My father's Suzuki motorcycle.

When I was a boy, in university of Nigeria primary school, I was always ashamed of my father's motorcycle, each time he came to pick me up. The other kids where taken home in cars. But, for me, it was that blue Suzuki motorcycle. I was always sad, each time my father lifted me up, onto the tank.

But, there's something I was never ashamed of. The love in my father's eyes, each time he saw me coming towards him and the pride in his voice, each time I did well in school. He would look at my report card and say "You did well, my son." Then, he would say, in our mother tongue, giving me a high five "Tijie m eka".

I wasn't always the best but, he was always proud of me and encouraged me. And everyday, on our way home, while I sat on the tank of that strong motorcycle, he told me stories of how the great men of ukehe all made it. "None of them had it easy but, with hard work, they triumphed."  He always used prof Patrick Ngwu and Dr Nnabueze, as example.

Soon I was in ss3. I was stilI feeling down, each time that bike rode up to the front door of my class, where my father normally Parked it whenever he came to pay my school fees or give me books and the like. No longer ashamed, but, feeling down because I saw how my father was suffering to pay my hefty school fees. And each time, my determination to make him happy, grew a leap.

After one visit like that, when he brought me an iron chair, after the one I was using had died, some of my classmates, laughed at me, at him. It was sad. And I felt the pain. Then, I felt anger.

I quit the football team, the next day, and focused solely on my studies. I wasn't remotely the best in a class that had Ozioma Uzegwu, Godwin Kalu ukah,  Chiamaka asuzu and nkiru Okafor, in it.

But, I resolved to put up a fight for my father. I fought and fought. I read and read and, many a nights, my father would force me to sleep. And one night, he even beat me up, when I refused to sleep.

Jamb came out and I was among the top 3 in my school, (for those that were released). And everyone in our street, talked about it. One man told my father, while they played draught, "Allied forces(my father's nick name), God has blessed you".  My father then said "That's how he is. He has always done well. He is a good boy"

Waec came out and I was number 5 or 6, even though the principal, Mrs erojikwe, had called it first, perhaps because, she loved me too much. But that wasn't my joy; I was rather sad that I wasn't the best. Why did I let Ozioma, Godwin, Chiamaka, nkiru, Nnamani Kierian Chinedu, beat me? Lolz!

My joy was my father's reaction when he saw the result.

I had taken it to his office to show him. He wasn't feeling happy before then, but, once he saw it, his face lit up and, he punched the air. "Tijie m eka," he screamed, before giving me a high five and, barging into his oga's office to show him.

He kept showing everyone and I laughed at him, at his carefree joy. And that day, for now, remains the best day of my life, the last time I was truly, carelessly, joyous.

That's the story of my father's bike.

I remembered it because he just called to tell me he wants to sell that bike  as scrap. But I said no. I've told him not to because I love that bike and I'm no longer ashamed of it. And I wish I could ride it now. That bike that took me to and fro school, hospital and church will never be sold.

My father is retired now and resting in his Country home. He is the light of his villagers and the chairman of every committee. He has a lot of passion for the progress of his people. And everyday he calls, he tells me stories from home.

He still tells me to work hard so, I'll become great, like prof and doctor. And funny enough, each time he says this, I get greatly inspired, like during the old days.