I have a problem with sequels, especially those that succeed very successful forebears because they many times go burst and don’t produce as much magic as their first installments, while in some few cases, the magic is recaptured and Walah! We have the birth of a successful franchise – all this grammar on top small children matter? *smiles*
After ‘Some Mothers Do Have Them’ and thinking that we have definitely moved on from that episode – see what these parents got!
I bought a toy car for my son, I’m sure you know him, the ‘pissing’ kid from ‘Some Mothers Do Have Them’, and after a while the batteries needed to be replaced as he could no longer work the car with the remote. That should be easy, right?
The problem is, the mum thinks the toy car is a nuisance as it scares our little girl each time it zig-zags around the sitting room – I actually believe my wife sabotaged the batteries.
Everything was fine until I traveled home from my station in Lagos and my four year old comes to me with the toy car and says, ‘Daddy come and put battery in my car, my fuel has finished.’
I look at my wife and she gives me that deadly look that tells me that I cannot meet that request. Sadly I look into my son’s eyes and break the bad news to him, ‘there’s fuel scarcity in town, no fuel for your car.’
My son looks at his mum and then at me with suspicious eyes and walks away with his car in his hand and no protestations.
‘That was strange,’ I tell my wife after he had gone, ‘what have you done to him?’ I ask, shocked by my son’s reaction.
‘It’s training,’ she beamed. ‘You’re the one that spoils the good work I have done when you come on weekends, when they are with me, they behave,’ she announced triumphantly.
All is well till Monday morning as I make to travel back to my station in Lagos. I’m surprised to see my four year old son sitting on one of the chairs in the sitting room as he’s supposed to be sleeping. Seeing him seated so quietly in that chair stirred up some feelings of guilt in me as I remembered that I didn’t replace the batteries of his toy car and so I made to bribe him to make me feel better.
As I opened my briefcase to give him a five hundred naira note which I was sure would end up with his mum, I saw it – my son’s toy car nestled in my bag. ‘Who put your car in my bag?’ I asked him, taking the car out of my bag.
The speed was bolt-like as my son practically flew out from his chair, forcing my hand back into the bag, ‘no…no…no…take it…take it,’ he said with the sound of a sage, ‘drive my car and your car…since you don’t want to buy fuel in my car, take it,’ he repeated, waving his tiny hand to show that he has left his car to me.
I just stood there moping. How do I drive my son’s toy Ferrari?
…IS NOT OUR PORTION TODAY
I watched as the young girl about Radiant’s age -my first daughter- spoke so eloquently about Nigeria as a fallen hero and then the Nigeria of her dreams. Her presentation brought out a tear from a few eyes and even the principal couldn’t help but speak with a shaky voice after receiving the microphone from the girl.
As we drove back home, I asked myself why that wasn’t my daughter on stage – my daughter’s expertise was rather in dancing in the school cultural group when she could be wowing audiences’ with her speeches.
It didn’t take long after we got home that I vented my frustration on her, ‘Radiant you better behave well, it’s your mate that recited that poem that made people cry in your school today,’ I said hoping to silence her with that.
She looks at me baffled by my outburst and in a tone bearing genuine surprise, she asks, ‘mummy, at times here when I use to sing God’s songs…don’t you cry?’
I look at her not knowing exactly what to do with her until her younger sister, Bliss, distracts me by changing the channel, ‘give me that control and go and do your homework,’ I say, with some fierceness in my voice.
My 5 year old daughter’s face is immediately wrinkled as she just stops herself from crying.
‘I will report you to your daddy if you don’t go inside to do your home-work now,’ I say a little more loudly as my two girls skip to their room. I smile to myself…that trick always works.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Accident is not our portion today in Jesus name.
‘Amen!’ My girls’ chorus.
‘Sickness is not our portion today in Jesus name,’ I solo again and as expected I hear my girls’ loud response of Amen. It was our morning devotion and my girls already knew the pattern of our prayers to understand where the ‘amen’ should slot into. Instead of just praying and closing up as was mostly the case, I decide to let my little girl, Bliss, say a prayer for the family as I occasionally allow them to, to test how much they are learning from Sunday school.
‘Provide money for my mummy and daddy in Jesus name,’
‘Amen!’ I respond in collaboration with her sister.
‘Accident is not our portion today in Jesus name,’
‘Amen!!’ I thunder again with her sister, even though I know I have mentioned that prayer line earlier.
Then there is a five seconds silence that makes me peep at my little girl, but her eyes were shut and her small lips were still forming words to say. This would be the longest prayer she would have uttered so far, if she manages to say another prayer line and of course she beat her prayer record with a wonderful line.
I will report you to daddy will not be our portion today in Jesus name
‘Amen!!!’ Her sister shouts in response.
I am too shocked to say anything as I’m not sure I heard right.
‘I will report you to daddy will not be our portion today, in Jesus name!!’ Bliss’ repeats, this time her voice ringing out even louder.
‘Amen!!!!’ Her sister bellows in equal zest.
I really tried to hold it…God knows I tried…but I just couldn’t…I burst out in laughter in the middle of our morning devotion.
Preparing to leave your family on an official trip can leave a funny feeling especially when you’re used to being around them.
Not knowing what to tell my nine year old boy as I place my hands on his shoulders, I began to advise him against bullying his younger siblings.
‘You’re the man of the house,’ I say philosophically, you should protect your younger ones, not bully or beat them.’
My son nods his head, paying good attention to me, ‘I’m the man of the house?’ He asks, his tone bearing a bit of suspicion.
‘Yes,’ I reply, tapping his shoulders proudly to emphasize my point.
‘That means mummy is my wife,’ my son quips.
I would have let it pass as an idle comment but just then I see the glint in my son’s eyes. ‘Mummy is my wife,’ I quickly correct him. ‘You’re the man of the house, not the husband to my wife.’
My son looks at me mischievously and then his face eases into a grin, Daddy Daddy.
I smile back at my boy who has a big smile on his face. He’s just nine years old, what could he possibly be thinking? I ask myself as his voice plays in my head, Daddy Daddy.