Men Also Cry – Part 2

Dear God,

My father used to say that when the whistle of truth blows, even the devil holds his breath. Lamby’s world came crashing down that morning. The DNA results sat on his table like an enemy he had fed for years. Three children. Not one shared his blood. Not even a drop. He had built his whole life on a fabulous lie, both his love, his family, and his legacy, all swallowed in one cruel wave of betrayal. Lies.

He sat quietly in his car for hours. His phone rang endlessly, his lawyer, his friend, his own heart, all calling for answers. He didn’t pick any. When he finally drove home, the gate that once opened to laughter now welcomed silence. The walls that had held dreams seemed to whisper mockingly, “You didn’t know?”

When his lawyer arrived later that evening, Lamby’s face looked aged by ten years.
“So what do we do?” the lawyer asked gently.
Lamby looked up, his voice flat. “I just want the truth to stand. That’s all.”

But Dad, that truth was very expensive, especially when it walked into the courtroom.

The case went public before he could even blink. Headlines screamed betrayal, radio hosts debated his manhood, and social media, ah, that village square in modern age, roasted him like rabbit meat. The cruellest rumour of all? “That he was impotent, so his friends helped him out”.

Imagine! A man who once made the nation proud, now mocked as half a man.
“Life can be wicked,” he sobbed into the arms of his best friend, his eyes distant. “One minute you’re the hero, the next, you’re the headline.”

But through it all, he remained silent. He said nothing against her, not in anger, not even in defence. “Silence,” he said, “was the only thing that couldn’t be twisted in court.”

The hearings dragged on for four long years. Lawyers battled like lions, words became weapons, and evidence became entertainment. Every day in court was a fresh wound.
“She wanted fifty percent of everything,” he said one evening to his friend, laughing without humour. “Even the house I built before I met her. She listed it all, my property, my peace, my pride.”

Sometimes, he broke down in private, sobbing his heart out, his friend Rueda holding him steady like a brother.
“Don’t give up,” Rueda would say.
Lamby would nod, but his eyes were tired. “Rueda, if you lose money, you can work again. If you lose love, maybe time heals. But when you lose your children, the ones you carried in your heart, what’s left to live for?”

Rueda would pat his back. “You live for the truth, my brother. Because truth may be slow, but it never loses the race.”

Ah, wise words indeed (one of the greatest gifts to have in life is a true loyal friend. Just one is all you need. One true anchor)

The judge’s chambers became a battlefield. His wife’s lawyers argued passionately, spinning tales of neglect, abandonment, and emotional cruelty. Lamby’s lawyers countered with calm, evidence, and patience. But the damage to his heart was done.

He said in one of the interviews that there were nights, he nearly ended it all.
“I was driving one evening,” he said softly, “and I thought, if I just keep going, into that pole… maybe it will all stop hurting.”
He chuckled dryly. “But then, Rueda called. He always called at the right time.”

Dad, it’s strange, isn’t it? How you will usually send angels disguised as ordinary people, maybe a friend’s voice, a stranger’s kindness, a reminder that our story isn’t over. Thank you for using Rueda to shield this man.

And so, he endured. Four years of public ridicule. Four years of sleepless nights. Four years of his faith on trial.

Finally, the judgment came. The court ruled that the children were not biologically his therefore he had no legal obligations, the marriage was founded on the bases of deception. He had won the case, his name was cleared, but his heart? It was still bleeding.

When asked how he felt after the verdict, he said:
“When the judge spoke, I should have felt free. But I didn’t. I just felt… empty.” He paused, looked away, then added quietly, “You see, I still love those kids. They called me Daddy for 21 years. I watched them crawl, walk, laugh. I paid their school fees, held their hands at church. How do you erase that? Blood may define birth, but love defines fatherhood.”

Hmmm.

Dad, as in….. how can anyone be this cruel? How can a human do this to another human? Betrayal stings, it robs you not just of people, but of meaning.

Asked if he still reached out to the children, he answered that he tried reaching out once. Just once. The eldest, now a young adult, didn’t pick his call. The others stayed away. “Their mother has told them her version,” he sighed. “Maybe one day, truth will whisper to them, and they will remember who stood by them,” he said sadly.

As the case concluded, the judge returned his house, the one he was thrown out of without evidence. He had been given one hour to leave, with nothing but his dignity and his car keys. Imagine that. A man chased from his own sweat and stone.

“Do you want to move back to that house?” he was asked.
He smiled sadly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll let the house rest first. It has seen too much pain.” (imagine being driven from the house of your raw sweat and the people occupying it has no single blood tie to you?)

In the midst of all this, a quiet grace had entered his life, a woman named Nana. Not just a friend, but a companion who had stood silently beside him, offering comfort when the world shouted. She didn’t come to fix him; she came to remind him that broken things can still hold beauty.

“She gave me peace,” he said. “And two beautiful children. Proof that I was never what they said I was. I was never impotent. I didn’t need help from anyone to birth a child”, he chuckled.

The first time he held his new baby, he cried. Not loud tears, but silent, grateful ones.
“God used her to restore my manhood,” he said smiling. “She’s my joy after the storm.”

You see, life has a strange rhythm. Sometimes it lets you fall so you can rise on stronger feet. Sometimes it breaks your heart to give you a new one that beats wiser.

When people asked him how he survived, he always said, “Faith, work, and forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” someone once asked him in disbelief.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Because carrying hatred is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. I had to let go, or I would never heal.”

Dad, this young man is alive and well and living his life in the gold sands of Ghana. He is currently mentoring young footballers in his academy in Cape Coast, smiling and joking as if life never bruised him, know this: behind that laughter lives a man who has wrestled with pain and chosen peace.

He said he often tells the boys, “Life will tackle you, but it’s not the fall that defines you, it’s how you rise.”

Ah, Dad, what wisdom pain can teach!

I went to his academy website to check him out and as I watched him, surrounded by children chasing footballs and dreams, I thought to myself:
Perhaps this is what redemption looks like, not fame regained, not wealth restored, but a man who can still love after love betrayed him.

Because this man, this strong son of a gun has taught us how a man begins to live again, not by winning in court, but by forgiving in spirit.

“Aaah, but Dad, the heart of man shaaa, who can truly know it? For it is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.”

This is your daughter, Lord, just a minute, I am checking in on you.