My dad had an uncanny knack of converting every stranger he met into a bosom friend. It drove my mother nuts with embarrassment. Yet, it taught me there was nothing wrong in emulating him.
Dad never owned a car. in our small, close-knit African community, he only had to whistle for cars to stop and gladly give us a ride. They loved his exuberant company. In a time before television, Dad befriended every cinema manager in town. In return they gave him their private balcony to use for himself and his guests. My father sported a million-dollar smile that lit up every room he entered. He loved to play practical jokes.
My father never took a day off work, even though his popularity meant he could do so without risking his job. In the time of Africanization, he became the only non-black employee of East African Airways. Instead of emigrating, as his family and friends had done, Dad stubbornly remained at his post. ” If I take a vacation, they’ll use it as an excuse to replace me.”
After years of persuasion, Dad finally accompanied me on a tour India for three weeks. It was the only holiday we ever had together. In India, we visited his retired office buddies in Goa, Sojourned in Bombay, rented a houseboat on Dal Lake and journeyed by train to Agra. Finally, it was time to go home, spending a night in Nairobi, Kenya before flying back to Dar-es-Salaam in neighbouring Tanzania the next day.
Our plane landed at Nairobi airport at 2 a.m.. Homegoing passengers outnumbered available taxis two to one. While I stood, zombie-like in line, Dad disappeared. Minutes later, he ushered me to one side, his face beaming. ” Come along.”
” What about my place in the queue?”
” Never mind.”
He took me round the corner, where a stretch limousine beckoned. Its bonnet bore the flag of the Federal Republic of India.
We basked in the luxury of an air-conditioned, leather-padded cabin. The man beside the chauffeur turned his head towards me and hiccupped. Pointing at Dad, he slurred ” Dish ish my bes fren.” He attempted to climb over his seat to hug Dad.
” Driv hom, an quickly,” he ordered the driver.
” You will stay at my residence for however long you wish. I will have my man tour you round the city(hic). This ish my bes frien,” he repeated, with tears in his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, the limo came to an abrupt halt.
” Waz up?”
” A police checkpoint, Sir.”
” I’ll speak to them !”
As his boss tottered out of the limo, an armed policeman approached.
“Do you know who I am? The High Commissioner of Injia,” he almost spit out the last word.
” Sah, please come with me.”
For half-an-hour we waited. Nothing. Eventually our chauffeur got out.” I must find the High Commissioner.” He too disappeared. Dad followed a few minutes later.
What was I to do ? I fell back to sleep.
Minutes later, I was rudely shaken out of my slumber.
It was Dad. ” Come on, I’ve found us another ride.” This time it was a truck-sized Land Rover driven by two Sikhs.
Once again, my father’s charm had come to our rescue.
