Written by Gbemi Trabaye
Writing this is probably going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Putting pen to paper is the least of my struggles; the greatest challenge lies in accurately conveying the message, telling my absolute truth.
Over the past four months, I’ve been able to confront and share some of my deepest internal challenges and truths through this medium, exploring family, love and identity. Yet, something that I haven’t directly addressed is a shadow that stretches far beyond any of the other themes – one that carries the greatest weight in my life: the relationship with my father.
Unpacking this journey is going to require sufficient context, because as a reader, I want you to get the full scope. Every conversation I’ve had over the past decade has portrayed my father as a villain, a perpetrator, and an evil man. Every brushstroke was dark – every memory was rooted in pain and disdain, but this article seeks to tell the full story – the complexities and nuances of our relationship. This article is a story of lessons learned—a few that I have sought to emulate and others that I have spent the past decade running from.
My father’s journey begins in the 50s, within the deep heart of Southeastern Nigeria, a period filled with the vibrant excitement of a looming independence but also the immense tension caused by political instability and a beckoning civil war that surrounded it. As the second of nine children, life was steeped in scarcity and struggle from early on. My grandfather was a civil servant in the agricultural sector, while my grandmother was a trader, navigating the ever-chaotic landscape of the village marketplace.
In those days, these professions carried profound honour but had very little economic viability. It was in these early days that my father would recognise “struggle” as something to avoid, by any means necessary, and would go on to define a lot of the choices he made – the good & the bad.
From quite early on, he was an exceptional student, with a mind that operated at a different frequency. Even today, the local primary school in our village, credits him as one of their highest-performing students to ever walk through their doors, and this reputation would follow him well into his high school years. However, his immense potential would be met by the worst historical tragedy. Right in the middle of his high
school journey, the Biafran War would unleash its rage throughout the east, cutting short his burning desire for academic excellence and replacing it with a need for survival. For three years, academic brilliance was rendered useless. Starvation, displacement and gunfire became the focus of the day. During this time, not only would he lose crucial years of his life, but he would also lose siblings – some by natural causes, and others under far worse circumstances.
In hindsight, he would never truly recover from this moment, oftentimes recounting the plight of poverty and displacement that the Igbos experienced during this time, and unfortunately, this birthed a legacy of struggle that the Igbos continue to suffer from today.
Despite all this, the 1970s beamed with hopes and possibilities of a new beginning – Nigeria was being rebuilt, and he was driven by a hunger, both literal and metaphorical, for a better future. He enrolled at the University of Nigeria Nsukka around this time – initially setting his sights on medicine but eventually settling into the world of agricultural economics. As I sit here and put these words on paper, I just realised a correlation that I had never processed before – the bridge between my grandfather’s role in the agricultural sector and the decision, decades later, that he would make regarding his career. An interesting thread linking the son of a village trader to the earth elements that his father had worked on.
It was at Nsukka that the man I would eventually call “Father” truly began to take shape. A village prodigy turned war survivor, he measures success only in materialistic terms, which has been both a blessing and a curse in his life and mine.
He got his first of three Masters’ Degrees from Nsukka and used his scholarship money to also put his younger brothers through school.
Upon completion of his studies, he joined the public sector, working as a survey assistant in Enugu, Nigeria – and later on becoming an Economist for a global labour organisation that had recently opened up its offices in Lagos.
From the little details that I know and that he shared, the ‘80s were a difficult period in his life. My grandfather had passed away suddenly, and they weren’t on good terms at the time of his passing, which created a vicious cycle that would eventually be repeated with his sons. A cycle of silence and unresolved friction between father and son is always a recipe for disaster. The ‘80s also became a graveyard for his personal aspirations – failed relationships, near-marriages that didn’t only end but turned extremely sour, building a pathway of romantic resentment.
Eventually, through the turmoil of his romantic woes, he met my mother. In many ways, she was the contrast to the darkness that had plagued his earlier years – middle-class raised, warm-hearted, guided by clear principles. It’s needless to say, but they were diametrically opposite to each other, and maybe that’s why it “worked”. He was a scarred survivor of war; she was the embodiment of calmness and safety. Unfortunately, this balance was built on rocky foundations.
Within four years of marriage, my two eldest siblings were born, and things started taking a very dark turn. The arrival of their second child – my brother – which should have been a celebration – became the opposite.
Just two weeks after his birth, simmering tension became boiling rage on a random Friday night. In the early hours of the following Saturday, my mother walked out of their Lagos apartment with nothing but the clothes on her body and the weight of two children: a two-year-old daughter and a two-week-old baby boy.
I wish the events that ensued were torn from the pages of a James Patterson novel, but real life doesn’t often come with fictional plot twists and happily ever afters. After failed attempts to rekindle their relationship, he secured a path to pursue another Masters Degree, this time in North America. As I reflect on this situation now, I’m faced with a question. Was this truly just a man seeking to turn his pain into passion and excellence, or was this a man escaping because as he boarded the plane departing Murtala Muhammed International Airport, he was not only leaving a broken marriage with two children; he was leaving a third one too in Nigeria, birthed by another woman.
Was the pursuit of education a genuine search for more, or was it rather the ultimate disappearing act? He had mastered the science of new beginnings, a man who knew how to beat the odds that were stacked against him, but these odds weren’t defeatable; they evened out: three children, two women and a broken man at the centre of it all.
He projected the image of a success story on the move, but in the lives of the children he left, the mystique of the ghost was beginning to form. In these moments, the escapist version of my father crystallised.
After four years of separation, they would rekindle their marriage. My mother had moved to Greece with her two children, and he had just completed his programme, with a global offer to work in either Europe or Southern Africa, and the latter was a more favourable offer.
