“From Gods to Men”

by Oga-enyong Nkiri

There’s no issue that my mother can’t fix, and there’s nothing that my father can’t overcome. I don’t know what it is with my parents, but as I age and their characters unravel, demystified by my growing wisdom and experience. The cloaks they wear, they’ve changed. Once they were satin; purple and gold, and larger than life itself, but now they are brown, earthy like the pigmentation of their skin. Melanin, still protected from the harmful rays of life, but not untouchable, human. They make mistakes, they learn, and they do better the next time. Was it always like this? Was my perfect childhood just that? Trial and error, directed by people, not god’s but people, people who didn’t know better. Immigrants who came into this country looking for a better life. Immigrants who didn’t know that they had to file their taxes every year. Graduates who were never looked at as such and had to work long hours in odd jobs because they hailed from a country that wasn't. A powerful father and loving mother who didn’t have the time but somehow always made it for their four boys. 

They aren’t god’s to me anymore, no, but they’re something else. They wear brown cloaks that are covered in dirt and grime, the struggle of being just immigrants for twenty years. They have bags under their eyes and creases at the corners. I guess they do get tired. Maybe they also have blood running through their veins, as I do? Maybe they have the same capabilities as every other man or woman. Maybe they have the same threshold and capacity to feel pain. Is it true that they may have been stressed when they used to come home every night and smile at their boys? When they gave us the most blissful childhood that we could imagine.

No, Ayamba and Ojong Nkiri aren’t God’s, and they’re far from perfect, but their ability as humans to strive and overcome and always create time for their family is far more impressive to me. I hope that someday I can do the same.