. Him introducing me to books influenced me to never want to be anywhere far from home where there were no books. I would always be found in books’ captivity. Even today my thirst hasn’t been quenched.
This was one of the commended entries in the My Father essay writing competition. Click here to read other excellent essays from the competition.