t takes a deep commitment to change and an even deeper commitment to grow.

Ralph Ellison

It was Saturday morning, November 27, 1982 in Montreal at the Carré Saint-Louis and I was walking with my nine-year old son, Dylan Delmar Togane, holding his hand.

I named him Dylan, after one of my favourite poets, the Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas of Swansea, “the Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive”.

I named him Delmar with a bow to his Somali heritage and to the fact that he was conceived on the pristine intimacy of Ali Zamboozie’s beach of Marka’adday and was born in the Woman’s Hospital of the city of Toronto in 1974.

What an Odyssey!

Hence, Delmar, his middle name, which in Somali means one who traveled far and wide like that ingenious hero, Odysseus: heuristically, serendipitously, Delmar also means in Spanish one brought by the waves of the sounding sea, by the washes of the sighing sea.

Though far from home and from the dancing and the dazzling waves of the lapis lazuli and warm and smiling and sparkling Sea of Marka’adday; though far from the rustic rusty red hills of Marka’adday, I was exceedingly happy just to be walking and holding the hand of my son on that fateful kismet-clad cold and gray November Montreal great get-up morning.

And before I could contain myself, my tongue, that unruly member and master of the mouth, stole what I was trying to hide in my heart.

Now I know why we Somalis say when we are sober that, “The mouth steals what is harbored in the heart.”

So no wonder I could not help but blurt out:

—Son, I haven’t had even one beer now for a whole week.

—I know.

— Son, how do you know? I haven’t told a single soul.

—I still know…

— Son, tell me how you know.

—Dad, three things tell me that you have not had a drink for at least a week now.

One: for this whole week you have been phoning me incessantly.

Before I was lucky if I got one phone call from you in a month of Sundays!

And I understood everything you said every time you called this week despite your funny African Somali Abgal accent!

Before you’d call drunk and make no sense whatsoever because you would grunt like a soused sow!

Two: This morning when you called to tell me and mom that you were coming at nine to take me away to spend the weekend with you; you were half an hour early; before you used to call me and mom to tell us you were on your way to get me and you would never show up!

Three: for this whole entire week everyday you came to see me because you want to be with me rather than with your boozing buddies, bending the elbow with them, drinking Molson with them as if Canada were going to stop brewing Molson tomorrow and declare Prohibition like the US did once!

—O Lord, You have wrought your miracle for out of the mouth of my own nine-year-old son have you perfected the Truth this morning which has just set me free!

Son, I have another name for you: from now on; from this day forth, I am going to call you Telemachus because you have just rescued your dad from his own ten-year Trojan war with that Hercules called Sir John Barleycorn.

Son, I wonder who I was kidding all these years?

—Only yourself, kiddo!

Sorry, I mean daddy-Yo!

But boy am I ever glad that you’ve finally come back to yourself and to your senses and decided to quit.

I have a new name for you too, dad.

From now on I am going to call you, Drinkwater!

—Son, don’t you be so sorry! You are right! I am a just a big kiddo! Your tongue too did steal what is in your heart! Fancy folks call it Freudian slip! But now I cross my heart and promise to change and grow up and act my age—

Just like Dylan!

Just like you!

Just like a-nine-year old!

Instead of acting all the time like a baby always bawling for his milk bottle of Molson!

I cross my heart and promise to change. That is a promise you can bank on this time, son.

—I believe you mean it this time, dad.

This time I am sure you are going to keep your promise to me.
Hey! Here, put out your paw and let us shake on it!