by Nneka M. Okona

I am the daughter of an immigrant. I am a seed. I was planted here years after my father left his native land, Nigeria, in search of education, in search of opportunity, in search of a better life.

Hey Dad or should I say Kevin,

I wasn’t going to write this, but you have been on my mind for months; so I had to get this off my chest.

It has been a long time, since we actually sat down and talked. Part of that may be because of the things that have transpired over the last 10/11 years that I can’t seem to get over, and you may not be able to take responsibility for what happened to our family. I’m writing this letter to you because I don’t know your number, and I actually was going to call you today, but I couldn’t get in touch with anyone who might have it. So I decided to express it through this letter.

“We, of the fatherless tribe love men differently.”

That one line of Gina Loring’s poem, “You Move Me” strikes me every time I hear it because as a young Black woman it rings so heart-wrenchingly true.

Some of us have other shadows of fathers who help but they can never quite be the “Daddy” that we silently envy in the lives of other Black girls. And those other Black girls seem so oblivious, don’t they? So unaware of the pot of gold they’re holding. In having a protective figure. Someone to validate them and instill self-worth. A rule-setter and protector. It’s not the norm anymore. And here we are. Trying to figure out ourselves. Trying to work through issues with our hair, our gifts and talents, our guards that we’ve built up to the high heavens. We struggle with insecurities before we even know what the word means. Our struggle is sometimes much harder because we are Black, we are female and we are fatherless.

ABC Family premiered a show called, “Baby Daddy,” in the summer of 2012. The acting is dumbfounding, the plots buffoonish, and I doubt that the one African American cast member cares about the fool he’s making of himself as long as his checks clear. But my beef is not with Taj Mowry. This is clearly a case of Don’t hate the player, hate the game. I am not knocking mindless television. I have stayed home plenty of Friday nights to watch the TGIF lineup on ABC. As silly as Family Matters, Perfect Strangers, Full House and Step-by-Step were, I doubt anyone was offended by their silly titles. But the people who chose to call their show “Baby Daddy” stepped across a line and I have to call them on it before this year comes to an end.

I'm a self-proclaimed daddy's girl. My most vivid, early childhood memories are those of my father gently caressing my hair and telling me how pretty it was and then gifting to me brown dolls that I was supposed to love just as much as he loved me. After over a year of therapy, tearful nights and long adult conversations with him, I can truthfully say that my father was my first love and my first heartbreak.