Have you thought about the unpredictability of life? How it can all change in an instant? Black Love Diary is a short fiction on how fragile our existence is and the pains that come with losing a loved one.

1. BLACK LOVE DIARY
Time itself is also a fluid concept. Each millisecond floating seamlessly along the sea of
eternal consciousness, down into the drains of oblivion and history. God has said He is the
alpha and omega; the beginning and the end. Time was only His by-product. Last year the
rains were here. This year they came again; drawn together by the marvelous design of
nature.
The journey from Iwo, Ibadan to the city of Benin was by no means an easy
one. Although I was no stranger to this kind of trips, being a 3rd year student of the
prestigious purple and gold citadel of academic excellence, the hours seemed to stretch
far beyond what I was already used to. All the same, I could never have felt more
idyllic by the time I arrived at my lush two-storey hostel overlooking the expressway.
With swift deftness, I turned the key in the lock of my condo, pushed the door open
and barged right in.
Apparently jolted by the sudden arrival of the looming party popper, the tiny
little pests turned and ran; slipping and slithering into the dark corners of the very
expansive one- self-con as I myself stood, frozen and rooted to the spot. These
annoying little things never ceased to give me nightmares. I could already feel the thin
lines of my brow getting up-close and personal with themselves. Gingerly, I tip-toed
further along into the corridor separating the kitchen from the toilet. Turning right into

2. the lavatory, my olfactory nerves were instantly churned by the odiferous scent
emitting from within. Through the dim light that filtered in from the mottled window
frame above, I could see the carnage lying around me, littered on the toilet seat, on
the sink, everywhere you could look at – dozens of dead, decaying cockroaches,
desiccating earthworms and millipedes. A putrefying mass of lifeless organisms. It was
as though these insects had warred themselves all to death. “Oh no!” I cried in disgust.
“Not Theresa again”.
Theresa was a distant cousin I had to lodge when she was to write the University
of Benin post-ume, a week to my departure from the city. She was a sweet little
teenager, lively and inquisitive – the type that reminded me of how I was during my
teen years. From the looks of it, she had failed to heed my instructions which were; to
tidy- up the house (with special attention given to the lavatory) and keep all windows
tightly shut. I myself failed to remind her of it despite our numerous online chitchats.
Grudgingly, and with a deep frown still tattooed on my soft-sheen face, I quickly
retrieved the long brush from its corner in the corridor and set to work. Just under an
hour later, my condo was cleansed – clean and crisp yet again. By this time however,
I was pretty weary and exhausted and after I had taken a quick, cold shower, I
scampered into the coziness of my bed, abandoning my unpacked bags and half- eaten
snacks I had purchased on the way; snugging deeper and deeper into the sheets, seeking
to fraternize with members of the elusive world.
It was on the 15th day of November; 2015 that I awoke from dreamland – a very
bright Sunday morning, so calm and peaceful it was as though all the evil in the world
had faded away, far from the brightness of the irradiating sun. But for me, this day
could only represent bleakness,, sorrow and nothing else but pain.

3. My deeply intuitive elder sister Annalise, once told me; “ Amanda if you ever
begin to feel sad and lonely, pick up your pen and write……….pour out your feelings
unto the paper and leave them there. And so, I write as if this is going to take all the
pain away with fair hope that these words of mine would capture my feelings
wholesomely – in fluid-like tranquility.
I was born into the home of Mr & Mrs Adeleke -- a small family of four – on the
6th of June 1995. As a young child, I prided myself as the favorite of my Dad. I was in
fact his carbon copy – a chip of the old block as some would say. He was a fair
complexioned, tall burly man. So fair, that some people often wondered if he was an
half-caste. Without any reservations, I had inherited all his beautiful features; the eyes,
nose and considerable height. Dad always took a special liking to me. To him, I was
his jewel and treasure; his very own “little sisi. He would buy me lots of gifts and toys
– that kind of thing that made Annalise a little jealous. I remember on one occasion,
while I was six and she was ten, she snapped the head of my doll right out of its neck,
hurling it to the ground and stamping on it as her face puckered into a sardonic smile.
I couldn’t help but burst into a fit of tears as my barbie was cruelly dismantled beyond
repair. Anyways, we made up soon after that as we always did. Annalise was my only
sibling and although I hardly let her know, I loved her to bits and pieces. As a family,
we were not so rich neither were we too poor but things weren’t so good overall. At
the age of eight, I was already old enough to know why the stoutly built landlord
often knocked on the hard – wooden door of our apartment. “Go and tell your father
that I am waiting outside” he would say in his thick ijebu accent once the door was
opened.
But as fate would have it, God smiled upon us and soon enough my father was
entreated to a deluge of lucrative business contracts sweeping their way into his

