These last two hours have been very enlightening. I literally figured out all the right moves I would have made, and I am going to fix them all.

I would have been an academic genius if I had put my mind to it, but I was lazy. I preferred to play football, climb trees, and stone down “ebelebo” fruits even when they weren’t ripe enough to eat. These things gave some momentary sense of satisfaction at the time; I didn’t feel the need to please anyone at those times—not my father, who wanted me to join in palm wine tapping; my mother, who wanted me to put on a tie like those who came from the city; or my petite teacher, who would stretch to knock my head for the umpteenth time because I was late to school. None of these things mattered to me. I was only interested in what to eat and how to break out of my family poverty chain. Did I get to achieve that? Not exactly.

I had no idea how to build my self-worth in a society where men were supposed to be something, making a name for themselves so they would be respected. I never knew that wealth creation or my poverty alleviation scheme was tied to networks, my skills, and how much I might be able to bend my rules—rules that were already skewed because I lacked proper guidance.

My father was a palm wine tapper in our community—not one of the best—and my mother did some subsistence farming, which put food on our table, or should I say our barely cemented floor. While my father believed going to school was unnecessary because, on one hand, people had been surviving without formal education from time immemorial, and on the other hand, it was time that should have been channelled to farming or other trade activities—things that make a man, my mother admired how exotic the volunteers from the city looked when they came to teach or administer medication, so I was somewhere in the middle, unsure what I wanted to do and be—but I definitely didn’t like the village lifestyle. Not like I knew any other kind of lifestyle…I just knew it wasn’t for me.

I do not think my father made much of a name for himself; I would say he settled for the bare minimum. Not only that, I also think he didn’t provide much of an example for me and my siblings. He had anger issues. Sometimes, I wondered if he was my father; other times, I included his behaviour as part of what forms and makes a man. So, if a man is not aggressive and violent, no one would probably respect him—a man was to be feared.

My mum was at the receiving end of his tantrums; I think I was next. I became a bit hardened by the ungodly amount of battering I witnessed, but that wasn’t the core of my life’s challenges, or maybe it was part of the building blocks.

I saw myself through the lenses of my father’s life; I believed I could not attain certain levels of greatness, and I didn’t. Any time I had a win, I was more eager to let someone else take the glory, even at times when it was glaring that it was solely my win.

I got lucky. I managed to pull through school, land a small job as a civil servant, and get married, but I still hadn’t discovered who I was; I didn’t have the boldness to speak among my peers.

My wife always got pissed when I would ignore sly comments about me during gatherings. She was used to seeing men be men, as she had an enterprising father who commanded a lot of respect among his peers and even with some of his seniors. She started nagging me about trying out new things, being more ambitious, and standing up for myself. It got to me a lot, but I wasn’t even sure how to handle it, so rage kicked in. I got violent with her; it became a habit.

Sincerely, I didn’t mean to go down that route, but at the spur of the moment, my mind convinced me that I had to protect my ego and stamp my mark of authority, so I don’t become a simp—my grandchildren taught me that one.

Yes, my wife and I had children together—four of them. I think I messed things up with them. Between being terrified as to whether I could be a good father and attempting to force self-worth down their throat, I ruined things for them and myself. Before I knew what was happening, I had recreated my childhood in an even worse way.

My children were not comfortable sharing what happened in their lives with me; that made me even more furious. One became a hooligan, and instead of me introspecting and switching parenting methods, I took it out on his mom and then got into a fight with him. That fight put me in a wheelchair. I hadn’t factored in the part where modernisation had emboldened children. No true African child would raise a hand on his father no matter what the father did. The most shocking part was that he didn’t show any remorse. It was as if his plan was to leave me to die. Thankfully, I cheated death.

The one thing that would have stood out as a thing of worth was overlooked and downplayed—I provided. I thought that was the yardstick for measuring a man’s worth: providing for his family and paying the school fees. I diligently provided; I didn’t abandon them, but they abandoned me…something about not nurturing a connection.

Some people advised me to beg my wife for forgiveness even though she never uttered a word about my wrongdoings; she never left me. I struggled with that for 2 years because what kind of a man would that make me? Back in the village it was an unwritten rule—men never beg. When I eventually made up my mind to appeal to her good conscience, I was a little too late. All the time I was stalling, I wasn’t aware she was battling with an illness her children, our children, knew about and were managing. After all the years, she was still meek. She would have accepted my apology without a blink, but she yielded to death.

Since she was no longer there to look after me, my health deteriorated. My children were nice enough to hire a carer, but they never visited. I wanted them to sit around my table, but they were nowhere to be found. Whatever did I do to get such a cold shoulder at a time when I needed their company the most?

Wasn’t it normal for fathers to be strict? My father did not sit around and joke with us; he needed us to fall in line at the sound of his voice, and we did. I wanted my children to move at the sound of my voice too, but it seems I terrified them. What is this new culture of building a bond with one’s children? I thought we were to be parents and not friends. Mine were the ones to run into hiding at the sound of my car sound. I must confess I actually enjoyed wielding such powers, not sensing the adverse effects.

My children were broken. They didn’t enjoy all of the benefits of having a father because though I was present, I wasn’t. I also didn’t give their mother the chance to be a great mother because I was always interrupting her life with my show of strength; even then, she outdid me hands down where parenting was concerned.

What can I do to make up for my lapses?

My health has grown worse in the last two months since the injury from the fight affected my spine. First, I was told I had a few months, but that quickly turned into days and hours. For the first time in a very long time, I finally decided to introspect—take stock of my life, and for the first time, I see all the places I went wrong.

In hindsight, I would have built character. I would have learnt to be a better husband and father; I would have learnt the art of good communication and good listening, together with emotional intelligence; I would have believed in myself, not living in my father’s shadows; I would have figured out what worked best for me and not feared taking on bigger responsibilities; when I saw that things were going south, I would have sought a mentor; I would have stayed winning instead of accepting the bare minimum or giving up.

I was walking alone this whole time, very lonely. Sometimes I wonder if that was how my father felt. It must have been difficult trying to be something yet having life slap your reality back in your face. With my parents, I didn’t feel pain. Only a longing to break free from what was considered the regular. But today, on death’s bed, I feel a deep pain—of regret, of a yearning to fix my wrongs, of knowing my time is up and nothing I do now can reverse the last 75 years of my life.

I plan to fix things, but what is the best use of my last hour? I would want forgiveness from my children; they won’t come to see me, so I guess I would make this difficult journey alone, facing the consequences of my actions.

I guess I would savour the very few good memories while I sail with my forebears to the other side.

Pardon me if I shed a tear, break a smile, or whisper some prayers as I journey on, for my heart is heavy to the point of death.