Speaking of this, I can’t help but feel that Father was a stranger to me, mysterious, imponderable. Perhaps you want to ask, was all of this real? I tell you it was, every word. All true. And, yet … I can’t help but have my suspicions that perhaps it wasn’t … it’s just so unbelievable, beyond the realms of possibility.

Day Three

… It’s mid-afternoon, but my three co-workers still have not arrived. Perhaps they won’t be coming. It’s raining outside – maybe that’s why. I guess there’s some logic to it … However, thinking of my father: what would have served as a legitimate reason for him not to report to work? As far as I can remember, Father never once failed to enter that red-walled compound. Not once. Occasionally we’d ask him to take the day off – Mother needed him, there was some family emergency; he had to stay at home, at least for half a day. On those occasions Father would halt mid-step and stand still for a moment, mulling it over. We’d look at him, trying to use our eyes to implore him to stay. But he wouldn’t look at us, he’d deliberately avoid our eyes; he’d look at his watch or stare off into space, hesitating, deciding whether to go or stay … it was a difficult choice it seemed. Nearly every time we would mistakenly believe that perhaps on this occasion he would stay, and we would walk up to him and take the permit from his hand, reach for the hat he held in order to hang it up. But just as we reached for it, Father would seem to make up his mind; he’d take back the permit and say firmly, ‘No, I have to go.’

It was always like that.

His reasons for refusing were always simple and effective – impervious to argument. Even though we would use any number of excuses to implore him to stay, none of them worked. Even when Mum’s illness became really serious, when she had only a few days left with us, Father still wouldn’t spend those last remaining days by her side.