Framed Print
- Lessons |
I know about Barack Obama's book "Dreams from my
father." This is not about dreams from my father. This is
about lessons learned from my father, Pa Patrick Izevbizua Ezomoghene. I am
having difficulty writing this piece because talking or writing about my father
is so, so, emotional. He passed away a few years ago, July 25 would be the
third anniversary of his death. I never really grieved. Take that
back. Grieving has been a slow process, in spurts and bursts over the past
three years.
First, I felt really guilty. I wished I was there when he passed
away. I was a thousands of miles in America while he died in
Nigeria. I had planned to be home that July but finances were not right,
and there were difficulties at work. I missed his passing. I went
for the burial. But to me that wasn't good enough. I felt
guilty. It took a long while for that guilt to go away.
Lessons from my father. I learned about dignity, discipline, hard work,
honesty and maintaining objectivity. My dad was great man. If I ever
become one tenth of the man he was, I will be very humbled. Some of
my earliest memories of my dad was when I was very little. This was in the
sixties, probably early sixties: We are in from of our home. He sets
up two poles. There is a straw or thin stick hanging between the
poles. Some of my cousins are there. My uncle David is there. We
start doing the jumps. We start low for little ones like me. Then we
raise the stake higher and higher. My love for sports, for exercise, for
sheer clean fun started at that age. My mother is on the porch, and she watches
with admiration, as her husband, my dad plays with us kids. As we got bigger, my
mother would admonish him saying he was getting too old to do that.
Lessons from my father: Once a week, or every other week, the
Ezomoghene family would have a meeting, a gathering. My uncles and aunts
would all get together. It was always a celebratory atmosphere. And once a
year there would be a big party. My Dad would dance. My dad could
dance. The more he drank, the better he danced. He would bow his
head, and with the index fingers pointed, he would dance. It was a sight to see.
My mom was shy. She would dance when she had to, when it was her turn, but
not my dad. My dad would let the music carry him. Some of my happiest moments
was watching my dad dance. My love for music, for dance, came from my dad.
Every little thing I do reminds me of my dad. It is quite possible, the
first time I saw anybody do it was seeing my dad do it. I cut my own hair
today. My dad cut my hair for years, all through my elementary school
days. He would cut it short with a "style" - a slit to one side
that made me look, I thought, so intelligent. It was about love, bond; it was
about dedication to his children. It was all about caring. I am so
.. so grateful that he cared
- By Assurance Izevbizua
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USA
