I was very young when I knew my dad was cheating on my mom. I was too young to know what it meant to cheat but it’s something they always fought about so I figured cheating wasn’t a good thing. Dad would come home late and would not touch his food. As a child, it was happy news for me because I got to eat it each time he didn’t touch it. As a woman and a wife dying to build a happy home, it was a heartbreaking moment for my mom. I didn’t know which side to fall in love with, the food or my mom’s happiness.

My mom would rush to my dad and start a fight. “Why are you coming home this late? You went to see your other women right? Which of them fed you?”

My mom would go ahead and mention names. Every day came with different names. When I grew up I asked where she was getting those names from, and she answered, “Your dad would follow anything in a skirt so I called the names that befitted anything in a skirt.”

There was Hannah. There was Habiba. There was Gina too. These names never changed. She mentioned them anytime they fought. She told me, “I knew those women. I knew where they lived. Habiba’s father was a herbalist so her house smelled of herbs and they ate a lot of herbs too. Your dad smelled of herbs whenever he visited the home of Habiba.”

They would fight. Dad would get angry. For days they wouldn’t talk to each other but Dad would always come home. When he did, he gathered the two of us, me and my junior brother and talked to us about school. Dad was using us as a shield against the piercing weapons Mother threw at him. While my mom barks across the room. My dad would ask me, slowly and patiently, “You came home with homework?” He would turn to my brother and ask, “When is the next PTA meeting?”

Mom would bark about Dad’s women. Dad would take us through our homework, pay what we owe, ask about our day and love us the best way he could. I loved that man. Sometimes I wished mom would give him a breathing space and sometimes I wished dad would stop cheating so there would be peace in our house. When I completed SHS and was old enough to engage my dad in a mature conversation, I asked why he and my mom were still together. “You’re always fighting. It seems you can’t stand each other so why are you still together?” He answered, “I’m the problem so you have to ask her that question. She’s my wife and I love her. That’s all I know. Leave and go where?”

I was confused. In my head, I was like, “You love her and you still won’t stay and love only her?” When he sensed my confusion he told me, “All the noise she makes outside, when we get inside she’s a different woman. She loves me too that’s why she fights.” I asked, “If mom leaves, what would you do?” He answered, “She won’t leave because I’m a good man. Ask why she’s still with me all these years.”

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I went to mom and asked the same question. She didn’t talk about love and duty or loyalty. She said she couldn’t leave because of the two of us. “I can’t give you to another man. Your dad is the best man for you. It’s the reason I’m still here in this silly marriage.”

During my traditional wedding, Mom talked a lot when it got to her turn to advise me. She used her life as an example of patience and tolerance. She asked me not to leave the side of my man no matter what. “Men would want to be men,” she said. “But remember you’re a woman. Be a woman when he tries to be a man.”

The message was coded but I got it. When it got to Dad’s turn, he looked at my husband and said, “She’s my first child and my only daughter. I prepared her very well for this day and lucky for you, you had her. Let her be the only one you enjoy.”

I turned to look at my mom, she frowned and looked away. Our eyes met and we laughed. A sinner trying to make a saint out of someone’s son. Dad. Such a character.

My brother also got married and left home. He was out of town so I was the one taking care of my parents. I visited them often. Dad was old and stationed. His whoring days were over but Mom still had a reason to lambast him. Maybe she wasn’t used to my dad being home all the time.

Dad got sick and it didn’t look like he was going to make it. I visited them every weekend. My brother came home to stay with them for a week. One weekend, I got home and my dad wasn’t talking. He was weaker than I left him the previous week. I sat next to him, trying to keep him company and making him smile. At one point, my mom walked in. She asked me to come out for fresh air and allow my dad to rest. When I stepped out, she asked me to follow her.

Our house was on top of a valley. I followed Mom as she descended the valley, facing the orange sunset. “I’m dying to talk about this,” she started. “Do you know your dad wasn’t the only one who cheated?” My heart skipped a beat. I stopped walking briefly while she kept going. She stopped and waited for me. “You cheated too?” I asked. She kept walking.

My mom’s first job was a clerical assistant for a Lebanese institution. That was where she met my dad. Before my dad, she was in love with her boss, a Lebanese. The man loved her too but he was married. He tried getting my mom to be his side chick but the God in my mom didn’t allow her to see a married man. My dad came into the picture and she chose my dad while loving the Lebanese.

Her boss travelled back to his country just around the time my mom was pregnant. I was four when her boss returned to Ghana as a new divorcee. According to my mom, her heart broke for him, seeing him lonely and suffering so she decided to give him the love he was lacking. “He wasn’t always in Ghana. He stayed in his home country more than Ghana but whenever he was in Ghana, I saw him. Your dad made it easier for me because he was also chasing other women.”

I wished she could stop talking about it. I didn’t want to know what my dad didn’t know. I asked her, “Your husband is going. Would you like to tell him?” She started crying.” I wish I could. Not in the form of confession. I want to tell him to hurt him the way he did to me but he’s already dying.”

She blew her nose. She said she wanted half-cast babies so much at a point she wanted to carry the man’s baby. “But he wasn’t the only one,” she said. “Your boss wasn’t the only one? Who else?” I queried with disappointment in my voice. She answered, “Not today. I only want you to know this. Maybe someday, I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”

When we were climbing up the valley, the sun had totally disappeared. We walked in silence, trying hard not to look at each other. I went in to say goodbye to my dad only to find him cold and unresponsive. He was gone. I came out with tears to tell my mom and she said, “I knew he was going. I wanted you to excuse him.”

Chat With The Faces Behind Silent Beads

Dad was seventy-eight. He died thinking he was the devil. I blame him but I don’t hate him. I’ve never harboured anything negative towards him. My mom. I love that woman with all my heart for all the sacrifices, for not abandoning us. For not leaving the marriage because of us. They were bad for each other and yet stayed with each other until death separated them. They were good to us until death took my dad. I’m not the one to choose sides. It’s their story and not mine. She has one more story to tell me but I always pray she never tells me. Whatever it is, she should die with it so I wouldn’t be the one to live with it for the rest of my life

—Konadu    

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