I didn’t cry. It was painful what he did, but I didn’t cry. He said it was okay.
I
didn’t cry the second time either. I liked it. He was gentler. He told
me it was our secret, our special thing, and no one should know about
it.
I
went to him the third time it happened, it was raining and the thunders
scared me. We did it again, I enjoyed it. We began to do it more often,
and each time I enjoyed it more.
I
was twelve that first time, and a happy child, happier than any other
child I knew. I doubt if any other child had so much love. I was my
father’s lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect.
And then, on my twentieth birthday, the unthinkable happened.
My
father broke up with me. Just like that. He said it wasn’t right, what
we do, and that we must stop. End of matter. It felt like a full stop at
the end of an epitaph. It was too sudden.
I
had no warning, no premonition. The break up was like death. I had
taken the week off from school just to be with the only man in my life,
the best man I ever knew, or so I thought. I thought my birthday would
have ended sensually, like all the others. It was usually the best
birthday present he gave me, a passionate night of love making right out
of a romance novel.
It
had been a while. My higher education had taken me away. And I sorely
missed my beloved father. I went home that day with thoughts of my
father obscuring all other thoughts. I arrived late in the evening. He
wasn’t home yet. I made myself as adorable as he liked. It was not hard.
My allure had never needed much artificial furnishings; a touch here
and a touch there, and I would be set to win any beauty contest. That
evening I was at my best.
All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me.
Instead,
I got the shock of my life. That terrible day, I knew exactly how the
Deer must feel when the hunter’s bullet crashes through its heart. I
learnt how it must feel to be shot out of the sky.
I
had hoped he didn’t mean it, that this was just another punishment, but
the way he said it convinced me it was final. I knew my father; I knew
the look on his face. It was the same look he had when he shot Dragon
our Alsatian. This was not like before when he would refuse to touch me
because I misbehaved. My father had never hit me or scolded me; his
punishments were usually more severe and silent. He would simply refuse
to touch me for days on end. Such days were hell for me. I could barely
survive without him. When he was pleased with me, he really would take
his time and give me much pleasure that I never knew was possible.
I was a very well behaved child; I had all the proper manners for a proper lady. Thanks to my father.
But
this was no punishment. This was a cessation. This was my death. I
tried to make him see reason, to convince him that we were to be
forever. I told him of our joys, our laughs and how love couldn’t be any
better. I begged him not to kill his beloved and only child.
The man was like a stone.
It is true what they say. Men are beasts; unfeeling beasts.
How
could he end something so wonderful, something so perfect? He said he
still loved me, but I didn’t believe him, I couldn’t believe that. He
couldn’t even look me in the eye when he said it. There must have been a
reason, but I didn’t care for whatever it was. I knew it wasn’t about
right or wrong, there is no love that can be wrong, especially the kind
we had. It was beautiful; we were one, my father and I. Our love
transcended that of a father and his daughter. It was the stuff of
heaven. No, His reason wasn’t religious, not at all, my father wasn’t
that sentimental. I was his sole religion, he worshiped me.
There
was no one else either, I knew that much. My mother died while birthing
me. Ever since, I had been my father’s heartbeat. And he was my breath.
I never missed my mother. I never knew her, never would meet her. I
would, perhaps, have liked to know her, but somehow I thank God she
wasn’t with us. It would have been awkward. I don’t think I could have
shared my father with any one.
My
father gave no reason for killing me. He couldn’t explain why we could
no longer have what we had. There was nothing I didn’t think, there was
no thought I didn’t wish to explain his decision by. Something, perhaps,
must have happened to his hormones. I couldn’t believe this was my
perfect father. I couldn’t believe my day could ever become so dark.
He
only said he was doing it for me, that it was for the best, my best.
How could I have ever believed the man loved me? He even looked sad that
day, so sorrowful and tired. In better times and in our previous world,
I would have taken him in my arms as I was wont, and work my magic on
him. Over the years I had learnt his special recipe. I was the only one
who knew his mix. I had never asked him, but I sensed that even my
mother didn’t take him to the heights I took him.
