The Things Men Pretend Don’t Hurt
September 11Was it written somewhere that fathers must never tell their sons, “I love you”?
by Israel Adedoyin
Ifunaya noticed that Bamídélé had been absent-minded in class while the lecturer spoke.
“What’s wrong? Why’s your countenance dull?”
“It is my father. I have a problem with him.”
“Problem? Tell me. What’s the problem?”
Bamídélé looked down at his curling fingers, hesitating to speak.
“You know I’m your safe space, right? You can share it all with me.”
“Well, I just feel my father doesn’t love me.”
“Really? Are you sure?” Ifunaya asked, her voice carrying a hint of disbelief.
“Does he provide you shelter?”
“Yes. He does.”
“Food?”
“Yes.”
“Clothing?”
“Ehn, he does.”
“So what’s your reason for the statement you just made?”
Bamídélé hesitated.
“That’s the problem. I know he takes care of me. I just don’t know if he knows me.”
He stuttered over the last sentence.
“Come. Let’s find somewhere we can sit comfortably,” she said.
They walked together and found a quiet spot.
“What else? Is that all?”
He nodded in affirmation.
Bamídélé remembered the night he had one of his numerous health crises. His father had carried him into the car and driven through the rain to the hospital. He remembered waking up to find his father kneeling beside his bed, praying for his recovery.
“Haa. Yet, you say he doesn’t love you?”
He stared blankly at her.
“You won’t believe it if I tell you my father does the same.”
“Stop your sarcasm and be serious for once,” Bamídélé said scornfully.
“I am damn serious.”
She paused.
“My father didn’t cry at my mum’s funeral. I think this is how grown men behave. He thinks buying all the things I ask for can make him win my heart the way my mum did.”
“But why are they like that?”
Bamídélé had already decided he would ask his father when he returned home that evening.
His father was busy watching the evening news when Bamídélé walked in, his posture slightly slouched.
“Daddy, good evening.”
“Welcome,” his father retorted, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
“You don’t love me.”
His father turned towards him.
“Why? Why do you say so?”
“You’ve never mentioned it to me.”
A tear ran down Bamídélé’s cheek.
“Will you clean that water off your face before I smack you?” his father snapped. “Have you ever seen your little sister cry about such things to me? I am surprised this reversal is happening. You’re supposed to be tougher. Stronger. Do you want to be regarded as a weakling, eh? Answer me!”
Bamídélé said nothing.
“My father died when I was seven.”
He paused.
“My mother, who was supposed to support me, died after my father’s death.”
His father looked at him.
“Do you think if I was a crybaby, I would have achieved this luxurious life?”
Bamídélé remained silent.
“Are you still looking at me with those teary eyes? I said clean it. I’m counting. One…”
Bamídélé stared at him.
“Two…”
His father’s voice began to tremble.
While he was quaking, Bamídélé looked at him.
His father’s eyes glittered.
He wasn’t sure what he saw.
But they looked teary.
Bamídélé’s own sight became blurry.
As he tried to take a closer look, his father turned away and walked towards his room, his head bowed and one palm covering his face.
Three Years Later, Bamídélé Became A Father.
His son whined and cried over the loss of his assignment book.
“Will you stop crying?”
The boy continued.
“Act like a man!”
The words hung in the room.
Bamídélé heard his father’s voice in them.
You’re supposed to be tougher.
He looked at his son.
For the first time, he understood that inheritance wasn’t always something you received.
Sometimes, it was something you repeated.
He suddenly remembered that he wasn’t raising his son.
He was raising the boy his father had raised.
How many of us were taught that a man who cries is weak?
How many of us have mistaken provision for affection?
And how many fathers are passing down wounds they inherited from their own fathers?
The problem isn’t that Bamídélé’s father didn’t love him.
Maybe he did.
Maybe he simply didn’t know how to express it in a way Bamídélé could understand.
And perhaps that is how some wounds survive for generations—not because anyone intends to pass them on, but because nobody stops to ask whether the way they were raised is the way they want to raise the next generation.
Israel Adedoyin is an English Language and Literature teacher and a writer with a deep interest in literature, education, culture, and the arts. He aspires to become a published author whose work amplifies overlooked voices and sparks meaningful conversations. Through storytelling, he hopes to contribute to social change, promote literacy, and connect with readers across Nigeria, the Commonwealth, and beyond.
