[img]https://i0.wp.com/www.toryhub.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/Cultural-Distortion.jpg?resize=750%2C562[/img]
CULTURAL DISTORTION
My father would not hear of it. He was willing to slave in order to give us good education. “I hope you heard me,” he said, gently pulling his ear in a clear attempt to drive home his point. “I heard you dad,” I replied. “Rather than marry a white woman, you should return home and marry from our kindred. Yes, it is an abomination, but we are willing to do the necessary things to appease the land, if need be. That would be a ‘better’ problem that marrying a white woman. I am sure you understand that my last comment is an analogy,” he stressed. “I have heard you, dad,” I said, even though I was not sure that I would not marry a white woman, should I fall in love with one. Some years down the line, I met a Canadian girl.
At first my father’s words echoed in my head despite my painstaking efforts to smother them. I was eager to make my father happy and proud. However, the more I got to know this girl, the more I became attached to her. “When you are done with your PhD, we’ll find you a ‘good wife’,” dad said to me over the phone one Christmas day. “Your mother and I have been talking about that lately,” he added. I could tell from his voice that he was grinning. He must have imagined the scenario multiple times – a colorful traditional wedding with a ‘proper Igbo girl’. “I am not sure what you mean by ‘a good wife’,” I replied. “I mean a well-raised girl; one from a reputable Igbo family. A girl that will take good care of you.” He went on to reel off the qualities of a good wife. “When I am ready to get married, I will find one for myself, dad,” I replied somberly. “I am sure you will, but if you need our help, we are here to offer it.”
“Thanks dad,” I answered. Some two days later, he called to clarify my statement. “My son, you told me two days ago that when you are ready to marry you’d find yourself a wife, right?” “Yes, I remember saying that.” “Of course it will be an Igbo girl, right? I am guessing you may have met one there already.” “I cannot guarantee that it will be and Igbo girl, dad,” I retorted. “Chineke ekwele ihe ojoo (God forbid)!!!” he said with a palpable degree of shock. I could almost hear his heart pounding like an old British steam engine, laboriously snaking its way through the hinterland from Enugu to Port Harcourt. “Are you saying that you intend to marry an Oyibo (white) woman?” “That is not exactly what I am saying, but it’s a possibility.” “But at least, there isn’t one now, right?” he queried frantically. His voice was begging for a ‘no’.
“I am not thinking of marriage right now dad, but when I do, it could be an Oyibo girl or an Igbo girl; even a Yoruba or Ibibio girl,” I stressed, throwing in as many tribes and races as I could think of, to water down the shock I was hurling at my poor father. “My son, I don’t mind a Yoruba, Hausa or Efik girl, just don’t marry a white woman; okwa I na anu (I hope you are listening to me)?” He quickly expanded the area he was willing to accept in a desperate attempt to exclude any possibility of me marrying a white girl. Like a feudal lord, he generously offered me more acreage to roam, so far as I did not head westwards to the white girl’s domain. His magnanimous offer reminded me of the gesture by king Joffrey to his son, Akeem in Coming to America – “wonder through America…relish your youth, then come home and marry a girl from Zamunda.” The discussion between my dear father and I continued every now and again until I was finally ready to marry. Lo and behold, I decided to marry my white Canadian girlfriend. A part of me still wanted to make my parents happy and proud and another part of me just wanted to be marry my white Canadian girlfriend. A part of me still wanted to make my parents happy and proud, and another part of me just wanted to be happy.
I went ahead and told my mother my intentions first. “My son, onyekwara nsogbu (this is tough),” she said. “O na ejekwa uka (does she go to church)?” she asked. “Yes, she does mom,” I replied eagerly. “Does she go wholeheartedly or does she go when she feels like…at Christmas and Easter?” “She goes wholeheartedly,” I answered obsequiously. “Well, it is not easy for us to take, but if it makes you happy, I guess we’ll have to accept it,” she summarized. “You have to find a way to convince your dad,” she remarked. I agreed, but afterwards, I dragged my feet over talking to my father for weeks. I desperately wanted to make him happy as much as I wanted to be happy. Each time I picked up the phone to call him, I decided against it, waiting for a perfect time that I knew did not exist. One evening, I decided to take the bull by the horns. I rang him up and told him my intentions straight up. The ensuing silence was ‘deafening’. I feared that he might have gone down with a cardiac arrest. “Are you there dad?” I asked anxiously.
“Yes,” he replied in a low, subdued voice. That was not the energetic man I had known all my life. “My son, I had feared that this day would come at some point,” he said. I kept quiet, pressing the phone tightly against my ear as I listened raptly to him. “Even though I feared that this might happen, nothing quite prepares you for it. I fear that a white woman would not allow you to stay rooted to our values…our culture. I fear that you will no longer return home as you ought to. How are you going to raise your children? Will we get to know them? Will they get to know and appreciate our culture? I guess I am afraid of too many things, but there is one that scares the living day out of me,” he said. “What might that be?” I asked him calmly, swallowing hard to wet my dry throat. Another spell of silence ensued. “Are you not afraid of possible divorce? You know that is not common in our culture?” he asked. “I am dad, and I hope it never happens to us.” “Everyone thinks like that until it happens to them, but that is not even my main fear.” “And what is your major fear, dad?” He took a deep breath and then began to speak. “Have you…” He stuttered.
I waited, refusing the urge to lend him words to complete his sentence. “Have you at any time…” He paused again. The suspense was excruciating. This was in mid-winter yet, I could feel a cavalcade of sweat marching furiously across my forehead. “Have you seen this girl…I mean have you ever seen her…seen her angry?” He finally managed to get the words out.
“Yes, why?” I was bemused. I guess I was expecting something more outlandish. Complicated! “We all get angry dad. She does, like everyone else,” I said.
“You have seen her angry before?”
“Sure dad, why?” “She was angry with you?”
“Yes, she was…she has been angry with me a few times and I have been angry with her as well,” I replied, wondering where this was going. “She has been angry with you and…” Another mystic spell of silence ensued. I listened, waiting for him to drop the bombshell even though I could not possibly see where this was going. “She has been angry with you and…and she did not pick up a gun and shot you?” He spoke quickly as he labored to hit the nail on the head. Then, I began to appreciate the concern in his voice. All along he was looking out for me, yet, I could not suppress the ball of laughter that was raging within me. “Why are you laughing? This is serious. Isn’t that how they settle arguments over there?” He asked. His voice was laced with deep concern and seriousness.
“Not everyone here has a gun, dad,” I explained, in an attempt to calm him down. “Not everyone knows how to shoot either. Movies paint quite a picture of western culture to us, just as the media pains quite a different picture of African cultures to westerners. Yes, a lot of people own guns here, but not really everyone. Besides, she is Canadian not American,” I clarified. “Are they any different? Don’t they all shoot when they are angry?”
“No dad, not all of them. It is different in Canada, and even in America not everyone shoots at random.” I was doing a better job of suppressing my laughter by now. At the same time, I was left in awe by my father’s love for me and his willingness to protect his son, at all cost. It is quite interesting and powerful how the media shapes our view of people we have never seen or met…of places we have never seen or experienced.
THE END
