Some
call him President, some others call him Gisage, and many know him as Capone.
His real name is Alphonse Barikage. He is a great and brilliant guy.
When he comes to our Basketball court on Wednesdays evening, we all know that the fun is just about to begin. He has some old school basketball moves that remind me of Kareem Abdul Jabaar’s sky hook (I have the footage to prove it, but I won’t share it here…)
When he comes to our Basketball court on Wednesdays evening, we all know that the fun is just about to begin. He has some old school basketball moves that remind me of Kareem Abdul Jabaar’s sky hook (I have the footage to prove it, but I won’t share it here…)
What
I didn’t know was that Capone is a great writer. He just published a piece in
one of Toronto’s big newspapers, and it is a real work of art. As we are about
to celebrate Fathers’ day, I thought that the timing of the article is just perfect
Here
it is. Ladies and Gentlemen, here comes Alphonse Barikage, a.k.a Capone
Enjoy
A
walk down memory lane
When I reach for my son's hand, I
feel my father's palm in mine, Alphonse Barikage writes
How would I be remembered?
The question on how I will be
remembered after I die has not been one that I have spent much time pondering.
That was, until a few years ago, when my then 8-year-old son – yes you heard it
right – raised the topic with me.
It was a beautiful spring day. For
the first time that year, the sun was full out. Marcus and I decided to walk to
the local library to borrow some books. Children were playing soccer and
others, shooting hoops on the street.
Cars were driving slowly, honking
occasionally to get the children's attention and have them clear the way.
Neighbours were trading jokes and pleasantries across the street from their
porch. You could tell that everyone was happy that winter was
finally over.
Marcus and I had been walking for
about 10 minutes in silence, taking in the cacophonous sounds from the street
and the fresh smell emanating from a soil that has just emerged from a
long winter.
Marcus interrupted our silence.
"Papa, have you noticed that
every time we go for a walk, you are always holding my hand"
"Really?" I said. It was
probably something I was doing instinctively, almost like breathing, in a
protective gesture.
"I do it to keep you safe,
Marcus," I continued. "There are many cars and too many distracted
drivers. I don't want you to run into traffic."
At that point, images from my
childhood in Burundi, where I was born, started rolling in my head. It was not
just one, but several images rolling out, almost like a slide show. In each of
those memories, I was walking hand in hand with my dad.
In the most vivid image, my dad was
walking me to school for the first time. I was five years old. It was early in
the morning and we had taken a shortcut, away from the main road. We were on
narrow path, surrounded by tall grass. The grass, once all green, had turned
dry after three months of a harsh dry season.
That morning, I had woken up early
from the excitement. As we got closer to the school, my excitement started
turning into anxiety. The fear of the unknown was settling in. Then, something
magical happened. Every time I squeezed my dad's hand, the anxiety would ease.
I still remembered it as if it were yesterday.
I also remember us walking to my
first appointment at the dentist. Similarly, my anxiety eased after holding my
dad's hand. There are several other moments such as this one in my
early life.
My dad died suddenly when I was 15. A
heart attack took him at the relatively young age of 60. He was speaking to my
younger sister when disaster struck. A teacher, he was helping her prepare for
an upcoming exam.
Only a few pictures of him remain. In
one photo, he is standing, with the horizon as a background, holding my oldest
brother's hand. I can see my brother's small hand disappearing into my dad's
large palm.
This is the picture of my dad that I
like the most.
I went back to Marcus and said:
"Marcus, do you know that my dad also used to hold my hand when we went for
a walk?"
"Cool!" Marcus said
"Do you also think your grandpa used to hold your dad's hand when they
went for a walk?" he asked.
I had no idea, but that image of my
dad and his dad walking up or down a hill, hand in hand, somewhere in Rwanda,
the country where my dad was born 95 years ago, made sense to me.
"Probably," I
finally replied.
"Awesome! When I grow up and go
for a walk with my son, I will hold their hand just like you and my grandpa
did. So this way, holding my son's hand will always remind me of you, long
after you are gone." Marcus smiled.
I smiled back.
"And, what would you do, if you
have a daughter?" I asked.
"A boy or a girl, it doesn't
matter. I will hold their hand to remember you," Marcus replied.
I again smiled and squeezed Marcus's
hand as we continued our trip to the library.
Had my dad been holding my hand
because he wanted to remember his dad, and was I offering my son my hand to
remember him, as Marcus suggested? It had never occurred to me. But now I could
see how this could be possible.
We reached the library, where our
conversation veered into less weighty topics.
From that day on, when I visit a park
and I see a father playing soccer or baseball with their child, I cannot stop
myself from wondering whether the father is just playing or whether something
much deeper is at play.
Is the father trying to relive a
joyous moment from their own childhood? Is the father trying also to keep their
departed father's memory alive?
Not too long ago, I took Marcus to
skate at a local skating rink. As I was tightening his skate's laces, I
wondered whether I was starting a new intergenerational tradition. Will Marcus
also remember me when tightening the laces of his child's skates?
Alphonse Barikage
My entire working career up until that point had only been the safe route with a large corporation. You know the life. The daily grind. The BS you put up with because you figure this is the ONLY way. I even went on to get a psychology degree because the jobs I had been looking at required it. When I finished my degree I found that the amount of education I had was once again not enough.
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