My father never came to a single thing I invited him to.
Not my primary school graduation. Not my secondary school prize giving where I collected 3 awards and kept looking at the gate. Not my university matriculation. Not the ceremony when I got called to bar in 2012. I'd send him the date weeks in advance and he'd say I'll try and that was always the full sentence. I'll try. No follow up. No explanation after.
My mother would sit in his place and clap loud enough for 2 people.
I stopped inviting him after the bar call. Not from anger. Some people love you completely and still cannot show up and after a while you stop making them feel guilty about it.
He was not a bad man. I want to be clear about that.
He was a mechanic in Mushin for 35 years. Worked 6 days a week. Sent every one of us to school. Never raised his hand. Never left. The lights stayed on and the rent was paid and there was always food and he did all of it quietly without asking to be celebrated.
He just could not sit in a plastic chair and watch something.
I accepted that and moved on.
Last year I bought my first property. A flat in Ojodu. Took 9 years of saving and 2 years of paperwork and a lawyer who nearly finished me. When the keys finally came I sat in the empty flat on the floor for an hour just breathing.
I called my mother first. She screamed. My sister cried.
I didn't call my father.
3 days later he called me.
Said he heard about the flat from my mother. Said he wanted to come and see it.
I didn't know what to do with that so I just said okay. Gave him the address. Figured he'd say I'll try and we'd never speak of it again.
He showed up on Saturday at 9am.
Stood at the door in his good agbada. The one he only wears for serious things. Holding a small nylon bag.
I let him in and he walked through every room without speaking. Not quickly. Slowly. Like he was counting something. He checked the pipes under the kitchen sink. Knocked on the walls. Opened and closed the windows twice each. Looked at the ceiling in every room the way only a man who has fixed things his whole life looks at ceilings.
Then he came and stood in the sitting room and looked at me.
Said the pipework is good. Said the windows seal properly. Said whoever built this knew what they were doing.
I nodded.
Long silence.
Then he opened the nylon bag.
Inside was a small framed photo. Me at maybe 7 years old sitting on the bonnet of an old car in his workshop. Grinning. Both legs swinging. He's standing beside me with his hand on my shoulder looking at something outside the frame. I remember that day. I had gone to the workshop after school and he let me sit there while he worked and gave me a Fanta and put a Michael Jackson cassette on the small radio.
I didn't know anyone had taken a photo.
He said he kept it on his workshop table for 22 years. Said he wanted me to have something for the new place.
I held that frame and stood very still.
He said he knew he missed things. Said he was not good at the sitting and watching. That crowds made something in him go wrong in a way he never knew how to explain.
Then he said the flat was good and he was proud and he asked if there was anything in the kitchen because he hadn't eaten.
I laughed.
Made him eggs and bread while he sat at my kitchen table in his good agbada like he owned the place.
We ate and he told me about a car he was working on. I told him about a case that was giving me trouble. Normal conversation. The kind we should have been having for years.
He left at 1pm. At the door he gripped my shoulder the same way he did in that photo.
Didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
The photo is on my sitting room wall now. First thing I hung in the whole flat.
Some fathers cannot sit in the plastic chair.
But mine drove to Ojodu in his good agbada on a Saturday morning with a 22 year old photograph in a nylon bag.
That was his standing ovation.
I just didn't know to look for it in that shape.
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Underneath Femi Adesina’s admission that Buhari “could have long been dead” had he treated himself in Nigerian hospitals is a sobering fact: you and I have little hope of living as long as Buhari did. As long as we haven’t held public office, prompting our medical welfare to become state responsibility, and as long as we have not made enough dollars or pounds to fund frequent foreign medical trips.
This means that Buhari, having been military head of state and subsequently a two-term democratic president without building world-class hospitals for Nigerians, does not mind if you and I die long before our time, our only crime being our inability to afford periodic medical dashes abroad.
To the late former president and many of their appointees in public office, the president’s life is superior to every citizen’s. Which should never be. The sanctity of human life should be uniform, regardless of social or political standing.
This lack of value for the average Nigerian’s life by the elite is one of the factors that have conditioned the reactions of people like me to the ex-president’s passing. The people being accused of lacking empathy simply resent the elitist trifling of other Nigerians’ lives. They are people who watched the ex-president tell victims of killer herdsmen to “accommodate your countrymen”, people whose hearts sank when the president repeatedly trivialised killing of farmers and innocent people as “farmer-herder crisis”, people couldn’t believe their eyes as the president shielded herdsmen but hastily proscribed IPOB as a terrorist group, people who remember him threatening that "the dog and the baboon would all be soaked in blood" if the 2015 election went the way of 2011, people who are still bewildered that under Buhari’s watch, soldiers trooped to the Lekki tollgate, pointed guns at unarmed #EndSARS protesters and fired live bullets at them.
People like these and many more speak for the sanctity of human life; if that gets misconstrued as a lack of empathy, so be it.
Dear 30-year-old,
Pause. Examine yourself.
Audit your life before the storm hits.
By now, you should know where you stand in:
– Health
– Finances
– Relationships
– Personal growth
– Self-care
This audit isn’t just a checklist — it’s your compass.
It gives clarity. It helps you move with purpose.
With it, you’ll know:
WHERE to stand.
WHO to walk with.
WHAT will work for you.
Clarity is power , hustle and Shey jeje.