Fathers are not Supermen

July 12, 2012 will always remain a memorable day. The day I realized that Fathers are not Supermen. I used to see Papa as my indestructible Superman. He played a mother and father role the moment mama died. I was told she died at child birth. After thirteen years of praying for the fruit of the womb, she didn't stay to see her first and last fruit.

Papa and I bonded the moment I was born. I would always reach out for him to carry me. It was an unusual bond between a father and daughter. He fed me, change my diapers and even tell me stories of cunning tortise every night before I sleep. Papa told me how excited he was when I made my first attempt to walk.
I was his pride and he was my Hero.

It brought about rumors from people in the village. Some said I brought Happiness to Papa. Others said I was a child of circumstance. Still, there were those who claimed I was evil and I took Mama's life to replace her position in Papa's life.

I remember Papa and I sitting under the Udara(star apple) tree and he would tell me stories of how he was a stubborn child. He would stand by the road leading to the village water spring to flog young ladies returning from fetching water. Out of shock, their water pot will break which will lead to trouble knocking at the door of his parents. How I miss those days.

The days I loved most were those I followed Papa to his small farm where he grew cassava and corn. Those were the most cultivated crops in our small town. When I returned from the local community school one afternoon, Papa was already set to leave for the farm.

I hurriedly ate my food and changed into a simple dress. With Papa holding my hands, we left for the farm. I kept jumping happily and chattering the ABC'S I learnt at school. I was but a child and never had to worry about anything. Little did I know that there were dark days. And it began in that faithful day.

On getting to the farm, Papa set to work while I run about the farm playing with butterflies and screaming out to birds that went on their business. My eyes travelled to a tree where bees had built their home. I took a stick and started destroying their home. Papa told me to stop for the bees did not like being Disturbed.

I left to continue playing with the butterflies. But when I was sure that Papa was engrossed in his weeding, I immediately began hitting the bee hive again. True to Papa's word, the bees became angry and attacked. I screamed loudly calling out for Papa's help. Papa immediately came running to my aid and covered me to prevent the bees from stinging me. The bees fed on Papa's body. He yelled and yelled continuously crying out in pains for help. He yelled for a long time but nobody came. I was simply crying under Papa's body. After a long time, Papa stopped crying. I heard the bees left.

I was relieved that Papa and I will leave. But Papa remain stilled on me. I called Papa but he didn't respond. I remained under papa till what seems like hours until I started hearing people's voice. They rolled papa out and carried me. There was blood everywhere.

They carried Papa and I home. People started gathering. That was when it occurred to me that Papa had died. I didn't know whether to cry. But I could hear someone shouting "Papa o". I'm not sure if it was me.

I was just 8 when it happened but I could feel the emptiness and impact of being alone. Papa was no Superman but he was my hero and June 12, 2012 still feels like yesterday.

If I get the opportunity to see Papa again, I will tell him that the poor little girl he left behind never found as much happiness as he gave her.

This is my story. Someday, I'll tell a tale of how stories are told.

Thank you @fabio2614 for this opportunity.

@eliany @abijos @dequeen I will love to mention you guys to join this contest.