Like every other day we expected it to be same It was on a Thursday.

January 19, 2023.

The date is carved into my memory, as if life itself pressed it there with an invisible hand. It wasn’t just another day. It was the day that changed everything.

That morning I had plans. My aunt had called earlier in the week and asked me to help her with an assignment. She said I should bring some notes over, and I was ready to go. I had even picked out my bag, arranged my pen and notebook, and told myself I would spend the day in her company.

But my mum stopped me.

“Just stay home today,” she said gently. “You can go another day.”

I didn’t argue. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the tone in her voice, or maybe it was something bigger — something I couldn’t explain. So I stayed. I sat down with my notebook, opened a page, and began copying some work. But suddenly my hand froze mid-sentence.

A quiet nudge came over me. Not fear, not panic — just an overwhelming urge.

I closed the book I was copying from. I reached for a new notebook — one with a clean, untouched page. I set my pen against it and began to write.

I wasn’t writing homework. I wasn’t writing stories.

I was writing reasons.

Reasons why my father couldn’t die.

“One: He hasn’t seen me graduate.”

“Two: He hasn’t danced at my wedding.”

“Three: He still calls me ‘my creative daughter.’”

My pen moved faster than my thoughts. I don’t even know what number I reached. Six? Sixteen? Maybe more. Each line carried a weight, like I was bargaining with Jehovah, like my words might hold back the storm I felt was gathering.

And then it happened.

The sound of our gate opening.

The shuffle of footsteps.

The compound filling with voices, hushed and heavy.

I put my pen down. My heart thudded in my chest. I walked outside and saw them — familiar faces, neighbors, relatives, family friends. But their eyes… their eyes were wrong. Too red, too wet, too sorrowful.

My breath caught. The only words that escaped my lips were:

“My dad. My God. Jehovah.”

I hurried into the living room. My mum sat surrounded by people, their arms around her shoulders, their whispers weaving words of comfort that didn’t sound like good news. My chest tightened.

Then my sister came upstairs. She looked directly into my eyes — her own brimming with something she wouldn’t let fall. Her voice was firm, steady, almost commanding.

“If you start crying now, it’ll never stop.”

And that was it.

No one ever told me with words.

But I knew.

It’s strange how silence can announce something louder than any cry.

---

The days after blurred together like shadows at dusk. Food lost its taste. Time lost its rhythm. The house — once filled with his laughter, his humming, his radio crackling in the corner — felt unbearably hollow. Even the walls seemed to mourn, echoing back the absence of his voice.

I remembered the small things. The way he used to call me “wonderful.” The way his eyes lit up whenever I fixed something no one else could — like that day with his broken radio. Everyone had tried. My siblings had tried. A family friend had tried. Even an uncle had tried. Nothing worked.

Then it came to my turn. I remember him watching me as I knelt down, tinkering with it, trying different buttons, moving wires carefully like I understood its heartbeat. It still didn’t work — not at first. I thought I had failed too.

But he only smiled, shook his head gently, and said, “My creative daughter, your creativity will take you far.”

That moment stayed with me.

It wasn’t about the radio.

It was about how he saw me.

And now he was gone.

---

February 11, 2023.

The burial day.

Grief returned like a wave, pulling us under all over again. People came in their numbers. Some cried loudly. Some cried quietly. Some pretended to be strong. Some couldn’t hold anything back. The mixture of it all — the loud, the silent, the private, the public — was overwhelming.

We all decided to take pictures — me, my siblings, my friends, and family — just for memory’s sake, despite our heavy hearts and crying faces.

We left the house for the mortuary at 10:35.

On my way there, there were a million things going on in my mind. I wanted to look my best, but I was too cold to wear makeup.

I just decided to look simply beautiful, thinking maybe if my dad sensed me looking beautiful, he would stand up and praise me as usual.

I felt maybe my dad was playing an expensive prank like he always did. But I grew weak with the thoughts that it may be real — he may be gone, not just now but forever in this lifetime.

I could only pray to God for His holy spirit and a calm heart.

We got to the mortuary, and there it was — a beautiful white-decorated van to carry my dad. And in my mind, I said, This is all a waste of money. Daddy is alive and he will show up healthy, without a stroke.

But yeah, I was being delusional.

Because in that moment I saw it — a white and gold casket being led out of a side of the mortuary. My heart broke into a million pieces with the thought that I knew who was in there.

And then the casket was dropped, and someone said, “For the last time, let’s take a glimpse at the legend.”

My heart tightened, and then the casket was opened. Lo and behold, there was actually someone in there — a man lying lifeless.

It was my father. My rock. My motivation. My best friend. My lion.

And the only words I could utter were Okoman — the signature name I called him.

But this time, when I called out “Okoman,” there was no response.

For real, my father was gone?

Not breathing?

Not living?

I couldn’t believe that the man I called Daddy was in a casket, unaware that he was the reason his children were crying, unaware he was in a casket, unaware he was about to be laid six feet below the ground in the next hour, wearing a corporate suit and coat.

The casket was closed, and we all acted strong — crying in silence, grieving with everything we held dear, grieving because we had lost the man that caused our birth.

As they lowered him into the ground, I felt my chest tighten in a way I can’t describe. It wasn’t just losing a father. It was losing his voice, his wisdom, his laughter. It was losing the man who called me “wonderful” when I doubted myself, who told me “See you in Paradise” the last time we spoke about hope beyond this life.

Who saw something in me I sometimes struggle to see.

A vacuum remained — not just the absence of a person, but the absence of a presence. The gap left behind was so wide, so deep, that I sometimes wondered how we were still standing.

But I carry him still.

In the way I write.

In the way I dream.

In the way I fix things.

In the way I still say "See you in paradise"

In the way I refuse to let go of the little things he taught me — the quiet strength, the steady faith, the belief in creativity.

He is gone, yes.

But not far.

And yeah life is fragile

And I am still learning how to live with both — the memory and the missing.