Dear Diary,

I clocked 29 three weeks ago. And just as though life needed to give me a confirmation that I’m a full-grown adult, related tasks have come my way. I’m now doing real adult stuff—like burying my father.

Memories betray us. This is why I am writing this. I want to document my thoughts, exactly how I’m feeling right now, so I can always remember whenever I need to. I want to freeze these emotions and move on from them simultaneously. That thing they say about eating cakes…

It may also be because writing helps me process emotions better—because this did. [An afterthought after completing the writeup.]

31st July, 2024—In a Whatsapp voice note, my sister, who is a nurse, informed me that my mum told her that my dad hasn’t “agreed” to open his eyes, talk to anyone or even stand up from bed. They had to consistently raise him up to feed him, against his will.

You see, my dad had been sick for years—maybe about 4 years now. I have watched the man I used to know fade out gradually, day by day, into the cold hands of sickness. I have also watched him recover in the nick of time. My dad has died many times. But for each time, there was a miracle—a resurrection, a healing, albeit partially. So yes, my dad has died many times, but there was always the hope that he would rise again.

This time was different. Everybody lost hope.

The doctors.

My sister, our family nurse—even though she hates the designation.

Family.

My mum, which is so shocking because she was always one to keep the hopes alive—from doctor’s prescriptions to religious prophesies.

And me. Me. His favourite child. No matter how sick my dad was, he would always respond to my voice. But this time, my voice was just yet another voice that didn’t make a difference.

“Daddy. Daddy.” Silence. “It’s Oyinlola”. Silence. “Oyin lo nsoro”. Silence. He didn’t even raise a brow. If not for the children’s noise in the background of the video call, I would have thought the call was frozen.

This time was different. Everybody lost hope.

1st August, 2024—My sister called back to confirm it. He was at that stage where all he needs is end-of-life palliative care; a make-him-comfortable-till-he-departs kind of treatment. I remember posting it on Twitter, because that was a very Netflix-like phrase. I wasn’t ready for a real-life version of it.

We had one of those family conversations to discuss what happens next, and I was just in confusion through this process. Dear Diary, I’m now doing real adult stuff—like burying my father. Fucking hell.

We all took care of him for four years—physically and financially—but planning for his departure was difficult. It felt like a betrayal, even though we all knew it wasn’t. He needed the rest.

The past four years have been very difficult for me. Too difficult, if I must say. But the emotions of the past 11 days have been worse. I have no words to describe the feeling.

I think when someone is sick, having hope is easy to handle; everybody has one or two words of encouragement to give. Losing hope is a new emotion; there is no template on how to lose hope correctly. Anticipating grief is a strange emotion, and the probable easy way to deal with it (from internet materials I read these past weeks) is by being around them—but here I am, 6900 kilometers away.

I think it is very difficult watching your favourite person lose the will to live—and worse, you’re there, also joining in, praying to God to ease his pain, to let him go. It is a very difficult moment, and I hate that I got there. But I did.

It may have taken four long years, but I got here. I did.

10th August, 2024—I was on my way to my friend’s birthday party. The party was supposed to be a minor distraction from the past weeks, but it turned out to be a major distraction after I had gotten the text below from my sister.

I had been stuck in the train station for hours before finally boarding one, as trains kept being canceled—I thought that was the only thing that had gone wrong with my day. But the joke is on me, everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.

I have cried a lot. I am crying a lot, because I can remember every single moment of pain he felt. Because I was not there. Because I am not there. But beyond me, I have cried because this time was different. No resurrection, just rot.

But I will be fine, just like the rest of my family. In fact, I would like to believe everyone is handling it better than I am. Last born syndrome? We saw this coming. But there is no perfect way to plan for the loss of your father. I would have asked you to show me one if you know, but there won’t be a second opportunity to plan for the loss of my father.

There is no perfect way to die either—but this slow-mo format is probably the worst of it all. But oh well, I might be biased. It’s my father after all. My daddy.

While there are no famous last words, I will forever keep at heart my dad’s favourite sayings to me.

When a bird sits on a tree, it’s never afraid of the branch breaking. Not because it thinks the branch can’t break, that can happen. But because the bird believes strongly in its own ability to fly.

This one taught me confidence and resilience. I will always fly, so I don’t fear.

What we eat is clean.
What we give is sweet.
The branch we sit on will never break.

This one shaped my values. I don’t muddle in messy situations or overburden people.

I clocked 29 three weeks ago. And just as though life needed to give me a confirmation that I’m a full-grown adult, core adult tasks have come my way.

I have received tons of calls, most of which I have ignored. I didn’t take lessons on responding to condolences. So no, don’t call me. Please.

We expect over a thousand people at his burial. Yes, my daddy lived a life of people, he gave to so many. Too many. Now we are planning that—and I am involved. Me.

Now, I am planning to write an eulogy. Imagine that.

Whew. Dear Diary, remember this. I’m now doing real adult stuff—like burying my father.

11th August—The End.

Always and forever more.

You may like these:

Dear Diary, today I become a global talent… It’s me. I’m the thing that needs to be handled.