The Poor Farmer And His Son

It's true you will never know the value of something, until you lose it.

My dad was a poor farmer, so poor he could barely afford a weeding hoe, so he used his hands to dig the ground. He ran around the neighborhood doing menial chores just to get us what to eat. Mom couldn't bear it any longer, she packed her bags and left us. I wanted going with her, for I never really liked my father. When she was gone, dad became my everything. He will bathe and take me to school on his shoulder. It was always a long journey but he never complained. Most times when he comes to pick me from school, his hands were always dirty, the other kids laughed at us. I was ashame of my father, never wanted him to come pick me from school anymore. He had no option because it was planting season, so he was busy in his farm. He still came the next day to pick me from school, this time his hands were covered with old newspaper. I was so embarrassed, I didn't say a word to him while we returned home.

No matter how poor we were, dad never failed giving me pocket money every month. And everytime he does, he will always request I put a token in a box . I was always sad, the money wasn't enough and he was forcing me to put some in the box. Dad looked at me and told me, son! Riches are not measured by how much we have, but how much we give. I never understood this statement till after his burial. Dad tried everything possible to make us comfortable, I never appreciated his effort for I was young and naive. I was never proud of my father, most days in school I will run and hide just to make him go away. But he will stay back looking everywhere for me and when am found, he will hug me and bare me on his shoulder home. I know you probably angry witj my actions, but my dad was never angry. He loved me unconditionally and that was all that mattered to him.

I heaved a sigh of relieve when I got a scholarship to study abroad. At last I was going to be free from dad's weird and embarrassing jobs. No one will come visit me with soiled hands or those covered with a newspaper. I was so happy, I will miss home and probably be gone forever. Dad never stopped calling, asking if I will come home during holidays but I will always lie , I was too busy with study, I won't be able to visit home. I thought he was going to stop calling but a day won't pass without his call. I was tired of his incessant calls but I couldn't do anything. Two years already gone without visiting home, I didn't miss anything at home because we had nothing. Something strange happened, I stayed a whole week without dad calling me, I was so happy. Probably he is tired of my numerous reasons of not wanting to visit home.

It was already a month without hearing from my dad, I began having mix feelings but didn't want to go awake his feelings again. So I didn't call to check on him. I wasn't heartless, just didn't like my dad. Two months already gone, without hearing from dad. Still busy with studies, I got a call from an organization in my country, inviting me to be their special guest since it was their end of year party. I felt it was a prank from dad, but I had to honor the invitation. I didn't get to the house, had to pass to the party. Shortly I was called and awarded for my generous donations to the organization. The CEO went ahead to mention, how helpful were in securing shelter, food and clothings for the needy. I was shocked, and when I was about to tell him it was a mistake. I saw the little box dad used to force me to put my money in. His words flashed on my mind 'son! Riches are not measured by how much we have, but how much we give. I broke down and wept, had to searched everywhere for my dad but he wasn't there. That was the first time, I ever proud of my dad. I ran home to tell him about the award of honor, getting home I called his name but he was no where to be found. I had to glance into his farm , I saw a memorial stone with his name on it. I couldn't believe my eyes, but then it was true.

Reality hit me harder, when I walked into the parlor, they was a letter on the table, which read;

Dear son,

Am so sorry, I never wanted telling you on phone, that I was diagnosed of Wegener's granulomatosis, and was given a short duration of time to live. I wanted seeing you before I die but you were always busy. I hope you are doing fine. I still love you dear son.

I broke down crying, not for his death but for neglecting him, when he needed me the most.

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