Pilot Cadet (?) Bello, Circa 1975

My Father: In Memoriam

I was born with my heart in my hands, ready to give it to anyone that came into my life; always hopeful, believing in the best of people. In some ways, I am still like that. I always held onto, hoped in, the possibility that as I grew older my father and I would be able to become the best of friends, seeing as we were the most alike in my family. We looked alike, were the only science heads in my family, we both loved heights and being up in the air, we were both airplane enthusiasts (I wanted to be a Pilot, he was one). Those hopes and dreams were dashed on July 23rd, 2006, when my father succumbed to his illness and passed away. I was 11.

My father wasn’t some superDad that couldn’t do no wrong, he was about as regular as any Nigerian father from his generation; to him, his responsibilities ended at financial provision. He wasn’t particularly close to any of us. As the one with the “best” relationship with him, I felt that one day, I could possibly use my relationship to pull him closer to the rest of my siblings. My father lived and worked in a different city from the rest of us. As a senior officer in the Nigerian Air Force, he lived and worked in the capital, Abuja, while we lived in Lagos. I talked to him a few times a week, saw him on holidays, and a few times a month when he came down on business or something. Because of our living situation, it didn’t really hit me that I would never see him again for another year.

Circa 1976–1978

It felt like “Daddy’s only in Abuja, I’ll see him when I’m on vacation.” Then one night in my second term of Js1 (7th grade), it hit me and I broke down. I had a breakdown, fell ill, and had to go home for a few days (I was in boarding school). I had a similar breakdown in my first-year of university. It felt like a hole had been cut out of my heart, and left gaping. Seeing other teenage boys, my friends, strangers, talk about, hang out, relate with their fathers, stung.

Through the years, my heart has gotten bigger, and the hole has gotten smaller, but not disappeared. I suspect it will always be there, unfillable. Seeing, or rather, anticipating my struggle, my best friend’s father “adopted” me, and became my father. I will always love and cherish Mr. Ladipo, he’s been a big big blessing to me, and to my family and I can’t thank him enough.

Sometime in the 80s

In the years since he passed, my family has been through a number of things, but we’ve stayed together. We rallied around our mother, kept her spirits up, became her support, and our support, in any way we could. And I’m happy to say that in the twelve years since, we’ve thrived. Sure, we’re not physically together anymore, but we’ve found our places in the world, made something of ourselves, and I believe my father would be proud of us, all of us. Of course, there were hiccups here and there, stuff that he wouldn’t be proud that happened, or we let happen, but we succeeded in spite of said hiccups. I only wish he could see what we’ve become, see his grandchildren, all eight of them.

I wrote this to say “We’re still here!,” if not for any other reason but in honour of his memory, of the examples he set, both good and bad. Twelve years later, I’m still grieving, in some way I feel I will always be grieving. Some days are harder to cope than others, but those days are getting fewer and farther between. The hole is still there. Though I have many amazing father figures in my life, his absence is still felt. This is one loss that will never be gained back.

Circa 1974–1976

To the ones grieving a loss, from one griever to another, happiness comes like a flood, but grief comes in waves. They’ll batter you and pull you under, all you’ll be able to do is hang on to something, a happy memory or a photograph, and float. And then one day, months, or even years later, you’ll find that the waves are not 100 feet tall anymore; they’re 50, and then 20, and then 10. They don’t come every 10 seconds anymore either, they’re interspersed by days, and months. You can see them coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. The waves will still crash and wipe you out, but in between waves, there will be life. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will come out the other side again. Soaking wet, disheveled, still hanging on to something, but you’ll come out. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. Other waves will come, and you‘ll survive those ones too. And life will go on.