The Day Daddy Died

Grief, Memories, and the Long Road to Acceptance: A January That Changed Everything

For many, 2020 gave its intro as a terrible year in February/March, but for me, it began in January.

If I remember correctly, on December 31st, 2019, I got my termination letter where I was working. I had just made some big financial commitment to ease my movement to work, and it now looks like I jumped the gun. I spoke to no one about it, save for one of my ex-colleagues who wanted to see the house I had rented. January came, and I moved into my new home. My siblings and parents helped pack and transport the little I had, and my hustle was about to be renewed.

I was back to focusing on freelancing in a matter of days, but nothing was forthcoming. Luckily, on the sixteenth day of that month, after a brief chat with my former boss, I got my job back. Oh, finally, a reprieve!

I returned to work on Monday, and it was good to see my colleagues again. My workplace had the tradition of Thursday being the last day to come to the office, so you had to work from home on Friday. That Thursday, I walked with Tife and Rita to Allen, and Tife asked if I would like to come play Fifa at his house the next day. In my usual fashion, I shrugged, but for the life of me, I didn’t even know how to hold a pad.

Friday came, and I was in my bed, the only piece of furniture I had to my name. I had woken up early to finish my work so I could Netflix and chill for the rest of the day. My mind briefly went to my dad. I had thought of calling him the previous night just to say hello, but it slipped my mind. I also remembered that I had yet to eat, had not had my bath, and hadn’t been to the gym in a week to collect the glove I paid for.

I did the easiest thing to check off my list: I had my bath. I had barely returned to my bed, chewing on dry golden morn with milk, when I got the text from my brother. The gist of it was that Dad had been in an accident the previous night, and it was quite serious.

My family is fascinating. Our relationship when we’re far away from each other is not the best, but when we’re together, we’re really together. All the while I was in school, I could count the number of times I spoke to my parents. We are four boys, and I guess you can imagine the turmoil the house suffered at our hands. But one thing our parents never allowed was that we let any fight last more than a few hours.

I digress.

My brother told me they just returned from the diagnostic center for a scan, and I should come to the hospital ASAP. I immediately left my house. Withdrew the last 3k in my account and found my way to Ojota. That was the longest journey to Ikorodu I have ever made. I sat in the long white bus, oblivious to anyone else around me. My brother kept asking where I had gotten to until I finally made it there. I walked into that hospital, silently praying as I had been doing since I heard the news; he had brain damage and a severe skull fracture. I looked around, and familiar faces were everywhere; then, my brother came out from the hospital entrance. He could see the question on my face, but before I could even ask, he told me, “Popsy don go o.”

I cried. No, I wailed. Right there, on the stairs to the hospital’s entrance, I wailed from my insides. Who ever plans such a day?

I stayed there crying for a long time, I really cannot recollect how long it was, but it felt like a lifetime of tears had just poured through me, and it was only the beginning. I was a hard guy, though, because, after that day, I didn’t shed any other tears until the day he was buried. After a while, people came around to console me, and my brother picked me up. There were things to be done. I worried for my mother. What has her life suddenly become? It was only her birthday about a week ago, and my brother’s a few days ago.

I was with my father for the ride from the hospital to the mortuary at General Hospital. I felt his body go from warm to cold. I can remember answering calls from friends who had already heard what had happened, and I could feel my father’s skin on mine like he was still alive. And we got the mortuary; he wasn’t. His muscles were hardened, and he was stiff. I was scared the morticians would break his limbs as they forced it to be free and lie on his side. I had no more tears to cry; my lips were dry, and my thoughts were distant. They wheeled my father into the morgue, and the next time I would see him, he was dressed for his burial. I write this, and I wonder, is he still truly dead? I can hear this voice in my mind, and I can see him walking home. How can he be dead?

My father was an easygoing man. He had the kindest words to say to you but would not coddle you. He raised his boys to hold their own, whatever their situation. Never to undignify yourself for cheap wealth. He worked hard his entire life, and if there was a good side to his death, he died on his way back from working in God’s vineyard. I hope he continues to rest in the Lord’s bosom as January comes, with it, his fifth-year remembrance. My father loved me, and I will forever love my father.

The burial came and went. People moved back to their lives, and now, we must live with the absence of daddy. He was the silence that encouraged you when distance stood between us. Now, we sit in a silence that will never echo his voice. That is what hurts the most. And yes, the emptiness in your heart you will try to live with, but you can only fill it with memories of him. You never heal from death, you never move on, you live with it, every day, only wishing you never feel such again... but life...