I wish my dad took me fishing - By Prince Ndeunyema

Written By: Prince Ndeunyema

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

We are pleased to feature Prince Ndeunyema's evocative poem, "I wish my dad took me fishing," as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Representing the category of Poetry, this piece offers a deeply personal exploration of the unfulfilled desires and complex emotions surrounding paternal relationships. Prince masterfully captures the essence of longing and introspective reflection, inviting readers to ponder the silent spaces between father and son.

About the Work

Prince Ndeunyema's poem weaves a tapestry of vivid imagery and emotive language, delving into themes of longing, understanding, and the passage of time. Through detailed snapshots of imagined moments and heartfelt introspection, the work resonates with a yearning for connection and the quiet acceptance of what was never realized. The poem's reflective tone and vivid imagery draw the reader into a world where silence speaks volumes and unspoken desires linger like echoes in a storeroom.

I wish my dad took me fishing

Original Submission by Prince Ndeunyema

I Wish My Dad Took Me Fishing

There was a rod in our storeroom.

I don't know whose it was.

It leaned in the corner behind the paint tins

like it was waiting for somebody to be free,

and every year the reel got stiffer,

and every year I got taller,

and neither of us said anything about it.

I used to think you were going to notice it one day. Just walk past, stop, turn around.

"Hey. You ever been fishing?"

And I would have said no so fast

it would have sounded like yes.

I had the whole thing built already.

Early. Still dark. You drive.

The car smells like petrol and the inside of a thermos.

I don't ask where we're going because

the not-asking is part of it,

the trusting is part of it,

and you put your hand on the back of my seat when you reverse, which is not affection exactly,

but it's the closest thing that comes standard.

We get there and the water is doing that thing

where it hasn't decided to be a colour yet.

And you say, "watch."

And you tie the knot slow, on purpose,

so I can see it.

The loop, the wrap, the pull,

your thumbnail flattening the line.

And then you undo it and hand it to me

and let me be bad at it.

That's the part I wanted most.

Not the fish.

The being allowed to be bad at something

in front of you

without anything bad happening.

Anyway.

That's not a memory.

I want to be honest about that.

That's a room I built and furnished

and then couldn't get you into.

Somewhere around thirteen

I started noticing other people's fathers.

Not in a jealous way at first.

More like a boy learning a language

by overhearing it.

Sipho's dad taught him to reverse a trailer in the parking lot on a Sunday,

shouting, laughing, shouting again,

and Sipho was embarrassed

and I would have swallowed glass

to be that embarrassed.

The neighbour's boys came back one Saturday sunburnt, stinking, arguing about whose was bigger, their father behind them carrying everything, the cooler and the rods and the folding chairs, and he looked exhausted in a way

I did not understand as generosity

until much later.

And I remember standing at our gate,

just standing there,

and going back inside,

and eating,

and doing my homework,

and being completely fine.

I was very good at being completely fine. It was, honestly, my best subject.

Here's what nobody warns you about.

You still become a man.

That's the strange part.

Nobody tells you that the becoming happens anyway, with or without instruction,

the way a river still gets to the sea

even if no one shows it the way.

It just takes longer,

and it ruins a few things on the route.

So I taught myself.

Badly. Publicly. Expensively.

I learned money by losing it.

I learned women by frightening one gentle person with how much I needed her to stay,

and then not understanding why she went. I learned apologising from books.

I learned to shake hands firmly from a video.

Twenty-two years old, watching a stranger on a screen explain eye contact,

taking notes.

I learned failure by treating every failure

as evidence in an old case

I've been quietly losing my whole life.

Nobody taught me that a bad day

can just be a bad day.

That you can come home empty,

no fish, nothing, wasted hours,

and a father can shrug and say,

"That's fishing."

And you can pack up and drive home

and that's allowed.

That's what I never got.

Not the catching.

The permission to come back with nothing.

So let me ask you,

since it's just us:

Did you know?

That's the question.

That's the only one.

Did you know there was a specific boy

in a specific house

practising conversations with you in the mirror? Were you scared of me?

Because sometimes I think that's it.

I think maybe you looked at a son

and saw an exam you hadn't studied for,

and you did what men in our family do with exams.

You didn't show up,

and then you made a joke about it later.

Did you ever drive past water

and think of me?

Be honest.

Even once?

Even for the length of a bridge?

And this is the ugly one.

Was I not interesting enough?

Because that's the version I carried longest, the one where the failure was mine,

where a better boy would have been worth the petrol. I'm not asking to hurt you.

I'm asking because there's a hole in the record and I'm the only one still doing the research.

Here's what I've had to sit with lately.

You were somebody's boy.

There's a photograph.

You're maybe nine,

standing too straight,

smiling the way people smile

when they've been told to,

and behind you is a man

whose face I've studied like scripture

and cannot read.

Nobody sat you down either.

Nobody handed you the line

and let you fumble.

You got handed a hook with nothing on it and were told to go feed a family.

And I think,

I genuinely think,

you gave me everything you were given. Which was a house.

Which was shoes.

Which was a man who came home.

And I keep wanting to shout at you that it wasn't enough,

and then I look at what you started with and my voice goes somewhere.

That's the trap, isn't it?

Understanding you doesn't give me back a single Saturday.

It just makes it harder to be angry, and being angry was the only thing I ever got to keep of you

that was fully mine.

So.

I bought a rod.

Last year.

Cheap one.

Not to fish.

I don't fish.

I don't even know if I'd like it.

I go and I sit.

There's a spot about forty minutes out where the water is flat and brown and moves so slowly you have to stare to prove to yourself it's moving.

I take two chairs.

I don't want to explain why.

I take two chairs and I set them the way I imagined it,

close but not touching,

both facing out,

because that's how it's supposed to go. You don't look at each other.

You look at the same thing,

and that's how men say it.

I sit there for hours sometimes. I don't cast.

The bait goes off in the container. The line stays wound.

My hands sit in my lap

and I look at them

and they are so much like yours it's almost a joke.

Same knuckles.

Same short thumbs.

Hands that were clearly issued to us by the same office.

And I think:

I would have been a good student. I really would have.

I was so ready to be taught.

I don't hate you.

I want that on the record.

I've put it down.

It was heavy and I was tired

and I've put it down.

But I should tell you,

since you're not here.

Setting it down didn't fill the other chair. It just made the sitting quieter.

The sun goes.

I fold both chairs.

I carry them back myself,

one under each arm,

which is exactly as hard as it sounds.

And I drive home with the rod rattling in the back and the seat beside me

holding nothing but the shape of the light. I wish my dad took me fishing.

I know how that sounds.

Small.

Almost silly.

Like I'm asking for a hobby.

But I'm not asking for the fish, Dad.

I never was.

Prince Ndeunyema

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, celebrates the power of words to inspire and transform. This prestigious event provides a platform for writers across the globe to share their unique voices and creative expressions. Participants engage with diverse themes, showcasing their talents in the categories of poetry, short stories, essays, and creative writing. The competition fosters a vibrant community of literary enthusiasts and emerging talents.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Prince Ndeunyema for sharing "I wish my dad took me fishing" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 adds a valuable voice to this international celebration of creativity. We appreciate the depth of emotion and thoughtfulness conveyed in your work and look forward to seeing more of your literary journey unfold.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.