By Hillary Orinde
Bottomline: I could write about how it feels to be the father of a terminated pregnancy in campus.
I am not a churchgoer, but the words are loud from the window of my room. They are speaking to me. I have heard them many times before, not in this context, they have never made me feel this way. “Praise father. The father, the son and the holy spirit” they say from LT 1.
The words take me twenty years back, not on a Christian pilgrimage but rather to praise my flesh-and-blood father. My mind is replaying the scenes a son has of his father. It is fathers’ day Sunday.
We all have secrets; something we wish not to even tell ourselves. Those are the things I write about. So you would think this is the weekend to shine, sure? However, today I have am blank. I do not have such fatherly secrets to share.
Let’s see. I could write about how it feels to be the father of a terminated pregnancy in campus. That’s not something I am emotionally prepared to explore yet, all my friends who have been there surely want it to remain a dead secret. I wouldn’t find a subject (I call my news sources subjects) to fill me on the blanks of what it takes to be the father of a dead baby.
How about I write a letter to my unborn children? Yes, a piece to prepare them for the eventualities of this self-destructive world. An article of sketches, the source of hope from which they will forever seek empowerment. Probably the only document they will be proud of their journalist dad.
How could I forget, social media. Today it is a wash of carefully crafted messages to dads. Ululations and accolades to the paternal figures whose integral roles in our lives are underscored with each new post on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. The messages speak pride for our fathers, wishes for longer lives for them, idolization of the departed ones. Sadly, our fathers are not on social media.
No. I will not write about any of those things. Instead I will just sit here and stare at my dense imaginations. “Hallo dad, Its Hillary…” I would have begun my call. Twenty years ago however, death did rob me off that. Interestingly, you are not me and your dad is a phone call away. You are robbing him off that good-will wish, that gift, that good feel of appreciation by playing mute to him and loud where he doesn’t belong. You are the devil’s advocate.
It’s still not late call or text him. If I were you I would do the same. Happy father’s day to our fathers.