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Our daughter
Ominira is at it again. She conned her mom into buying what my wife
thought was a cloth napkin. She is now wearing it proudly and
threatening to go out to dinner dressed like that. Mom asks her with
disbelief: “Is that a dress?” And Ominira looks at her mom with
disbelief [eyes roll!]: “Mom! It is a dress! You bought it for me!” Mom
wails: “It is too short! I thought I was paying for a napkin! You are
not going out looking like that” And Ominira wails: “Mom! I am going
out looking like that! See, (stubborn, unreasonable daughter lifts up
alleged dress) I am wearing shorts underneath!” Ominira gives me a
desperate look with gorgeous eyes I cannot say no to: “Daddy! Say
something! I can’t believe this!” This is the part that I don’t like,
where one of the combatants, usually the guilty one, invites me to
referee. I don’t like confrontations. Especially since my word doesn’t
really count. In our household, mommy is always right.

I look up with
trepidation while at the same time avoiding my wife’s furious gaze. The
dress looks fine to me. It doesn’t look too short, sure you can see her
legs, thighs, shoulders, arms and neck, but everything else is almost
covered. I actually like the dress. The colours complement her skin
very nicely. And her flip flops add a classy touch to the dress. Our
princess is pretty tonight. I don’t see the big deal here. We have a
problem, though: If I take our daughter’s side, I will be in the
doghouse by myself for a very long time. I don’t like sleeping by
myself. I really miss my wife when she is not talking to me. But then
if I take my wife’s side, I am dead to our daughter. She will say all
sorts of hurtful things that American teenagers say to their dads when
they don’t get their way. And then there will be a long period of
silence from this strong-willed princess. I really miss my daughter
when she is not talking to me. What to do, dear reader?

Olodumare! A light
bulb flashes in my head. I will say nothing. Brilliant. I have a good
reason to be quiet and stay out of this matter. I am home sick today. I
will go to the bedroom and face my own issues. I cough miserably and
quietly excuse myself from the living room. I hurriedly pack up what is
left of my dignity and flee the war zone. Unfortunately this brilliant
approach to conflict resolution satisfies none of the combatants. Each
side is furious at me for not taking a position, most preferably
theirs. My fleeing behind becomes the target of unnecessary roughness
with both sides temporarily united to thinking hurtful things about me
and expressing deep suspicion that I may not be sick after all (gulp!)
plus what kind of husband, or father avoids conflict, blah, blah, blah?
Well, I am thinking, as I race to the bedroom; that was nice, I have
reunited mother and daughter again. As I get to the bedroom door, I
hear my daughter, fearless one, she who never withdraws her head from
the jaws of a ravenous lioness: “Mummy, Emily and I are going to
dinner! Do you have cash? I have no money!” Then, I hear my
long-suffering wife, “Olorun ma je! This child will not kill me! How
many times have I told you never to go out if you are broke? Hear me,
we are not Americans, you cannot be eating out every day as if you are
a rich American!” Then, “Mommy, do you have cash…?” I gently shut the
bedroom door.

Life as a father is dangerous, especially with a child like Ominira.
She is always getting me in trouble. I do not remember all this wahala
when I was young. I come from a very rich family in Nigeria which meant
that outside of school uniforms, we got new dresses for Christmas.
These dresses were usually bought out of my mother’s “pocket money”
which meant that our sartorial needs were in unfair competition with
our mother’s: aso ebi, shoes, handbags and her monthly “isusu”
contribution plus a bottle of Guinness Stout (our mother maintains to
this day that Stout replenishes her blood cells). To make the dresses
last all year plus more, my mother would decree that Obioma De Tailor
(“Trained in French!”) should make the lengths as long as the muddy
floods of Benin City’s roads would allow. I wore one pair of trousers
from the age of ten until I was twenty-one. I still have my platform
shoes. I exaggerate not; look at my old pictures on Facebook. These
children do not know how lucky they are. Oh, by the way, Ominira went
out to dinner that evening, dressed in the offending napkin. Her mother
gave her money for dinner also. Moral of the story: never get between a
mother and her daughter. There will be only one black eye. Yours.