Two Jeans & a Khaki! My Dad’s Wardrobe Taught Me An Important Value In Life

The life of a traditional man

“You got a distinction.”

I know that word. But never has it been said to me.

My dad’s weird in those days. Today, as a writer with a better vocabulary, I’ll say he was discreet. It’s the best way to describe your father dropping your PSCL on your lap without prior knowledge.

“Good job, son.”

Dad always referred to me as, ‘son.’ But ‘good job,’ that’s rare. No surprise though. With my distinction, proudness was written all over his face.

These moments, in our minimal-word relationship, spoke volumes. A few sweet moments I keep cleaned in my little box of memory.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, with a slight smile.

I and dad share a quality. And that’s decorum in the face of whatsoever. I’m sure, like me, he’s loud inwardly. But calmer and controlled outwardly.

We were gentlemen. Father and son.

“We should start making preparations. Since he’d be going to a boarding school.” Mom threw in, blocking the entrance to my room with half of her body leaning in.

Along with my distinction, I’ve also won a Gifted Kid Scholarship to further my secondary school ambition.

“My son is going to no boarding school,” Dad cuts in. “He’ll stay in my house and go to a better school.”

This is where modern-day folks say, “It’s my life! I’ll make my decision.”

But not me. As a child, I love been parented. Somehow, in that tiny young mind of mine, I felt it was a loving thing for them to deliberate what was in my best interest.

I felt safe, loved, and protected.

“But it’s a scholarship!” Mom said, reminding Dad of the huge advantage.

I knew dad wasn’t going to let me go there. And to be honest, neither did I. Dad hates us being away. We never went to the village. Not that we had any interest. Most family relatives we knew all lived in the city, after all. Still, he never allowed us to spend a night outside the house.

We could visit but must return that same day.

He had his reasons. And as we grew older, we saw they were good reasons.

Our families weren’t all that.

But besides the shadiness of the family, dad was a deep introvert. A traditional family man. Raising three similar introvert boys. We rhymed. Most decisions he made fit our personality and even our desire.

Mom was the odd one. She was mouthy. And loud too. She talked more than all of us combined. She can say in one day, what the whole of us will say in a month.

Being the only lady among four men, was probably not easy for her. But we loved her deeply. And respected her. Even though she beats us a lot.

We were quiet, not saints. So we gave her quiet headaches.

When my only sister came along mom was delighted. And rapidly, she became exactly like her mother. Loud and mouthy. The only difference was, she was a world more beautiful. And without contest, she became the princess of the house.

And we loved her. A lot.

But that wasn’t enough to keep my brother from dropping her on the stairs. Actually, they both fell on the stair. He was unhurt. But Faith broke her arm.

And she stayed in casts for months. My dad was wrath. But he knew it was a mistake. So no one was scolded. Just warned.

Dad enrolled me in a good school; one he couldn't afford. But somehow, we managed. His salary didn't cover my fees, so he’d borrow, sometimes from mom, to complete it. And sometimes, I’ll be sent home for two weeks, until he comes up with the money.

A middle-class family, living from paycheck to paycheck. Dad was wise enough to live according to his means. He wasn’t proud or tried to impress. He didn't even know anyone to impress. Neighbors rarely saw him, if ever. And though we weren't rich, with the quality of his mind, everyone thought we were a rich and intelligent family living in a poor neighborhood.

He was that type of guy. He loved quality and lived it. And to him, his family was worth exceedingly more. There was nothing else he lived for.

And we all knew it.

We heard it in his words. We felt it in his rage. And we saw it in his sweat. And when he died, it was evident in his wardrobe.

I know he wasn’t perfect and did many wrongs. But when I opened his wardrobe and saw nothing but a briefcase, his Mobile Police Khaki uniform, two jean, and a few t-shirts, I knew he lived for what he loved and believed in — us, his family.

We went to a great school. He didn’t. We had enough to wear, but he didn’t. He saved so we could have enough to eat and even to waste. If he taught me nothing, he taught me how to be a man. How to be a father. And how to be a great husband.

Two jeans and khaki taught me what it means to be a man, to be responsible and to lay it all for his passion and his family.

So I may not get to calculate the velocity of a rocket that’ll land humanity on Mars like Elon. Or write a book worth billions of dollars like Rowling.

But when the pages of this life are turned, they’ll say, “here’s a man who served his God profoundly, loved his wife enormously, and shaped his children magnificently.