4. hitherto shriveled enclave like sea gulls after a wounded prey. His firm grew drastically
in size translating into more disposable income for us. It didn’t take long before we
relocated to one of the posh areas of Ibadan – GRA to be precise. Finally, fortune had
turned its good side to us.
Life sometimes has a way of wowing you. One moment you could be struggling;
sweating it out; barely managing to make one's ends meet, and another you could be
swimming in a sea of opulence. For the family of the Adelekes – my very own beloved
family, this was the story. Friends and Neighbours alike were left severely stunned and
while some chose to grace the housewarming of our new residence with their
prescence, some preferred to sit back and gossip; a good number of them concluding
that my father, the blossoming chief architect of the much vaunted Tophill
Architecturals designs co.ltd, had “gone to do blood money”.
For the following years to come, we lived in pure bliss; changing clothes and cars
more frequently than necessity demanded. Mother had in fact gone through some
stunning transformation, her skin glowing and sparkling now more than ever – a
befitting upshot of her frequent visits to the spa, coupled with her recent employment
of expensive creams and skin toners. She had started socializing with the crème of the
southwestern society, herself hardly failing to steal the spotlight of most social events
she attended, hypnotizing her gawking male admirers with her luminous beauty. The
house itself never seemed to get rid of the endless list of dignitaries and “big men” of
society that traipsed into and out of it. Obviously, my dad was about to make his
debut into the political scene. Little did we know, that the joy and happiness that once
defined and delineated the very heart of our family’s existence was about to slip away
and never to return again.

5. On November 13;2006, I returned home from school to find Annalise sulking in
a corner of our room – head bent over raised knees, looking glumly out the large glass
window overseeing the garden below. It was quite easy to see the displeasure
registered on her face. “ what’s wrong?” I softly inquired of her. “Everything is!” she
bawled out; her eyes dark and glossy with pain. She turned again to face the window.
“there was a huge fight…….Mom and dad……it was horrible…you wouldn’t
believe…..” she trailed off again. “please tell me” I pleaded with imploring eyes. I
listened avidly as Annalise recounted the worrying details of a fracas that had ensued
between Dad and Mom. It was somewhat hard to gulp down due to the fact that that
both of them never had a quarrel over anything as far as I could tell. Dad was always
the understanding, easy going person while mom was equally cheerful and submissive.
I often thought their love was one made in heaven as the chemistry existing between
them was so palpable, even a child as little as I was could tell. Annalise, still looking
out the window spoke again; unknowingly snapping me out of my short reverie. “she
said that we've been betrayed……..
Whenever the clouds gather, you know the rains are about to fall. You could tell when the thunder rumbles, – low
and even in the distance. You become more certain when a cold whiff wheezes past the back of your neck, and
lightning finally makes its debut.
We could never had seen it coming; that Dad would be caught right at the centre
of an extramarital office romance. It was too befuddling to process. The questions of
when, how and why proved very difficult to answer. Maybe the signs were there all

