It is not yet the twelfth night after the birth of the greatest one. That is when all the decorations of Christmas are traditionally removed and the world settles back to the drudgery of routine and the New Year. Christmas is truly the season of festivity and jollity; of regeneration and rejuvenation. And whilst we are still on this subject of renewal and revival of the body and spirit, it is meet to report on some secular developments which seem to confirm the spiritual importance of the season.
Whilst still a professor and travelling theorist in the US, yours sincerely was captivated by a short story which became standard fare on the menu for fresh undergraduates learning grammar and comprehension. Titled Arm wrestling with my Father, it was an engrossing cameo of the supreme moment when the balance of physical power changes in every family and the father who used to carry the son upstairs has now become the expiring hulk to be carried into bed by the same son. The son has become the father.
Last Monday on Christmas day, yours sincerely experienced something close to this radical epiphany. The British Airways Flight 0074 from Lagos touched down at Heathrow Terminal Five and was firmly met by freezing weather provoking icy tears and much clattering of teeth. As if this was not enough, immigration officials laid siege to the entrance of the plane. Past masters of the elegant psychological offensive, they might have surmised that there must be something dodgy and irregular about people who choose to be airborne on Christmas day.
Having successfully bested them with his imperious swagger and disobliging frown, snooper was getting into his full stride when his left foot hit the escalator railing and he could feel something snapping and coming unglued. It may be due to the cold or a long layoff or a remote control missile from the rogue immigration, but seconds later virtually all the lower sole came off the shoe on the left foot leaving yours sincerely hobbling and humping towards the passport control like a demented giraffe.
If the passport control people saw through one’s discomfiture, they did not let it on. They simply waved one on. It was on getting to the son’s pile that the plot began to thicken. Snooper explained his plight to the boy, who immediately led him on to the master bedroom where he opened a vault with a deft flick of his thumb.
Lo! It was the equivalent of a leather war chest: row upon row of upper market designer shoes in swanky and gleaming condition. Snooper pointed at a classy pair which he thought would do just as well, but the chap politely declined pointing out sniffily that it was not a brand for casual tramping. Snooper was grateful to be allowed to settle into the next best thing , a cool maroon brogue.
As we stepped out later to do some light shopping at the local mall, the irony did not escape yours sincerely that he was stepping into his son’s shoes. It was a profoundly sobering moment. The son had become the father. Just as it happened with his own father some forty something years earlier, the economic and social balance of power had shifted forever between father and son. It was a double-barrelled irony that this was happening on Christmas morning, and in a foreign clime, too. The young shall grow indeed.
Does snooper feel any pangs of jealousy, anger or resentment? Not at all, only a feeling of helpless bliss and calm serenity. This is the moment every normal parent hopes to live to witness, when the son becomes the father of the man and the daughter becomes the mother of her mother. Happy New Year to all our readers.