I was on holiday with my daddy to Nigeria. My father Mr. Jones is from the southeastern part of Nigeria. His Nigerian name is Ikpeadiamkpo. My father as the story goes left Nigeria in the late eighties to the US to seek greener pastures. When he got to the United States, a lot of folks could not pronounce his name, so he adopted a new name, Mr. Jones. His main reason for adopting the name was because he wanted his name to sound like the Americanas.
My dad had a supposedly good friend then, by the name of Mr. Wymne. Mr. Wymne had told my father that anytime he wanted to visit the States, he could come stay with him. On this note of invitation, my father decided to make NY his port of entry into America, where he hoped to reside and start a new life.
When my father arrived in La Guardia, New York, his first shock was that Mr. Wymne was not at the airport to receive him as was previously arranged. He could deal with that because anything could have happened to prevent him from coming. He then decided to call Mr. Wymne but never got through to him. He then made it through the wintry afternoon to Staten Island, the address he had been posting letters to Mr. Wymne. On arrival at Wymne’s residence, nobody was home. He rang the doorbell over and over again. He saw a Cherokee Jeep parked in the driveway. He was confused and didn’t know what to do. To make matters worse, what Dad wore for a winter jacket could at best cope well with spring. By this time, Dad was literally freezing. His teeth were chattering and if you had tapped his ears he would have felt no sensation. It then dawned on him that once again, life had thrown a twist at him.
Mr. Wymne’s neighbour took pity on my dad. Mrs. Winterhill was watching from her window, this stranger who would not go away and looked weather-beaten. My dad never understood the meaning of winter. If he did, he would not have done such a disservice to himself by dressing that way, to NY in the middle of winter. My dad was freezing to death. When he rang the doorbell of the Winterhills, Mrs. Winterhill did not hesitate to open the door.
The first words that escaped out of my dad’s lips were “Can I please sit next to the fire? I am dying of cold.”
The lady positioned him next to the radiator and made him a hot cup of tea with a toast. My dad had a glimpse of what heaven would be like after he was taken in by Mrs. Winterhill.
The little toddler kept rattling, “Who is he, mammy? He looks lost”.
Clara replied, “He is a traveller who has just arrived from across the Atlantic”.
“What is Atlantic, mammy?” the toddler carried on.
“A big sea that is so big that you can find whales in them”.
My dad explained to Clara what had just befallen him and showed her his passport to prove that he had just arrived from Nigeria. Not having anywhere to go from the airport, he had to find his way to Wymne’s house. Mrs. Winterhill kept saying he must have been stuck or something as she was sure she had seen him that morning. The snow was unusually heavy that day. Night crept upon my daddy and Mrs. Winterhill had to call her husband at work to explain the situation she found herself in. Does she send a stranger out into the biting cold? Does she stay with an unknown man in a house without her husband because she wants to be a good woman? My daddy said that he overheard the woman say to the person on the other end of the phone “I can’t. You needed to see how he was shivering when he came in. He is fresh from Africa, where it is nice and sunny to this miserable frosty season”.
The woman must have accidentally pressed the speaker button on the phone when Dad overheard, “I don’t want him in my house…before I get back, I want him outta my house.”
Too late. Dad had heard!
When the woman came out from the adjoining room where she was having the telephone conversation, Dad started gathering his stuff together saying “It’s getting late, I must leave. Thanks for everything, Mrs. Winterhill”.
The lady asked Dad,“Leave, to where?” and Dad said he didn’t know. The lady knew she should not take the risk of being alone with this total stranger, yet something on the inside of her felt so sorry for my dad.
“I will at least fix you some hot dinner before you leave,” Clara said.
My dad ate the dinner and did not have a clue what the night held in store for him. With only one hundred and fifty-two dollars in his pocket, he knew that at least he had tried his best in life. For a moment, he fast-forwarded his life ten years and the picture he saw was bright and beautiful. He saw himself in a nice cozy home with warmth and lots of space around. He saw his wife and children in the living room playing the piano and violin while he sang “Our God is an awesome God… He reigns…” The door unlocked and Samuel walked into the room truncating Dad’s daydreaming.
It wasn’t an apparition. It was real. “Sam!” my father called out.
“Epe!” Sam called back totally lost. That’s what they used to call Dad in Monrovia because they could not pronounce his original name of Ikpeadiamkpo.
To be continued…
Uwem Umana
Uwem is an educational consultant, learning expert, business analyst, youth leader, coach and mentor. He has taught in three continents – Africa, Europe and Asia. He is a story teller, poet, essayist and critique. His passion is to instill confidence in people through stories to enable them succeed in life. Photography is also one of his favourite hobbies. He has published three collection of short stories I Can’t Lie to Myself and Other Stories(2023), Son of The Soil and Other Stories(2021) and Dead and Other Stories(2021); anthology of poems Awakening the Troubadours (A new anthology, 2003) edited by Taye Anavhe and a collection of poems Drums and Blues(1999). His new novel, The Travel Tales of My Father Mr. Jones & Other Stories, from which this story is culled. is available in our Bookshop.