6. along. I myself couldn’t tell anyway, the slight nuances that had begun to chip away
at the love and spark that existed between mum and dad. But, he had started coming
home late from work, missing his evening meals more frequently. We would be lucky
enough to see once together as a complete family during the week. He'd given the
excuse of politics – having to keep a constant relationship with the people that
mattered including party chieftains and lobbyists but now mum knew better. Finally,
she got a meaningful explanation for the late-midnight calls and texting. It was politics,
but funds, strategies and scarce resources weren’t the only things at play.
Quite surprisingly, a big scandal was created. Somehow, the news percolated to
the media. It just would not be kept under wraps. The fact that Mr. John Adeleke had
been embroiled in an amorous relationship with his personal assistant, sheila, made for
an interesting read. Different versions of the story were told. Some said he'd been the
victim of the base cunningness of a seductress, who was bent on stealing him away
from his wife. Others depicted him as the sexual predator seeking an avenue to satiate
his wild sexual fantasies. A good number of them becoming more ridiculous with their
needless animadversion. They wondered what sort of man there was, that would
betray and cheat on the beautiful Asmina, as mum was popularly called.
No doubt, following that revelation, my soft tender mind was full with
questions; not that anyone around could provide the answers. Mum was a light-
skinned Nubian damsel, possessing a smile that could compete with the shimmering
iridescence of the sun and rainbows, but now, she wore a dark veil of melancholy.
She'd taken into her recent broodings; sitting in the banana shaped chaise, knitting a
short rounded cap out of light-pink wool -- her wrappers tied snuggly against her body
with her long hair running riotously down her bare shoulders. It wasn’t hard to see
that things weren’t alright with her as she continued her knitting late into the night

7. whilst humming a couple of her native songs – none I could understand. I knew she'd
been hurt. I had been too. But while Dad's betrayal pierced through my heart, hers
had been smashed into smithereens. She trusted him completely; leaving nothing to
calculation or cynicism. But he had repayed her in another currency; marked by
deception and perfidy.
Some weeks later, Dad visited the house. He scurried past the corridor just beside
the kitchen where I was making an awful attempt to fry beans -- not even distracted
by the acrid smell I was producing – and went up into the master bedroom, ready to
cart away his belongings. I switched off the gas and tiptoed up the stairs, listening with
rapt attention, in anticipation of what outburst might reoccur between their two.
Luckily, as it turned out, mum had just left the house to purchase some groceries. On
arriving a few metres away from the room, I would hear the rustling sounds of
cellophane bags followed by the soft ripping sound of his box being zipped up. I stood
in the doorway, my chest thumping slightly. Then, in a slyly unsure tone, I asked aloud;
“where are you going dad?” As though he had always been aware of my presence
there, he turned unsurprisingly, flicking a glance to the spot where I stood. And then,
in one swift single motion, he picked up his box. “You don’t have to go!” I pleaded.
“I’ve heard what they said, but it shouldn’t be like this…..If it's that you want to marry
another woman, fine. We-we can still stay to-to-together…….”. He looked amusingly
in my direction, obviously not finding any sense in what I had just said, before letting
out a loud raucous guffaw. “you always are full of surprises Amanda” he replied.
“unfortunately, this is how it's going to be….don’t expect to always see me around
because I and your mum have parted ways”. He picked up his things and found his
way out. It wasn't long before he was behind the wheels, and his foot on the gas,
driving furiously out of the large compound into the coal tarred street outside, slicing