But
his words belied the sorrow on his features. He had said the break up
words so casually, so matter of factly, as if he had thought it through
and found it a simple matter. There should be a special kind of voice
and words for pronouncements of that nature, something equal and
suitably terrible. The normalcy and casualness of his words were a
negation. It was like mockery. I didn’t know I could ever stop being
what I was to him; I had never thought our relationship would end. But
end it did, and in so shocking a manner. Good things shouldn’t end that
abruptly. Relationships don’t die at once. Death is not a casual
occurrence.
The
most painful part of it was that I didn’t die. I felt like dying. I
wanted to die. But I didn’t know how to go about it. I should have
killed him too; I should have hurt him too. He looked like he was
hurting, but I should have made sure. It is too painful to feel the pain
of death and yet be alive. There is no pain worse than the pain of
death.
And
then, the man wanted us to be Father and Daughter, just father and
daughter. I couldn’t understand why he would want to reduce our love to
something merely biological and normal. Why on earth couldn’t he see
that I could never be happy as just his daughter, and that I could never
be remotely happy with any other arrangement? We were happy, I made him
happy. Why do some people reject their own happiness?
For
a long time I had believed my father loved me. On my twentiethbirthday,
I knew the truth. That day was my awakening to the heartlessness of
men, and the absurdity of love. That day, I grew up, I grew old and I
died.
It
was the last day I spoke or saw my father. He killed me, so I made sure
I remained dead to him. I became a living dead, dead inside and alive
only in looks.
As
I left him that evening, I looked back a lot of times. He didn’t
recant, he didn’t rethink. He watched me leave. The tears were streaming
from both our eyelids. I could feel his sorrow; it was thick enough to
touch. The feeling was apt; death had occurred.
The
man came for me twice, later. But he came as a father coming for his
daughter. He should have come for me as a soul for its soul mate, like
breath for air, like the dying for life. That was what we were; romance
and its love.
He came, just that twice. I waited for him too, but he never came again. I gave up.
I
made a new resolve. Men would learn from me, the very hard way. I have
what they want. My beauty is the glaring kind that every body agrees
with. But my heart would be a different matter. I knew most men wouldn’t
resist me; they can’t be as tough as my father, my looks were not
enough for that man to change his mind and do the right thing, the best
thing.
It
wasn’t easy. It took a while before I could stand the touch of any
other man, but vengeance helped me detach my body from myself.
I
would forever be grateful for my looks; it was my ultimate shield. It
helped me survive and helped my resolve. I set off on a mission, to hurt
as I had been hurt. I soon became very successful. I brought both boys
and men to their knees. I killed them and still left them alive. I
remember the families that fought themselves over me, the brothers that
would never forgive each other, the scandalized churches and
governments, the suicides, the bankruptcies. There is a lot a body can
do when it is rightly motivated.
My father didn’t know what he unleashed.
Payback
is a beautiful side of nature. There is no payback as sweet and
profound as when it’s total and final, like death. No man recovered that
encountered me.
But
vengeance was not so much fun. I didn’t feel any lasting relief.
Hurting men didn’t make me feel much better; it was a constant reminder
to my own heartbreak. But I couldn’t stop. Sometimes I wondered what the
whole point was. I could never lose the pangs I had for my father’s
touch. Payback did not completely fill the chasm that my father dug in
me. I doubt if anything ever would.
I would have easily given everything up for things to get back to what it was.
I
lived like someone on a mission, and I wanted to be free from the
service, but I just couldn’t. In moments of weakness, I would always
think about what my father and I had. Thinking about our perfect love
brought me tears and gave me joy. At such moments, I would really try to
feel and have fun, I would let my guard down to see if I would be alive
again. It was no use. No other man was like my father. No one even came
close. No one was able to get me right, something was always missing.
With my dad it was perfect, he knew just what I wanted, and how. No two
people were ever in sync as my father and I was. No other man could
bring me alive.
The last time I had pleasure was with my father.
This
many years have past, since I lost my beloved father. And more recently
the world lost him too. I just left his grave side. I have never been
able to understand why I keep visiting his grave, despite the distance,
despite all. And each time, I always leave with an exhausting longing, a
fiery desire, and an intense craving.
I would do anything; anything, just to have séx with my father again.Follow Us on Twitter for fresh updates @facenaija
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