Sometimes, if I concentrate real hard, I can hear him talking. His thick Nigerian accent, hard to understand to others, was a joy to my ears; the years of living in America never took that away from him. Sometimes, if I stare at his photos, I can feel his presence, like the king he was, simple and strong, humble and forgiving, courageous and brave. Sometimes, when he meets me in my dreams, a blanket of comfort surrounds me and I’m at peace.
“Get up,” I was screaming at the top of my lungs. “Get up, get up, please, get up.” I couldn’t move closer; I couldn’t stop yelling; I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t do anything except yell at him to get up. Why aren’t you moving, why aren’t you listening, why aren’t you getting up? His left fist lay tightly clenched at his side and his Accu-Check Glucometer was near, his right fist lay clenched in his lap. His head was propped up by the lower kitchen shelf where pots and pans would normally be. He was so still, so silent, so stiff. I stood yelling at him in the doorway before I ran back into the living room and called my best friend.
I don’t quite know why I was screaming at him to get up. My brother had called me only minutes ago to let me know my uncle had come to visit with my dad and found him in his current state. I already knew what I was walking into but I didn’t want to believe it, I didn’t want to go through this, I didn’t want to let go of my father. Sure, he had a defibulator put in about three years ago and lately he had been sick a few times in the previous months, and we’d spent a few days in and out of the hospital but that was nothing, right? Doctors give you medicine, you get better and life goes on.
This life wasn’t going on. Fifty-two and life for Chukwuma was already over. He would never see me graduate from college, he would never walk me down the aisle at my wedding, and he would never meet my first child. He was dead, dead, dead.
The blur of events that happened next involved sirens and tears, and strangers and more tears, my close friends and even more tears. I kept walking back into the kitchen and staring at my poor father and cursed God for taking him from me. This just wasn’t right. Why was this happening to my family and me?
Why me, God? I’m not ready to let him go. Please do something that rewinds time back to the last conversation I was having with my father. Just this past Monday, six days ago, I had called him while lying in bed because I wasn’t feeling well. I could always count on him calling me the next day to make sure I felt better; he called me Tuesday at work to make sure I was okay. I want to go back to then, I want to hear his voice. I want to hear Daddy…my Daddy. My poor, dead Daddy.
No, there is nothing you can do, quit asking! No, he’s not in a better place, stop lying to me. His pain is gone, whatever! All these things I had told people in the past to help them through grief, they were saying to me for the first time in my life and it was all a bunch of crap. Nothing anyone says can take away the pain of losing someone so dear to your heart. Just hug me, let me cry. Just sit there and hold my hand and listen to my babbling. Quit with the positive talk cause I don’t need it right now. I need you to tell me how evil God is and if you can’t tell me that, nothing else is going to matter.
Then, a funeral home that I did not call stole my father. Yes, stole him from the morgue and then refused to give him back without payment for services they had already done. Services done without consent, mind you. What the hell was going on here? My dad is dead, Mr. Calhoun stole him and now this man is disrespecting my entire family by telling us that my dad was poor and he just did us a favor. Indigent, that’s the word he kept using to describe my father, like he was nobody. His name is Chukwuma; he’s my Daddy, quit calling him Indigent! I can’t take this, I can’t breathe, get me out of here.
Tuesday morning, I woke up hoping this had all been a dream but the Obituary section of the Akron Beacon Journal caused me to have a panic attack. My words, I’m choking, I can’t think and I can’t speak. I just keep trying to make my friends understand what I’m feeling. They do. One of them leaves work to come hug me. Damn, this just isn’t fair. Can you just bring me back my dad? I’ll stop saying God is evil and tarnishing your name, I’ll have happiness again and all will be well with the world. Please? Please?
A few days later, I stand over a casket with a man who only slightly resembles the man whom I called my father. The resemblance is so small that I don’t even believe it’s him. I’m able to pretend through the calling hours that he is not my Daddy. I laugh, I give people hugs and they look at me with sad eyes. Why are you looking at me with those sad eyes? That isn’t my Daddy in there, its some other man. Quit staring at me with sympathy. Stop with the sad eyes, I don’t want to see anymore sad eyes.
It’s almost noon, time for the funeral to start. They tell me they are going to close the casket, forever. “Do you want to give your dad a goodbye kiss?” And then it hits me. I look around and see at all those sad eyes. My friends, my father’s friends, my siblings, my mother, my father’s neighbors, even his landlord were sitting there, and I had somehow floated through the last few days pretending I was living someone else’s life. This wasn’t a dream, I was about to say goodbye to Daddy.
The journey to the cemetery was almost fun. We put a CD of African beats and Reggae songs in the CD player and started talking about how much we loved my father’s music. I wish that ride had lasted longer; I still wasn’t ready to let go of Daddy.
As soon as the graveside services ended, I threw my body on my fathers gray casket. I screamed “Daddy,” over and over again until someone, I don’t remember who knelt down beside me and helped me to my feet. I didn’t want to leave. I wasn’t ready to go, I needed more time. I needed my Daddy.
Sometimes, when I look through his photo albums, I see a young man in a new world who was just trying to have fun. Sometimes, if I let myself daydream, I can see visions of him smiling at me telling me everything is okay. Sometimes, if I allow myself to let go, I can forgive God and accept the fact that life must go on.
Today, that’s not how I feel. Today, I want to call my dad and tell him I’m not feeling well. Then I want him to call me at work tomorrow to make sure I’m better.
(This was my Personal Essay for English Comp I in 2008 – I scored 46/50)
