"Don't Come Home, Son"

A true story about emigration.

Sometime in 1980, when I was a final year student in London, I had a very short teleconversation with my father. In those days, there were no call cards, Skype or the like and calls were expensive. He had a very simple message - "Dont come home, Son".

Now almost 30 years on, I see where he was coming from.

He advised me to stay on in the UK or if I found the weather not to my liking, told me to go to Australia - even if it meant that I may eventually marry a "white girl" as he put it. I was 23 and marriage was certainly not on my mind.

29 years on, I view his foresight through the same prism and now agonise as to whether I should tell my children the same. For now, I am allowing my eldest to pursue his tertiary education overseas. Maybe when he finishes, he may not be as short-sighted as I was. Pray God grant him wisdom and vision.

Last year, I resigned from my job, returned the company car and driver, said goodbye to my executive package and moved to Australia where I now live with no maid, no driver, no Audi 2.8, no golf, no teh tarik seessions, no bonus etc but am rediscovering humanity running a humble ice cream shop.

Sometimes we learn very late.

An ice-cream seller