My Grandpa and I

Dear God,

“Thank you so much back there”, Annie said kindly

“For what?”, I returned raising my hands

She smiled.

“I don’t know how many people who will do what you just did”, she smiled again

“Thanks for nothing”, I said

She then giggled and I looked at her sideways

“Your face though when I told you that Aunty Helen was dead…. she giggled again

I gave a weak cough and rolled my eyes.

“I thought you would just bolt out on me. But you stayed and handled it nicely” she smiled.

“All I could see at that moment was me donkeys years ago standing with my grandfather and scared out of my wits”, I laughed oddly.

“Your grandfather had dementia? “, she asked interestingly

“Yes, a very long time ago and truth be told I didn’t know what it was then”, I responded.

She raised her brows in query

“I was a very little girl…. not sure the age bracket and back then information wasn’t freely given especially to a child. So, I didn’t know what it was, but I do know that grandpa had this antic to go missing. So, we were always on the watch out for him. He would usually sit in a cane chair at the balcony watching us play”, I answered reflectingly.

“There was always an adult at home to ensure that they handle his antics, I continued. Grandpa was a very rich and powerful man. It was rumoured that he was the 1st to buy a car in the whole village and build a (zinc) house. There is even an age-old quote about him in the whole of the town till date. He was that made. He was amongst the people the missionaries gave leverage and wealth”, I told her trying hard to remember some of the key details.

“Anyways, he was also very stubborn and feared literally. So, growing up, we kinda feared him. So, on this day, grandma was not at home and his caregiver was somewhere at the back of the house and we were playing in front where he was seated. For some reasons, I looked out from the balcony and grandpa had disappeared. He was not on his seat. I spied him out on the street just as he was about to take a turn into a bush path and ran out after him”.

“For a man who walked with a heavy iron walking stick, he was fast and before I knew it, he had crossed the big “Aro” square towards another town. I followed, calling him and begging him to come back”.

“The more I called out, he faster he went and here I was alone with him in the middle of nowhere, navigating bush paths. I ran after him with all my strength, the more I ran after him, the faster he went”.

“I had no clue where we were, but I was not going to go back except he went back with me. Truth be told, I was lost too, I wouldn’t find my way back if I tried. What possessed me to keep following him, I know not till date, but I wasn’t backing down. Grandpa kept shouting at me to leave him alone and that he didn’t know who I was and didn’t know me. Sometimes, he will turn and start chasing me with his big iron walking stick. We all lived in fear of that walking stick because it was so heavy. It usually took myself and my cousin to hold or carry it when grandma wanted to take him out of the chair to his room. If the iron fell on you, you’d possibly loose a toe not to talk of when papa hits you with it”.

“So, I will run backwards until he turns and continued the journey, and I would follow again. At a point, I got so tired that I burst into tears and wept. I was weeping and following him. I was scared, thirsty and tired. But I followed him. Luckily for me, we passed a bunch of people who possibly noticed what was going on and stopped papa. They asked me what was going on and told them. But Papa refused and swore he didn’t know me that he was going to the mission, and I was disturbing him”.

Being a rich and popular man, he was easily recognized, so the people knew him. And from the looks they exchanged I knew they got the picture, whatever the picture was. At least I knew they believed me that I knew him, and we were lost. Even though they all sided with Papa that yes, I was a little nuisance, there was this knowing in their eyes that I could trust. I also overheard one woman whisper….” Yes, that’s the granddaughter”.

Father Lord, I was so relieved. I didn’t know if I was crying from the relief or the fear.

Anyways, they coaxed Papa and took him to the nearest catholic mission at Ukpo the village we ended up in. The parish priest there recognized Papa too and drove us home in his car. Just the mention of his name was enough. The world knew him. Meanwhile, Papa refused to let me enter the car with him because he didn’t know who I was and asked the little crowd that had gathered to make sure I got home to my parents. By the time they calmed Papa down and took us home, I was thoroughly traumatized.

When we got home, there was a confused crowd fretting around at home. Everyone was happy and relieved when they saw us. They thanked and hugged me for following him. They were full of praise for me, but I wasn’t feeling grateful or happy. I just sat there wondering if what Papa said was true. Was I a bastard? How would he not know me? How could he not remember? I was supposed to be his 1st daughter’s daughter…. does that mean that was not true? Back then, such things were traumatizing. You dare not be regarded as a bastard. That was the worst identity ever.

As I battled with my thoughts, I didn’t realise what was going on at home. Grandpa didn’t recognize anyone when we got home. Even grandma. He refused to come down from the Reverend Father’s car, until they went and fetched my mum. Immediately grandpa saw my mum, he smiled and called her “Rebecca”.

“That’s Rebecca, she is my daughter”, he told the Parish Priest with pride.

Mum got him out of the car and took him inside and attended dutifully to him. At that instance, my eyes locked in with Grandma’s eyes and she smiled and nodded. Grandma wasn’t one to talk much but she had strong spiritual instincts. How did she know that I was battling with my identity. How did she know what was going on in my head. In that one smile and nod, she had said to me….”See, he denied me too, but he recognized your mum, don’t give it another thought”

It was telepathic, but it was communicated. I smiled back at her and went into the house. I never doubted my identity ever again.

Annie listened to me quietly, tears slowly flowing down her eyes.

“Thank you so much for telling me this. Even when I know what is going on with him, it still hurts, and I still have private doubts…. but you just spoke to me with this story…. thank you”, she sniffed.

“It’s okay dear, I said patting her hand …even my mum had a bit of it too…not fully developed but a sting of it. But she remembered me throughout. Even when she forgot the names of my siblings, she will always remember mine and my voice. Just like grandpa remembered her and recognized her voice. That was a gift for me”.

“And back there, Annie, you were the 1st person he recognized when he settled, that’s your gift”, I smiled.

“Yeah, I guess so, she smiled back.

“It is…. well, I guess I must go. God bless you and your family Annie. Everything will work together for your good”.

“Amen” she said, hugged me and disappeared inside.

As I walked back home that day, I reflected on how important our identity is. How much it means to us to be recognized, remembered, appreciated and identified with. And more than anything, I am grateful that you know me, Lord. Even by name. Even to the number of hairs on my head. Even before I was born. Even before I accepted you. Even when I don’t deserve it. You know me. What a privilege, what a gift! My identity in you is my gift and I take it not for granted.

This is Your belo

ved daughter, Lord, I am checking in.