FATHERHOOD

The Year 2029

I travelled across the African continent to finally settle in Senegal. It was there that I met Fatou. She was a middle child like me, born of a Syrian father and a Senegalese mother. Fatou had moved to Dakar a few years before me to open her sewing salon. Very quickly, her business had become successful among the local bourgeoisie. She had reddish-brown skin like Feliz, and although her hair was thinner, it looked also as dark as night. She loved to dance, to cook colourful cuisine with rich flavours, and more than anything, she loved to work. Her sewing salon represented her passion, her raison d'être and that was perhaps the real reason that attracted me to her. She hardly needed me in her life to be fulfilled and content. With her, I could pretend without having to try too hard too often. Pretending to be someone you're not is much easier than being who you are, especially in a world like ours.

"What did you come to Senegal for?" Fatou asked in French, turning her face to me, smiling as to show me her best profile.

"I've come to find you! What else?" I replied, looking at her intently.

"Really?!" She retorted, bursting out laughing. A reserved, almost stifled laughter. I knew that my comment had flattered her by the way she fluttered her long dark eyelashes.

"You don't believe me, do you?" I said.

"Maybe," she began, fluttering her eyelashes again. "To be more popular in Dakar, you'll have to change your wardrobe though," she added.

"I'm not looking for popularity," I insisted, gently bringing my hands closer to hers without touching them. I wasn't quite accustomed to the customs of the country yet, and I didn't want to risk offending her, nor pose as one of those Westerners who thought themselves irresistible just because their currency was worth more than the local one.

Fatou smiled at the flattery, looking at me tenderly as she continued:

"For business too, it'll help you here, you know."

"Why? Are Senegalese people as vain as Polish people?" I asked, bringing my hands a little closer to hers discreetly.

"Oh! Are Polish people vain? I've never heard that before," she said, interested.

"They sure have taste, and they like to go out well-groomed and dressed," I replied, smiling, looking intently at her.

"Obviously you aren't like most Poles then," she exclaimed, bursting into laughter. Her laughter seemed to reflect my own discomfort, but to my surprise she immediately added, furtively patting my hand:

"I'm joking!"

I didn't move and continued to look at her, smiling. I felt nothing. I was still as empty as in Poland. African magic still hadn't cured me, but maybe, a lovely woman like Fatou might with more time.

"I like to be comfortable if it's hot, but I know how to dress when the occasion arises," I replied.

"Oh! You'll have to show me that then!" Fatou said, taking a sip of her drink, looking at me with fluttering eyelashes.

In just a few months, I had asked Fatou for her very busy hand. She had accepted, knowing perfectly well that she would need it for her sewing salon. Pretending is easy when you live in a modern world where doing is more valuable than being. The relationship between the two of us was sincerely friendly and respectful. We provided for the needs of one another subject to our own needs and desires. Fatou longed the spouse and mother status to better move on to what really mattered in her life (her salon) whereas I longed the spouse and father status to find myself, or at least who I thought I should be.

We often hear people say that bringing a child into the world is one of the most beautiful experiences for a couple. Whoever said that must have either been arrogant or a parent at a very mature age. My experience of fatherhood awakened in me all my insecurities, my sorrows, and my fears, in addition to bringing back all the ghosts of my own childhood. Ousmane's little piercing, inquisitive green eyes seemed to constantly be questioning me:

"Who are you? What's a dad? And me, who am I?"

His eyes never left me for a moment, continuing their interrogation tirelessly. Unfortunately for both of us, I didn't have the answers to those questions. So, to spare myself the torture, I distanced myself from Ousmane, avoiding the discomfort of my own ignorance and confusion. My work, tiredness, more time for me, or my non-existent couple life, any excuse posed as good enough for not spending time with my son and his original curiosity. I didn't feel very proud of my attitude towards Ousmane. He hadn't asked to come into this world between Fatou and me. Unfortunately, I was unable to behave otherwise. I had no idea how to define my identity, nor the father I wanted to be for this little brown-skinned baby whose full responsibility I then shared with a woman I liked as if we were co-workers. We lived in a predominantly Muslim society, Fatou and all the members of her family believed in Islam. With my absence, my son was most likely to become a Muslim too. In what language should I speak to him and why? Would he be interested in hearing about my origins one day? Why would he be?