8. the wind as he powered forward, almost succeeding in blowing away all the tender
feelings I had for him -- nurtured and soaked for eons in pure love, respect and sheer
admiration.
It was difficult to reconcile the man who stormed out of the house that late
November afternoon with the one I knew as my father ever since I was a little girl.
The man who bought me dolls and little pink dresses, who stuffed my young pert
mouth with cherries and strawberries, the one who carried me on his broad shoulders
for the world to see. The vicissitudes of life, they say, are mostly hard to fathom; and
sometimes, as shocking as they come. He never came back that year. Not even when
we were marking the crossover – the 31st day of December. While the clock turned its
long arm slowly towards the figure of twelve, an accurate reminder that a new year
was about to be birthed, we held hands across the four-seater dining table to pray.
Mum had been singing; her voice growing more melodious as each passing minute
brought us closer to the dawn of a new day; a new month and a new year altogether.
But sitting directly opposite where I was , was an empty chair – the place Dad usually
positioned himself at meal time. At some point I would imagine he was right there,
smiling and chuckling, his face ignited by the glowing slender flames from the candles,
as his eyes sparkled with laughter. Instead, every time I blinked my eyes at that spot
again, I met with the reality of his absence. Dad was always a compelling figure –
chatty, witty, and humorous. A great conversationalist that could weave his way into
most hearts; often making friends easily in diverse social circles. Even now, his absence
seemed to send much louder sound waves than his deep attractive voice would most
times produce.
I reminisced the times while we lived at the suburbs of Ibadan, when we would
take out a mat and chill out in front of the house -- all four of us -- in a bid to escape

9. the debilitating effects of an insecticide recently sprayed. Sometimes, Annalise and
Mum would retire early to sleep, leaving Dad and I out in the cool dark night. Dad
would begin his interesting tales again – for some reason, he usually saved the best for
me. They were the ancient folk tales of the great animals that inhabited the jungle –
some funny, some educative, others a mixture of the two. One particular night, we
were left alone yet again, with only the shrill cries of the crickets as company, and the
soft thumping noise the squirrels made as they jumped down from tree branches,
pausing just for a second before disappearing into the shadows once more. The sky
was lit with so many stars; it appeared as though we had teleported into another
galaxy. When he rounded off his amazing stories, we lay back ,gazing in awe at the
marvelous constellations that littered the dark endless sky. Altogether did they sparkle;
an assortment of possibilities like each little twinkle contained a promise – of hope, of
light, and of peace. Dad often told Annalise and I that we would grow up to become
immense stars; the kind that would leave indelible footprints on the sands of time. He
said that we should never be the shadows of this dim world; but through each little
good deed, each little help we could render, we should provide a ray of hope for the
next person by us. That, by so doing, we would become like the stars. We would
become the spark of light where darkness had dominated. We would be making the
world a better place to live in; each and every single day. On crossover night, however,
there were no stars. The small amount of fireworks did little to make up for their
absence. Dad was gone like the stars. His invigorating charm and presence merely a
figment of my imagination.
Days rolled into weeks and weeks became months and as time flew by, the
relationship between Dad and Mum soured. All attempts at a reconciliation were met
with a red-brick wall. Mum had grown more dispassionate. She would hear no more

10. of it; of Dad and Sheila or Sheila and her protruding baby bump. She was done with
the trash as she firmly stated; she had finally moved on. It was no secret that divorce
proceedings were about to commence. Quite surprisingly, Dad was becoming the more
amiable of the two. I thought he had made up his mind when he brisked past me that
late November afternoon – not even taking a second glance at the things he once held
dear. I guess he later sat down to think things over; to consider what he wanted more.
Each time he paid us a visit, after chatting briefly with Annalise and I, he would beckon
to mum, seeking to have a tête-à-tête on the veranda outside. His feelings were entirely
limpid now. I could sense that he was genuinely sorry and wanted her back. But mum
had her mind already made up. The betrayal was too deep, too visceral, too hard for
her to swallow, digest, and have a bite at the cherry once again. Her trust had been
broken and may never be regained. She wanted out and quickly as well. She assured
him that she would take no part of his wealth – no property, no alimony – after all,
one of her affluent admirers had secured a job for her with a top-notch media outfit
as an entertainment show host. Her constant face-time invariably added to her
overflowing horde of adorers, some wishing they would have a chance to date the
ever-glamorous and scintillating Asmina Adeleke – a soon-to-be single mother. Divorce
proceedings were set to begin on the 8th of July 2007 and little after that, she would
be free from the “sham” she had termed marriage, to focus on her budding career as
an on-screen personality.
One evening however, while we were in the sitting room, munching slices of
turkey and sipping cranberry as we watched papa ajasco & co. on the television screen,
a soft rap was heard on the door. The gateman introduced someone as a visitor who
had news for mum. The visitor spent some minutes with mum; the two of them
conversing in low tones. When he left, Mum shut the door and turned to face us.

