At the end of March 2002, after I wrapped up a three-month consulting contract with an NGO in Harare, I popped into the gift shop in the Meikles Hotel to buy Mum a present. I settled on a soapstone carving—a Zimbabwean speciality—of two entwined hands that I thought she would like. While the clerk wrapped Mum’s present I noticed a stand of African canes; in the middle was one with a pommel carved in the shape of a lion’s head. I didn’t think twice. Dad, you see, was a Leo: the kindest, gentlest Leo you ever could meet. I bought the cane.
Three months later I arrived in Belfast. It was Father’s Day. I gave Mum her soapstone carving. “It’s lovely,” she said. Then I turned to Dad. I brought you something for Father’s Day, I said. Dad looked up, surprised: gift-giving wasn’t a part of our close relationship. I made a little speech about the cane—about the ironwood it is made of, about the five-star Meikles Hotel and about the lion’s-head pommel that reminded me of him. My speech over, I offered Dad his cane, carefully, from my two hands into his two hands.
At 90 years of age, with his sight pretty well gone, he ran a hand along the wood to appreciate its smoothness. Then, wrapping his right hand around the lion’s head, he stood and, planting the cane firmly in the carpet, put all his weight on it to test its strength. The cane didn’t bend, at all. A broad smile spread across Dad’s face. I’d worried he’d see it as a walking stick, a sign of decline. His smile told me he saw it as a gentleman’s cane, a sign of prestige and, most of all, a gift his son brought all the way from Africa.
Telling my colleagues I was one of 10 children created some incredulous laughter. ‘C’mon, Patrick,’ one of them said, “you guys don’t have 10 kids. That’s what we Africans do.’ Well, I replied, ‘nobody told Mum and Dad that’
That evening I carried two mugs of tea to Mum and Dad in the living room, then went and sat at the dining-room table, looking out at the back garden and the tall hawthorn hedge at the bottom of it. It wasn’t long before the living-room door opened and there was Dad, asking if there was any more tea in the pot. Of course there was. I filled his mug, stirred in sugar and milk, and put it in front of him.
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He asked how I was doing in Montreal, so I told him about my new job, why I had been sent to Harare, the NGO I worked with, the Zimbabwean people, their good humour and laughter despite their troubles.
To cheer him up—losing his sight had hit him hard—I told him about my Friday evenings in the Meikles pub in the company of some NGO staffers who, curious, had invited me to join them. They’d assumed, naturally enough, that I was Canadian, so when I said I was Irish they were surprised. Then I added, “from Northern Ireland,” and suddenly I had their undivided attention. Immediately, they wanted to know about the conflict there.
I explained what I’d witnessed from the late 1960s to the mid-1970s, when I left, but as soon as possible I steered the conversation away from politics and towards the history of their country, going back to Great Zimbabwe. My knowledge of their homeland, I explained, I’d gleaned from the book Africa in History by Basil Davidson, which I’d bought at Heathrow Airport and read on the plane there. The staffers were surprised, and pleased.
‘Thank you, Patrick, for sharing your story. For us Africans it’s very important to know which tribe you are from.’ I thought for a moment before replying, equally confidentially, ‘In Belfast it is also important’
With politics and history out of the way—and as a certain number of Zambezi beers had been consumed—the questions became more personal. A staffer asked if I had kids. I said no but added that I was one of 10, which created some incredulous laughter. “C’mon, Patrick,” someone said, “you guys don’t have 10 kids. That’s what we Africans do.” Well, I replied, “nobody told Mum and Dad that.”
Dad nodded, smiled when I told him that, and said: “You’re right there, Pat, you’re right there.”
At the end of the first Friday evening in Harare the staffers shook my hand. One of them, leaning in, said, in a confidential tone, “Thank you, Patrick, for sharing your story. For us Africans it’s very important to know which tribe you are from.” I thought for a moment before replying, equally confidentially, “In Belfast it is also important.”
Suddenly, Dad was laughing as I’d never heard him laugh before. I think he’d forgotten, momentarily, that this storyteller was his son. I’d come of age; I had good stories to tell.
Five years later Dad joined a different tribe. Each Father’s Day I remember his laughter that June evening in 2002. And I suppose I always will.
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