Senegal already represented one of the most prosperous countries in West Africa. The Muslim majority lived peacefully among other religious minorities. The culture of the country was thriving and rich, even if the country exhibited the scars of colonisation. This is perhaps what attracted me to the country: its history. I was no stranger to the trauma and landscapes of the Senegalese land. The latter looked as red as the earth on Alegria's farm. There were also the white sand beaches. They reminded me that thousands of kilometres beyond those waves, which relentlessly roll between the two giant continents, my ancestors had crossed to the other end of their own evil trade. Finding myself stranded on this side of the devilish pact disturbed me in a very strange way. I kept asking myself: how could mankind and their so-called intelligence have come to this? My troubled soul continued to dwell on its bad memories. Stranded right in the middle between the past of my ancestors and the present of the little boy who still resided in me, I had no idea which direction to take. I was free and I had choices that neither my African ancestors nor the abandoned little boy had. Yet, the chains of grief kept pulling me against them, choking me more and more, preventing me from uniting with the free, brave, and compassionate man I was to become.

I had landed in Africa with the aim of freeing myself from my fears as well as those of Polish society to finally end up trapped by the same chains. I hadn't yet realised the origin of my passionate relationship with suffering. The latter was beating me while reassuring me with its familiarity. Since I didn't dare being myself anywhere, accepting the trickery of a minority of weak men, my true self had to remain in the shadow. The undisputed superiority of a handful of masters might just have been an illusion, I still hadn't gone deep enough within myself to acknowledge it. I hadn't been liberated from the mental slavery yet. Life, which understood my little game playing, kept calling me out to learn in the only way it ever knew: Alright! We'll resume the lesson from the beginning then, but differently this time.

In order to be allowed to marry Fatou, I had signed a paper that made me a child of the Muslim religion despite the fact that I had never intended to set foot in a mosque or read the wisdom of the Koran. I gladly stopped being an ungrateful child of the Roman Catholic religion to become an ungrateful child of Islam with no questions asked either to God or to men. It didn't matter since I roamed the planet like a zombie anyway. I was trapped between Hell and Heaven on Earth with a lovely woman who gladly agreed to leave me alone. Soon, I withdrew into myself, only interacting with Fatou or our baby when circumstances required me to do so. Since the birth of Ousmane, I had nothing more to say to the charming woman who had said "I do" to my proposal. There is never much to say if all the lines in between are clear.

For some reason that I still don't comprehend today, Fatou saw no issue with a handsome foreign husband sneaking out of the house most of the day. She never complained about my behaviour or my absences. We hardly argued. We only touched on rare occasions. Fatou seemed to have more interesting things to do with her life than try to understand this handsome, hard-working and reserved man who knew how to meet the needs of a family without asking anything in return. I reckon that for some women too, the demands of society enslave them to a routine that doesn't inspire them. Although I can't speak for her, I sometimes think that maybe Fatou never wanted the typical couple life. Unquestionably, she adored our son whom she surrounded with all the attention and maternal affection she could give. However, and contrary to the expectations of Senegalese society, she wasn't willing to sacrifice everything for our son, let alone for her husband. Unlike me, Fatou knew perfectly well what she wanted from this world; dying alive wasn't written on her list. Like many men, I had been fooled. I thought that I had chosen a woman when in fact, it was she who had chosen me. Intelligent, observing, intuitive, and patient, Fatou could sense my confusion from our first date. I was a discreet and troubled man who wanted to melt into the mass, no matter which one, no matter the cost. As long as I could disappear, I would continue to exist. I could do and have anything, but I was incapable of being me. Fatou's feminine intuition had told her that I was hiding a secret in my heart that she was willing to ignore in exchange for a simple, drama-free married life.

After all, how many of us go from one romantic relationship to the next, our hearts filled with horrible secrets?

I had fulfilled the conditions of the contract that society expected of me. From then on, I would respect my commitments to my wife and our son until the end while patiently waiting for the end of me: death. Alegria had warned me: making one's own choices out of fear and according to the tastes and instructions of others turns men into living dead. For Fatou, managing a ghost husband seemed much more convenient and practical than managing a dedicated and present husband. Taking care of a baby didn't consist of a man's role in her culture anyway. Besides, she was very well surrounded with the women of her maternal family as well as that of our neighbourhood. Both of her parents were still alive and they lived near. As long as I respected their values, provided for the financial needs of our household and made myself useful around the house, I could step aside to put my thoughts in order without too much inconvenience to her or our local society.