NON-FICTION

~The stranger I love ~ PRT1

It wasn’t that typical Hollywood type of reunion. He smiled, his wife cried, and I was unknowingly still in a state of shock. I hugged him and said “Hello Marcel”. The anger and questions that existed would not allow me to throw myself in his arms, cry, and call him ‘Daddy’.

Wow, his hair was grey, and had slightly aged from the Seventies afro pictures that I had relied on. He was a tall, strapping man, with a light brown complexion, and had a big friendly smile. Even though everyone had always said I looked like my mother, I saw my face in his.

The feeling was surreal, here I was….. finally. I was in Gabon, West Africa. I hadn’t seen Marcel since I was six years old, and even then it had been the first time I met him. Now eighteen years later, and after Marcel’s many broken promises, I had arrived.

The airport was humid and busy with everyone looking for someone. Some people had name signs, but most didn’t need one. We exchanged pleasantries despite the language barrier, and began to make our way to the house.

We got into Marcel’s pickup truck, and made our way through Libreville, Gabon’s capital. I observed his wife, her name was Evelyne. She was tiny in frame and height. She was Senegalese, olive skinned, very beautiful with Henna red hair. I hoped that she was not the cruel stepmother type sporting her crocodile tears at the airport. I was Marcel’s only child, and she had never been able to have children. I wasn’t sure if I would end up suffering for this.

As we drove I looked at the houses. Mansion…small house…. wooden shack….. small house…. mansion… mansion….. wooden shack. Can you get any more cosmopolitan than this? I wondered what sort of house we would be pulling up outside of. I always knew Marcel was a well known top chef in the country, and worked for the Vice President, but I had no idea of how he lived.

After ten minutes, we pulled up outside of a nice white and green cement house. It had green metal gates with a huge mango tree behind them, protecting the house from outside glares. We were greeted by an excited Alsatian puppy named Rambo, who couldn’t even contain himself at the sight of Marcel. The main doors opened straight into the front room, and the kitchen and bedrooms ran off it. The décor was nice and inviting, and I felt comfortable.

My mind ran on England, wondering how my mum was. She had not wanted me to go to Gabon and see Marcel. As far as she was concerned he didn’t care, so why should I. I explained to her that this was a personal thing that I needed to do. All my mother could see was she had raised me alone, struggling on a notorious council estate to make ends meet with no help. Marcel was a foreign student when he came to England in 1977, and had not intended on staying long. His VISA expired when I was three days old, my mum did not hear from him till I was six months old.

Years went by full of sporadic phone calls and Marcel’s empty promises. Primary school, secondary school, adolescence, getting married at 18, moving out of home, all completed without Marcel. At that point of my life my feelings were indifferent towards Marcel, as I could not really miss what I had never had.

At church one day the service was about forgiveness, and people subliminally holding onto things that someone else has done to you. Pastor Goodman then went on to talk about forgiving parents also. He explained that they too are human, and may not intentionally do the things they do. I pondered on this for a while, it had been a few years since I had spoken to Marcel and I came to the decision that I will try to locate him. I thought to myself that I didn’t have children, so who am I to judge a parent? What if I did have children and did something to upset them, wouldn’t I want to be forgiven? Marcel also represented my African side, as my mum was from the Caribbean. My African side was important to me. I wanted to know the culture, language, the place. I wanted to know where I was from.

My mum gave me a phone number that she had for Marcel, simultaneously giving me the warning of “he’ll let you down again”. After a few failed attempts and obtaining alternative numbers from the people I was calling, I finally got through to him.

He was ecstatic, and we called each other frequently from that day. A couple of months had passed and Marcel suggested I come to Gabon and promised to buy the ticket. In my mind I wanted to believe him, but a hard knocked life had transformed me into a person that took what everybody said with a pinch of salt to avoid disappointment. I would not allow myself to be ‘naïve’ to Marcel. We set a date but I had already told myself if everything was not confirmed by a specific date I would just book a holiday to Grenada instead, and spend time with my mother’s family. I was not wasting two weeks of my annual leave for anyone!!

