Dad is remorseful, but will that help?

“I know the magnitude of what I’ve done to you. It was wrong, and I can promise you that it will never happen again.”

   “Oh so you expect me to believe you just like that?”

   “Yes.”

   “Let me ask you something, Muhammed. Did you do this to your other women, too?”

   “Yes, but I’m not going back to any of them any more.”

    “Oh, so you wanna come live with me again?”

    “Look, Letitia, I’m just as shock at my behavior as you are.”

    “Look, Muhammed. Do you want to come back into my life again?”

   There’s a long silence. I’m sick of talking to this man. Sick of listening to his excuses. He’s not sorry. He’s worried. More worried about what might happen to him than about what’s going to happen to Ayoma and myself. It seems to me that he’s been kicked out again by another woman. He’s made Ayoma feel very lonely all these years. No matter how I wish it weren’t the case.

   Taking his seat on the armchair behind the TV set, and appearing as if he was on a historic mission, he said:

   “I heard Ayoma is leaving today. He’s leaving in order to go seek adventure in a far away land. I’ve come purposely to see him and say good-bye to him.”

   “But Muhammed, you braved this pitch-dark and cold weather in order to come and see Ayoma off?”

   “Yes, I risked this darkness to come and say good-bye to him. I’m doing this to let him appreciate how much I love him.”

   “I do appreciate that, too.” I say.

    He says:

   “To some degree or another, most of us carry life-long regrets for words once spoken or written in haste, or behavior that might have damaged relationships. Before we pass away, we deserve time to express ourselves and find release from these inner demons that held sway over our lives.” He says.

   “As he is speaking, I’m gazing indifferently out of the window directly opposite where I’m seated.”

   “Who’s on the line, Ayoma?”  Dad asked.

   “It’s Frank. He says he’ll be meeting me at the bus station to see me off.”

   Peering at Mama through his thick glasses, Dad says:

 “Look, Letitia, there are people with whom we may want to express with, or without words our deep feelings of affection and apology.”

A long silence then ensued. It grew so eerie and oppressive that I managed to slice through it like a hot butter knife.

“Dad, do you still love Mama?” I asked.

Mama then retorted bitterly.

To be continued…

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