My siblings, a four-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl, had spent close to half a decade where the word “father” was a hollow idea, a simple filler name for an absent individual. The sudden “re-introduction” to a man with a hardened heart was a failed mission from the onset. My father didn’t show the warmth of a man who had missed his children – he returned with resentment, burdened by the consequences of his actions and vengeful. Tension in the home quickly exposed these emotions.
A year after they relocated to Southern Africa, I was born. I was meant to symbolise peace and unity – the olive branch – hence the conceptual meaning behind my name. Momentarily, according to accounts of my mother and siblings, I fulfilled that role – but it was short-lived. I would find out much later in life that my father had actually physically abused my mother during her pregnancy with me, so I wasn’t born into the peace that my name promised – but into the turmoil that preceded me.
From early on, there was an odd paradox during my childhood. My father and I were best friends – we went everywhere together, we played around, we joked a lot – our relationship was the ultimate father-son relationship. We shared the kind of bond that could only truly be understood when observed in person: inseparable.
Yet, I was always acutely aware of the different relationships he shared with my siblings. It was cold and less joyful – very authoritative and fear-driven. Oftentimes, during heated arguments between my siblings and me, the word “favourite” was used to describe me, and at the time, although I wouldn’t admit it, I certainly recognised it. I was the only child my parents raised together from birth. I got a version of them that was very foreign to my siblings. The “peace” that I brought was at the cost of their inclusion. That realisation has ached me, for decades, silently.
I was completely unaware of who my father truly was. I guess this was just a case of selective awareness, ignorance, or the inability to process complex emotions as a child—possibly all three. My earliest memory of something being terribly wrong within the household dates back to circa 2007, a moment that I have referenced in my earlier writings in this series, when an episode of the show “Cheaters” was on television – and very aggressive violence erupted in the home. I can also remember another instance, around the same time, when my parents had a physical argument, and my father left the house at midnight.
One particular school morning, a teacher of mine had noticed my odd behaviour. Under normal circumstances, I was the energetic and talkative kid, the ever-excited one – but on this particular day, I was silent and clearly very bothered. She approached to find out what was wrong, and I can vividly remember the words I said, “What my Father did to my Mom last night…”
Due to how horrific the details of the story were, she eventually called my parents in to express her concern. An extremely embarrassing moment for the both of them, especially him. A few days later, while sitting in the backseat of our family car, my father turned back and spoke words that would become the new law in my life: “Never talk about the things that happen at home publicly.”
The mind of a seven-year-old is a fragile thing. Truth-telling became a liability – pain shouldn’t be spoken, so I thought. The following years were horrific – nights spent in witness protection units after one of his manic moments, encounters with the law that attempted to address domestic violence issues, witnessing violence inflicted on my sister and Mom, and the powerlessness this created. Those aren’t years I’d ever want to return to.
And yet, after all this, I struggled to recognise him as the true monster he was. The mind of a child is a complex makeup. We were still best friends – inseparable – and my mother constantly wanted to ensure that the relationship was never broken. Eventually, I was accepted to a boarding school in the region and was sent two hours away – to get away from all the turmoil. On the surface, it seemed like a milestone, but in reality, it was an excavation.
The law of silence went with me – a burden I’ve carried ever since. Throughout my time there, I’d hear of different scandals occurring at home, and as the years went by, I got angrier and more frustrated. My rage worsened. I made a silent and personal vow to myself: “the next time I witness another form of abuse, I won’t be a witness; I’ll be the shield.”
This day would eventually arrive – 18 June 2017 – my first year of University. On that Sunday afternoon, the spark finally hit.
The house was heavy with tension. My parents were in the study – I was downstairs, and I could sense an eruption on the horizon. And then, I heard it – my mother’s voice: “Don’t spit on me.” My moment arrived. I launched upstairs, burst into the study and saw him. Immediately, I attacked. I grabbed him by the throat and shoved him. Hard. “What do you think you’re doing?” – I asked, with rage in my voice.
He fell back down to his seat – and with a terrified look on his face – he asked a question, “So, you pushed me?”
The moment that I had waited for.
My mother wailed, “What are you doing, Udy?” – shock had gripped everyone. That afternoon, everything changed forever.
The aftermath was a surreal trauma that I have never forgotten. Moments later, we were seated for Sunday lunch, a weekly tradition – waiting for the patriarch to descend. We sat in silence, but it was not peaceful.
I had already dished my food, and then I heard the steps.
He wasn’t coming down to apologise. Instead, he wanted to reclaim his territory. Walking straight to me, he leaned over and spat on my face – right onto my food as well. In a split second, I moved and grabbed him by the neck, shoving him through all the furniture. Screaming. Roaring.
Recovery since then never came. Months spent in silence. Eventually, after several requests from family, I bridged the gap and apologised. During this time, my fees weren’t paid for, and I was nearly kicked out of school.
Two years ago, I attempted to rebuild our relationship, but it hit me – hope is a dangerous drug when dealing with toxic people. He was still crass, still the same person.
I spent 27 years trying to fulfil a mission of peace – I thought it was my calling – my purpose. In my mind, I could bring the two halves of my family together, but truthfully, this is a mission that can never be fulfilled. I have chosen to accept this.
There is a grief that I have to come to terms with – my father is a villain, and he always was. However, there is also a power to be regained. I am the author of the next chapter of my life, and I choose to write it in living colour.
He didn’t speak to his father, and I don’t speak to mine. A vicious pattern. The lesson is: the cycle doesn’t end when relationships are fixed; the cycle ends when the behaviour is no longer tolerated.
I choose to not run towards the lessons he taught me, but instead, I move away from the man he became. I choose to be different – to love differently.
The most honourable work we could ever do is the work on ourselves, and in that, I have found peace.