The trip to Gabon was great and I met my massive family who referred to me only by my African name ‘Ovili’. I met all of Marcel’s work colleagues and updated their image of the little girl in the tatty photo that Marcel would carry around with him in his suit pocket. I even developed a close relationship with my stepmother, who wasn’t a cruel stepmother after all. She treated me like I was her own child. She embraced me and made me feel welcome. I even made friends with Marcel’s sidekick Rambo, who had stopped barking like crazy whenever I approached the house. I felt like I belonged here, I felt complete. My missing half had been found, and I was whole.

I even had ‘the talk’ with Marcel, asking the questions about his procrastination as a father. I asked his close friend Laurent to be present. I knew a little French, and Marcel knew a little English, so I knew an interpreter would be best so I would be able to express myself. Marcel apologised and took ownership for his failings. He could only promise to make the future better, and that was enough for me. All the weight of a hard upbringing, failed relationships, battles with my mum, were wiped out with an apology. As of then, I could call him ‘Dad’.

After I left Gabon we kept in contact, my French had improved and I was able to communicate well with my Dad. Long gone were the days where I would clutch to my French dictionary to look up every word I needed to say.

Two years had passed and my soul yearned for my Dad and family in Gabon. He hadn’t been feeling too well and had just come out of hospital. The lifestyle he had lived of being a heavy smoker, drinker and eating rich foods had caught up with him. Now he was suffering from Diabetes, high blood pressure, and heart problems, but he was stable. I explained to him that I wanted to come to Gabon, but he tried to convince me to come in a few months time when he would be able to take me all over the place. I felt it did not have to be that type of holiday. I would have been fine just spending time with him, so I decided to go then.

It was May 29th 2005, and I was back in that humid airport….I was home again.

My dad and I spent time visiting friends, cooking and laughing. I followed him to his doctors appointments, and everyone was commenting how much better he seemed since I had arrived. My dad seemed very loved as he was the youngest of 10. He was extremely humorous, and kept everyone laughing wherever he went. I saw where I had got a lot of my characteristics from, because from a young age I knew I was not like my mum.

One week to the day after my arrival I was awoken in my sleep at 3am by Evelyne, she told me that she was taking my Dad to the hospital as he was having difficulty breathing. I had to stay and watch my younger cousins as they were staying over for the night.

At 5.30am a usually quiet Rambo, would not stop howling. It sounded like he was crying. I wondered to myself if that was a sign, but shrugged it off and went back to sleep.

I woke up at 8.30am and Evelyne still had not returned from the hospital. I assumed that she was spending time with my Dad and would return shortly. At 9.30am I saw three cars pulling up outside. The gates opened and my older cousin Jackie entered, then my uncle, then two aunts, then Evelyne…..at this point I knew.

I looked at Jackie, he looked at me. He slowly motioned his two hands as if to say ‘it’s finished’. Marcel was dead! Evelyne started wailing and was hysterical. I didn’t know what to do, I was stunned. Wasn’t it just yesterday we all had a nice day indoors? Wasn’t it last night we snacked on paw-paw, sprinkled with lime juice at the table together? Wasn’t it less than twelve hours ago I kissed my Dad’s forehead and told him ‘goodnight’?..... Yet now he is gone?..... Just like that?

I asked Evelyne what time he died, and she said 5.30am. My intuition about Rambo’s howling had been correct.

I felt so sad for everyone else. I was his child, yet I was the one who knew him the least. I had cousins screaming and wailing that were closer to him than I was. I couldn’t believe he could just die like that, when we were just getting to know each other.

On the day of the funeral I felt resentment as I sat in that same front room I had arrived into two years prior. The front room had been temporarily turned into a chapel and had his coffin in the centre with a fan blowing on him to keep his grey body cool in the sweltering heat. It was Gabonese tradition to bring the body home the day before the funeral.......CONT IN PART 2