African Fathers in the Diaspora Succumb to Western Fathering Methods
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Appleton, WI - It’s a crisp fall day, and the leaves are turning golden brown. Woodland animals are scurrying to and fro, working to gather their food for the winter. Mark Gblevo and Martin Ogbeni watch keenly as their children play in the foliage at the park where the two meet to catch up on current events and share their woes as African dads in America. Ordinarily, the two would never speak, let alone befriend each other. They are from warring rival tribes in West Africa. But they share a common enemy here in America that unites them: Working to silence the shrill screams and meet the unreasonable demands of their young offspring.
“Being a father in this country is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” says Obgeni. “I mean, the requirements are just unattainable.”
Mark nods his head in agreement.
“My father would never stand for this type of treatment,” explains Mark. “As a young boy, I saw him on average an hour everyday. He left early in the morning to go to work, came home and ate his dinner alone, and informed us at 7:30 pm it was time for us to leave the hall so that he could watch TV.”
Glevo and Ogbeni talk of how their own children routinely take food from their plates, urinate on their clothing and never allow them to change the channel on television from Disney.
Martin shares how his two year old daughter manages to amaze him on a daily basis. “It’s like she knows how to navigate my manhood…she just doesn’t seem to respect. She asks me the same question five, six, sometimes twelve times. She knows how to frustrate me. And just when it seems like I’m about to break, she’ll crack a smile and say ‘Hey Daddy!’…and I end up giving her what she wants.” His eyes are down cast as he whispers his next words. “I am a degreed man, you understand? I took child psychology in university. And yet, I-I can’t win. They don’t teach you about the demons who come to possess two year-old children!”
Mark pats his friend’s knee in support. He finishes up the interview, since his compadre seems too distraught to carry on talking about his demise.
“Basically, our suffering is as a result of the break down of the family structure here in America. In Africa, I saw my mom only a little more than I saw my dad. My memories of mothering are from our house-girl, Fatima, who essentially raised us. Our parents were authority figures. We asked them for money and permission to go to jams. When they went to sleep, we stole the car to ride around town. When the house got too noisy, daddy left for the nearest beer bar. Probably to forget he had children at all. There was a sense of order, you understand? But these kids…I mean ah!”
As if on cue, Obeni’s son runs trouser-less to his father throwing a urine-stained garment into his lap before scampering off. He looks helplessly at the soaked jean material now in his possession. Martin now pats his friend’s knee in support. This helps Mark carry on.
“My father would sooner cut his leg off before he allowed me to throw pissy trousers on him.”
