“What’s that? A painting?”

Ahunna, my wife, has a habit of asking questions and providing their answers in question format in the same breath. Her behaviour used to throw me during the early part of our relationship, but not anymore.

“Are you going out? Where? Hanging out with your boys?”

Three blissful years of marriage have familiarized me with her ways. Nowadays, I relax until she’s done with her barrage. Then I answer the very last one.

I had picked out the rolled-up piece of canvas from a huge storage box. We were moving house, and I was trying to determine what would make the move or the trash heap.

“Yes,” I responded while holding up and unrolling the object of her query.

“And where did you get it from? How come I’ve never seen it before? Don’t tell me you bought…?”

She complains about my impulsive purchases. 

“No. I didn’t. It’s my dad’s. He painted it before he passed.”

“Really?”

She came closer to get a better look.

“Your dad painted? And I never knew?”

“Yes, he did. Funny, as he never held a brush until he fell ill.”

“Hmmm. That’s strange. So, what is it?”

“What do you see?”

She carefully took the slightly frayed canvas from me and studied it for a while.

“Well, I don’t think it is finished. Still, it looks like a child running with his arms outstretched, hoping to be picked up. Maybe.”

“Interesting. That’s what you see?”

She looked again.

“Yes, but I may be wrong. Like I said, it doesn’t look finished. It is a little faded too. What is it?”

I thought for a few moments and responded the best way I could. 

“To be honest, my dear. I don’t know.”

*******

It still feels like yesterday, that fateful evening eight years ago, when Mom’s call interrupted my university group study session to tell me about Dad falling off his bicycle on his way home.

I rushed down to Nsukka the next day, and my heart broke when I saw the state Dad was in. My mother looked lost. The doctor said it was a stroke, and apart from palliative care, there wasn’t much to do for him but pray. Dad, who just six months ago at his sixty-fifth birthday party had joked about needing a new wife to give me a half-sibling, was comatose.

So, we prayed. Mom more than me. The few times she was not by his bed during his five-week hospital stay, she would be in the church, pleading with the Blessed Virgin Mary to restore the love of her life. Her prayers must have found the right ears. Dad opened his eyes to our joy, which turned out to be short-lived when we discovered the left side of his body was forever asleep. Also, he couldn’t speak. After another week, the doctor advised us to take him home.

I made sure to visit once every fortnight to check on them. On one of those visits, three months after Dad returned home, I met a small easel in the new room where he had been set up. A small table in the corner also held a few cans of paint, brushes, and other art paraphernalia. His speech had returned somewhat, heavily slurred, barely comprehensible, and accompanied by copious drooling.

Mom narrated how the doctor, on a routine house call, had deciphered Dad’s strange request for the board and had encouraged the venture because he believed it would be a good exercise for the brain. The Fine Art teacher at the community secondary school where Dad used to teach Business Studies had helped procure the equipment.

My father battled valiantly for two years before he finally succumbed to his ailment. The day after his burial, I packed up all his earthly possessions and locked them in his room. His unfinished painting was the exception that followed me back to Enugu.

******

Olisa, my best friend, believes Dad visually described his ascent to heaven on canvas. Mom thinks the piece depicts a field under an open sky. The doctor called it a frozen lake. Ahunna sees a running child, but none of them is sure. As for me, I am just grateful to have something to remember my departed parent by. For as long as his legacy continues to generate a healthy debate, he will never be forgotten.