The Void, The Comfort: Remembering My Father – 3

The Void, The Comfort: Remembering My Father.
By Kunle Ojeleye

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭

When my mother passed away at the age of sixty-five in 2008, I had a regret – regret that despite all her labour and sacrifices to give us the foundation on which we were building, she left just before we could start giving back to her tokens of our appreciation for her sacrifices and forbearance.
Those very close to me knew my philosophy after that. I was prepared to be called “Alakori, he is giving us puff-puff for his parent’s funeral, however, he looked after him/her while alive”, than being called “Alakori, hunger and lack of care killed his parent, he is here now killing fifteen cows for the funeral”.

Four days after Dad fell ill, I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night overwhelmed by the thought that my father wanted to leave us about the same time his wife passed away thirteen years before. For many minutes, I just lay on my bed starring into space. Then I prayed to God, that if it is His will, I want my father back home in good health. But if it is also His will to call Dad home, I want it done without any agony or pain for him. After that prayer, an overwhelming peace came over me, and I went back to sleep.

A few days later, I had gotten the feedback that he was much better. I was looking forward to him being home and for his ongoing care to be in the hands of Damilola. That Friday night, having been told by my sister and cousin that all was looking bright, I switched on ‘Do Not Disturb’ with the thought that beyond me keeping vigil and calling to monitor him over the past week, no one had called me in the middle of the night for anything.

It was not until I woke up 7 hours later on Saturday morning, that I realised calls from Nigeria and the United Kingdom had flooded my phone just an hour after I switched on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and went to bed. Ironically, I woke up twice in the middle of the night, and unlike me, I did not even have a glance at the phone screen.

Once I called Charles asking “ki lo nsele” and he told me “your Dad has gone to eternal rest”, an unusual calmness enveloped me.

Towards the end of 2020, it weighed so much on my mind that I last saw Dad over a year before, in contrast to every six months at the minimum. I made up my mind to be home that December to spend at least a week with him, Covid or no Covid.
Many thought I was crazy when I told them I was heading to Nigeria. But my mind was made up, and I am glad I listened to my spirit. If I never made that trip, I would not have been able to receive the news of Dad’s transition as calmly as I was able to.

As usual, I phoned my cousin fifteen minutes away from home to leave the gate open. When I drove in, parked and got into the house, Baba Kunle was getting ready to have his bath. With surprise written on his face on seeing me, the usual refrain came out “Omo, bawo lo se rin in?”.
He finished his bath, sat on the edge of his bed and I sat on the couch opposite him. Dad asked “se ko si o” and I told him all was well, that I decided to come home to see him.

I will never forget his statement thereafter. “Olorun lo gbe e wale. There are things I want us to discuss face-to-face, not over the phone.” The seven days of being with him are etched into my memories forever.

𝑀𝑎𝑛 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑠.

Immediately after that December 2020 trip, I had booked to be home with Dad again in the middle of October this year. The plan was that I would spend another week with him, during which I would compel him to sleepover for a few days in the structure put up for him more than three years ago.
Well, I still ended up being in Nigeria in October as intended, to observe the final obsequies for Dad instead of a week of father-son conversational relationship.

I mentioned earlier on the episode of waking up in the middle of the night a few days after Dad’s hospitalisation.
Baba Kunle left us 13 years and two days after his wife bade us farewell.

That trip I made in December 2020, the fact that we all did whatever we could within our capacity to show we loved and cared for him, especially after mum’s death, made all the difference in giving me comfort to cope with the void Dad’s death has created.

My dear friends, please be there for your parents now, while they are here, within the capacity God has given you. That is the cake.
Whatever you are able to do after they are gone to celebrate their passage is just the icing.

The cake remains adorable even without the icing. The icing is utterly useless without the cake.

(Concluded)

Facebook Post: 2021-11-30 T09:01:23