The preparations for the burial began, and amidst all the commotion, my dad arrived. Seeing him brought unexpected joy to me. For a moment, I questioned myself. I thought I hated him? Yet, here I was, happy to see him. Guilt began to creep in—was I betraying my mom? Still, a part of me hoped for reconciliation between them.
During his visit, my dad bought me a pair of black trousers for the burial ceremony. I loved those trousers so much that I wore them until they were completely worn out. Despite the excitement of seeing him, the tension between my mom and dad was palpable. They barely spoke to each other, and the silence between them felt like an unbridgeable gap.
One evening, to our surprise, my dad came home. We were ecstatic. I knew my mom was too, but she masked her emotions well. He stayed the night, but by dawn, he was gone again. My disappointment was crushing. Why couldn’t he stay longer? I wondered. Does he hate us that much? The woman wasn’t even with him this time, yet he still left. I searched for answers in my mind but found none.
The day of the burial arrived. My aunt was laid to rest in a sorrowful ceremony. I remember standing there, looking at her in the casket. She looked almost the same, just darker, with a faint, eerie smile on her face. Cotton wool stuffed her nostrils, and she wore a pure white cloth. It was the first time I had ever seen a dead person. Strangely, I wasn’t scared—just curious. So this is what the dead look like, I thought, staring in disbelief.
When the burial ended, my dad left, just as quickly as he had come. Life resumed for everyone, but not for us. We were asked to move back to the old face-me-and-face-you house. They didn’t want to leave the house empty, and it felt like we were being forced to return to our past. My mom was strongly against it, saying it felt like going back to one’s vomit. But my dad promised to renovate the place—build two extra rooms with a proper kitchen, toilet, and bathroom. Left with no choice, we returned.
The house did look better after the renovations. My mom tried to make the best of the situation. She set up a small provisions shop in front of the house—a little business to support us. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Life slowly settled into a new rhythm, with my mom still holding on to her faith and praying every day for my dad to become the man he once was.
Authors note
In the next chapter, the spotlight shifts to me. While my parents and family remain part of the story, this book is ultimately about my foundation and the journey of three generations—my mom, myself, and my son. It's a reflection of where we've been, how far we've come, and the legacy being shaped for the future. Stay tuned as I take you deeper into my life, my struggles, my dreams, and the moments that defined me.
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Chasing Greatness :A Journey Of Hope
Non-Fictioncaptivate and perfectly inspiring life story
