Jibola And His Daughter

By Dafe Ivwurie

Jibola rushed into the pub to catch up with one of the games of the just concluded English Premiership League. It was one of the high profile matches between two of the biggest teams in England. The pub was full with an eclectic mix of men – the bankers, the oil workers, the telecommunications guys, the neighbourhood lads, mobile policemen and security guards, who left their duty posts, artisans and of course some ladies to ensure that soccer is not gender biased and if you like, to keep the guys going.

The smell of cigarette and the smoke thereof was pervasive, almost choking. The white silky plume was sailing in the now musky air entangled with human perspiration; it was coming from every direction. What was also coming from every direction were all the swear words, the F words and the S words and the new inventions of suggestive words that seemed to define moments in the game in an uncanny way. Men (and women, too) say all sorts when they are under the influence, more so, when the influences are alcohol and the adrenalin that comes from such high octane and passionate encounter between rival teams.

Jibola did not come alone. He came with his daughter. She should be about 10; pretty young thing with very inquisitive eyes. She came dressed like her father in the colours of one of the teams, which her father supports, obviously. Suddenly, all eyes that noticed their entrance turned away from the television screens positioned strategically around the bar, to the direction of the father and daughter.

In no time the ladies in the pub and some of the men stampeded and yelled Jibola out of the bar for his wrong judgment and lack of discretion and circumspection. A silly looking guy, who I could not tell whether he was drunk or excited over nothing, actually quoted a Bible passage: “Train up a child in the way that she should go and when she grows up she will not depart from it.” His argument was that Jibola was teaching his daughter to be a supporter. A few voices and heads mumbled and nodded in agreement. I was shocked. I was scandalised on their behalf.

Since when has a pub filled with misbehaving men become a playground for a 10-year-old impressionable girl? Alas, Jibola did not see the point, until someone told him that the only places you can take a girl to at such tender age is the church, the bookshop, a family picnic and her friend’s birthday party, not a booze parlour filled with people who have come to vent in the most offensive language you can imagine.

I am not a father and may not understand the relationship between parents and children, but I had a father who, by all means, I refer to as a role model in some things, that I still find it hard to engage in certain things just because I think the old man will turn in his grave when he sees me engaging in them. But trust me, I’d rather not be a chip off the old block when I look back at some of the things he did, too.

There is something in your subconscious that holds on to things you picked while growing up at home, in church, in school, in the hood, from your parents. This does not explain why some children of pastors and imams are far away from what their religious parents teach. The mind of a child naturally explores possibilities; so the opportunities we expose them to provide veritable grounds to imagine scenarios as they grow up.

I was unfortunate to have seen drugs at a very early age in secondary school. I mean, addictive drugs like cocaine, marijuana and one that they called Chinese capsule. If you must know, I only saw, I did not take. I did not take for a very simple reason; because my father told me that “if you take it, you will go mad” and gave me countless examples of so-called role models of my days who were messed up by drugs. The option of being mentally deranged was not appealing to me, but I doubt if it was my strong will that saw me through the excitement, attractive and adventurous escapades of my peers. I got drunk once out of curiosity on a mixture of palm wine and stout at the age of 15. My siblings and cousins had to lock me up in a room in the BQ till I got sober. The feeling was bad and nasty and I still wonder why anybody would want to live permanently on the edge with a hangover. I think I prefer my red wine, which the doctors say is good for the heart (and the bones, too?).

I wonder what story Jibola must have told his daughter if she asked “daddy, why did they ask us to leave?” or “daddy is that place a bad place?” as they left the pub. I wonder where they may have gone to that afternoon. I wonder what impression about good judgment and fatherly love may have been etched on the girl’s mind. I am positive that the girl must have some mind boggling interminable whys which she may not even ask but which she may explore in the fullness of time.

Perhaps, we did a good thing for Jibola and for his daughter, because I guess that the impression of men belching beer and swear words and making suggestive and lewd remarks would be heavy on the poor girl’s mind. Who knows what images her inquisitive mind would have painted thereafter? We may never know.

Today’s children know too many words at 12, which I am ashamed to say I did not know when I was 15 and I thought I was hip. How did the words French kiss, wet kiss, lap dance and threesome get into the vocabulary of teenagers or am I getting old?