On an unexpectedly brisk November evening in Johannesburg, I was at a sushi dinner with my dad, his wife, Mary,* and her teenage daughter, Rebecca.* Strained, sporadic laughter between deafening silences made it clear that everyone was uncomfortable.
It was my third time peering into what still feels like my dad’s new life. When he and I reconnected after years of estrangement in 2019, we focused strictly on our relationship, so Mary and Rebecca are effectively strangers to me. Not only that, but Mary, Rebecca, and my dad are all pretty quiet, where I tend to be more boisterous. So my plan for dinner was simple: Keep it light. Give them the watered-down version of myself that they find more…palatable.
Things were going well until one cup of sake turned into three, then four, and I made a cardinal mistake: I got comfortable. I let the conversation evolve past upcoming school events and weather patterns to what was really on my mind, the weirdness of our union.
We’ve never talked about it before: my dad’s infidelity, his subsequent abandonment, me learning about his new marriage on Facebook while in the ICU (a story for another day). In most African cultures, avoidant responses to emotional conversations are the norm, and I feel the need to subscribe to that when I’m in Dad and Mary’s home. But it’s difficult, and when I’m confronted with framed pictures of years I don’t recognize—Mary walking down the aisle; Dad taking Rebecca to kindergarten; and one picture of me from a decade ago, the only proof of Dad’s old life with me—the very feelings I feel the need to repress to make everyone else comfortable come rushing. The conversation at dinner ended with me in tears.
I choked down my discomfort to get through the rest of the trip. I talked to Dad about it, and pleaded with him to tell Mary how disturbed and hurt I was by what she’d had to say about my experience and my character. He reluctantly agreed to do so once I returned to Nairobi. But after several weeks passed, and my attempts to reach Mary went unreturned, I made a decision. I told my dad I was done with our relationship.
I know, of course, that I should want him in my life—I love him and I feel guilty about our rift—but what does it mean that I’m just not sure I do?