Of many children, I wish to be a father. Not outside wedlock, but a responsible one, on the bond of Holy Matrimony.
I am talking about five children of mixed sexes. I want them all, both male and female. I want to watch them run towards me when I return from work. I want them to jump all on me, making a mess of my clean shirt with their sand-dirty hands. My last born who may be unable to run as fast as his older ones shall be crying when they leave him behind to gift me a welcome embrace.
I shall drop his older siblings, walk towards him and carry him unto my caring arms.
I will ask him,
“So they left you behind because you can’t run like them, right??”
He will nod affirmatively, sobbing.
“So sorry my dear, they are jealous of you. Don’t mind them. They know that you are my favorite, that is why they don’t want you close to me, but we shall prove them wrong, okay?” he will nod and smile and put a piece of biscuit in my mouth.
I will clip on the biscuit with my teeth and chew and smile at him.
I want to listen to my children argue. That will make me tell the variations in their IQ. They will argue and disagree. One will say,
“If you doubt me, let’s go and ask Daddy,” the other will say
“Okay let’s go! We shall see who will win.”
I want one to come to me and say,
“Daddy, our Aunty said we should buy Toilet Roll and Soap or bother not about coming to school tomorrow.” And I shall say to her,
“Tell that your Aunty that your father, Ajike Obasi said he will not buy anything, and that if they are strong enough, let them send you home and prepare for what shall befall the school.”
I want to attend PTA meeting and argue with the School management and other parents. I and other intellectually controversial parents shall disagree with, and disregard many constructive suggestions until the meeting will be adjourned.
As expected, some of my children shall misbehave. I will be ready. I shall not spare the rod. I will be ruthless. When I chase them around, flogging them, the smarter ones will elude me and escape, but I shall viciously throw the rod at them as they make their ways out of the house. They will take refuge in my neighbor’s home that day. When they come knocking at night, I will ask them to go back to where they’re coming from. I shall not let them in until their mother begs on their behalf. And I will still punish them.
When I stand in a wrapper tied around my waist and walk towards the TV, trying to concentrate on the news, and one of them storm into the sitting room, protesting, “Daddy! Daddy! Ikenna is chasing me and beating me!” I shall immediately cast him out of my presence and continue listening to my news.
I shall gather them every Saturday morning to tell them stories, ancestral and funny stories. On holidays, we will visit beaches, amusement parks, museums, and libraries.
My dress code shall evolve. I will always dress in trousers, pulled up to my belly, a well-polished pair of shoes and well-designed shirts. I shall always be spotted, wearing spectacles and reading newspapers held apart by fingers of my hands, amongst which one shall wear like a ring, my car keys.
My many children shall be my seeds, spread about and scattered around all walks of life. They shall remain here to carry on my works when evening shall come.
I want to be a father.