Out of my parent’s four children, I am the only one who still lives in the same locality as them. Because it’s easy to make the trip once in a while, I visit him often.

One weekend, I went to see them. My father wasn’t as jolly as he usually is when I’m around. He kept our conversations short and kept glancing at his phone, smiling at the screen now and then.

It was subtle, but I wanted to see it through. Maybe he was falling into the hands of scammers. Maybe it was the flood of AI-generated videos pulling his attention away from his family. So I searched. I didn’t expect to find what I went looking for.

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My father is an elder in the church. He counsels people. He is a role model, even in the extended family. I was expecting to find motivational quotes, Bible verses, and gentle advice he shares with others.

Instead, I found my father in a passionate conversation with a woman.

I probed further only to find out that my daddy is having an affair with a divorced woman who has children. He sends her money for food or to prepare meals for him. On other days, the money he sends is for her kids’ school uniforms and bills. They meet in hotels and all sorts of places. Every time they are about to see each other, he sends this woman a picture of himself, stark naked. In the texts, he tells her, “Be prepared for me. I am coming.”

I was hurt to my core. The pain was not only because my father was cheating.

It was because of my mother. My mother paid for us with her youth.

One thing I always knew about my father was that he didn’t joke about his responsibilities toward us. We each had a choice: a skill or a degree. You made your choice, he paid the fees, and life moved forward. It was comforting to have him as a father, but it came with this side too.

I grew up knowing, very clearly, that our mother couldn’t afford even a simple, nice kaba and slit to wear or a visit to the hair salon to retouch her hair once in a while. She made do—braiding her own hair or letting us try our small hands at it. There were times I didn’t want to see her at PTA meetings. My friends’ families came nicely dressed, and my mother would arrive looking raggedy, so I would hide in the library until she left.

I complained to my father. He said, “There are four of you. How do you expect me to give your mother money for dressing? Who is she dressing for?”

So my mother continued looking raggedy. Dark lines settled under her eyes. She lost weight and gained it back every couple of months. She didn’t wear perfume. She wore the same pair of copper rings until they turned brown. When she spoke, you could hear how sad a woman she had become. Even if she never complained out loud, it was there.

A few months ago, my father was in an accident, so he moved here to stay with me. My mother came too, so I could help care for him. But I don’t think I can do it anymore. What do they say? A man may be sick, but never his third leg.

I took time again to go through his phone. Most of the chats with the woman are now cleared. The recent one was my father telling her he misses her and wants to see her. He said he would send her money so she could come to him. They are planning to meet at a spot in my neighbourhood. That’s where I lost my cool.

My life is almost on pause, nursing you back to health, and here you are thinking of meeting your mistress while your wife is doing the “in sickness and in health” part of the vow.

Another reason for my anger is simple. When I go back in time, I remember the way he looked into our eyes as children and told us that it was because of us—the four of us—that our mother couldn’t afford a proper outfit. Because of us, our mother didn’t have a bag. Now I replay the way he told her he couldn’t give her money for the salon because of our school fees and how my mother settled into that life without a fight.

My siblings and I are now off his hands. No one calls him for upkeep money. And still, my mother looks old, sad, and angry at life. What he has done—stealing her youthfulness—will take years and months to undo, to finally wipe the sadness out of her eyes.

Instead, the money goes to another woman. My mother uses what she earns from her small shop to buy groceries and toiletries for the house.

After I saw my father’s messages, I told her to stop buying those things. “Let him use his money,” I said. But she won’t. She thinks she is supporting her husband.

I do not want my mother to find out about the affair. It would destroy her. They have suffered too much together, to be exact, for 35 good years.

And as much as I have always struggled to trust men because of my own experiences, my father remained the one thing that gave me hope that good men still existed.

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Now even that hope feels dead. I look at him and see hypocrisy. I look at my mother and see sacrifice without reward.

And I look at marriage with fear. I do not know whether to confront him or remain silent.

I only know that ever since I opened that phone, I have not been able to look at my father the same way again.

What do I do?

—Martekie

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