By Thomas Peretu
It is difficult to overstate the loss of a father or anyone at that on a Sunday morning. A day dedicated to the service of the Lord. I was caught in a throng of regally attired worshippers on that fateful day of May 5; totally oblivious of the impending doom —a disastrous event that was to crown the day. Not even the ominous clouds hovering overhead could foretell the gloom in the belly of nature. May be it did but I was too preoccupied with the affairs of the moment to listen.
Before I comence this voyage however, it’s important we agree on this incontrovertible truth: life is transient. Death is a necessary end. And what follows there after is a thorny subject of religious conviction and contemplation as well as philosophical conjecture. Any way, that’s not a subject for this moment. That said, let’s delve into why I am here.
Hey, much as I do not intend to tax your patience any further than necessary, even so, kindly allow me the honour to crave your indulgence —as I put forth this rhapsody of grief fittingly dressed in the garment of a tribute.
My assertion is not without conviction given our acutely limited attention span ostensibly foisted on us, in part by competing and overlapping variables ruthlessly pulling at our centres of gravity. Bear with me a little while as I bare my heart—- albeit frayed by existential foibles.
If this essay takes a conversational tone, it is deliberate. At least so we can communicate better and probably be on the same frequency.
It is not impossible that you too may have, at some point, experienced the loss of a dear one. Perhaps many more times than I do? May be less. Needless, to state however, that I have had to reconcile myself with such pathetic moments all through my life. It is such a traumatic, and difficult experience. More often than not, it drains one’s mental stability and put to test one’s physical stamina.The poignant anxiety that comes with a loss is better imagined than experienced.
But that is the lot of man; the vicissitude of life, nonetheless– placed before us by the universal Master.
Indeed, everyone of us without fail is wired to confront, absorb this reality– on this side of consciousness. How we eventually navigate out of the quagmire is entirely ours to determine. While some persons may resort to all forms of mechanical devices to keep afloat, others may immerse themselves in esoteric nay spiritual rituals to waltz out of the depressing hangover.
A few weeks ago, I was confronted with the news of the death of my father Apostle George Freetown Peretu, a fervent servant of the Father. He died a few days shy of his 95th birthday. Quite suddenly.
When the news filtered into my ears some Sundays ago, I was totally taken aback and disoriented. And disconcerted too. Nothing, absolutely nothing in this world prepared me to repel the shock. As could be expected, I was besides myself with grief and anger. Grief because it was a monumental loss —-of a friend, a confidant and a prayer partner. The anger, of course, was a product of the precarious condition at hand. The question is, why now, when the boot was seemingly on the other foot? Why? But there were no answers to placate my fears and worries.
I was naturally petrified, disconsolate and emotionally devastated. I had no option but to resign my fate to the will of God. He knows best. As the bible says, He makes all things beautiful in His time. So, who am I, a mere mortal to question the will of the Great I AM. The creator of the universe. The omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent God. In fact the all suffient God.
To be sure, my father’s imminent demise was not unexpected because of his acutely debilitating health condition occasioned by the vagaries of old age. Nonetheless, I least anticipated the inevitable to occur at the time it did.
My father’s senescence was very visible and troubling hence, he was in some sort of confinement for a pretty long while. As at the the time he passed on, he had lost his sight. His cognitive ability had also degenerated tremendously. Apostle as he was then known was virtually incoherent at 95 when he finally gave up the ghost.
Apostle was an amazing father, a fantastic lover of his children and a disciplinarian. His love for family both immediate and extended knew no bounds. His mantra had always been ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’. He never missed an opportunity to rebuke us (9) for every misdemeanor through verbal missiles and the rod when necessary. He worked extremely hard to give his family the best he could afford. He was our prayer warrior– always on his frail knees interceding on our behalf.
How can I forget the many times he was arrested and detained at Denton Police station, Ebute Metta on account of the todler found with him. Don’t forget, it was the era when ‘gbomogbomo’ child theft was the order of the day in the 60s in Lagos.
There were occasions when we spent two to three nights in the custody of the Police on the suspicion that I was a stolen child.
My father and I have been through a lot while growing up especially with the absence of a mother figure in my life. My father was every thing in my life— a father, a mother, a nurse and a teacher. Apostle played each role so well. He was very protective and kind. He, it was who exposed me to literature at a tender age in Bida, North Western State. He inadvertently moulded my career path. As a matter of fact he pointed to the lighthouse in the horizon even when it was light years away. (By the way, most of my siblings were born in that sleepy town called Bida). My father was an itinerant fisher man. He was at some point a labour unionist at the Bachita Sugar industry. My father was a supervisor at the Kainji Dam Construction Campany before the Nigerian civil war. Not too many people including my siblings knew he was a professional boxer in his hey days. Need I tell you that he was also a good tailor and a dancer to wit. He was very adventurous. And an enterepreneur. His foot prints are indelibly etched along the River Niger from Bachita in Kwara State to Jebba to Dole Kaina, a border town in present day Kebbi State.
The adventures of a fisher man is the title of a book I am working on.
All the unknown details about Apostle Peretu’s travails and triumphs— his journey from the back waters of Ojo in present day Lagos State to the far the flung city of Bida where we lived are contained in my forthcoming book.
What more can I say but wish my father the best as he transits to the bossom of Abraham in heaven. May his soul rest in peace.
Adieu Papa…
We miss you papa.
…Peretu wrote in from Abuja
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