11. Instantly, I could tell that something was up. Her bright demeanor had given way into
a pale downcast face. “What’s the matter?” Annalise screamed out impatiently. She
wasn’t the type to take suspense easily. Mum stood there, at first struggling to find her
tongue. When she finally did, she was mumbling something rather incoherent. “I d-d-
d-don't really kn-kn-know ………he said something about a-a-a-a-……….” Her voice
trailed off again. She was apparently very disturbed. She excused herself and ran up
the stairs. In less than two minutes, she was down again, clutching tightly to her purse
as she wheezed past us, almost tripping over the last step as she approached the door.
“I have to go now, I’ll be back soon” she'd said and left hurriedly.
Sometimes, the rains do not fall several months into a new year. When they finally fall, they come with little mercy.
As if they’d been unjustly denied of their right to whip into mother earth, they attack with great relish; flooding
homes, wiping paved streets clean, filling up river banks.
The weather that night was bad, muggy and overcast. I could hardly sleep. The torrent was heavy
and the thunders never seemed to cease – a bad omen, presaging the terror that was about to come.
Mom didn’t return until it was almost mid-day. She told us it was just an exaggerated emergency call;
that Dad had been rushed to the clinic after a vomiting spree. I felt oddly pacified by her assurances
partly because she had a knack for downplaying horrible incidents even where the average person
would react in hysteria. But what could a little girl wish for; it may have been that he was only
reacting to something he ate – I wasn't quite sure – well, time would tell.
Later in the week, we got to know better. Dad was hospitalized for days. The doctors took note of
the symptoms; vomiting, dizziness and stooling of blood. After conducting preliminary tests and scans
they became certain that it was not an ulcer. So, they opted for a CT scan. Mum was very optimistic
that the tests would turn out good – we all were – but Dad had begun to feel serious pains. He'd
neglected these signs in the past, for they were only momentary. Now, they turned out more
frequently, each fresh episode of pain becoming more poignant than the former. The scan was carried

12. out shortly, his innards pictured in shadowy forms and at different angles. Still, the doctors could not
tell what the problem was. We were soon informed that Dad had to undergo a biopsy. His spleen
was removed temporarily, along with other gastric tissues, to be examined. They were afterwards
made to pass through the microscope – as the doctors explained – where abnormal cell growths were
discovered. They were large in size and numerous, each possessing a J-like shape. Dad became
pensive. He hated this; being wheeled into and out of the theatre room, held down by strappings,
as his body was pumped with anesthetics time and time again. The horrifying hospital scent only
served to add to his woes. He became aware that he was a carrier of a deathly ailment and the
demons which had been terrorizing him of late where in fact the malignant tumors that lined his
gastric system. He grew very afraid. This was the last thing he would have ever envisaged.
For the doctors themselves, this was hard to comprehend. Their patient was only a forty two year
old man; one who had no history of smoking or alcoholism. Besides, none of his family members
had been diagnosed with the ailment in the past. They wondered what exactly had gone wrong.
More so, in the history of ST. James hospital, GRA , there'd been just one patient admitted with stage
1 gastric cancer; a very rare disease with astronomic effects. They had to act and act quickly. After
series of consultations, chemotherapy seemed the next logical step – if at all, to stem the reproduction
of the tumors into other body parts. A change of diet was prescribed and in the following 3 weeks –
the 6th
of August; 2007 – treatment would commence.
Of all emotions mum had sufficient equanimity to conceal, shock was the least of them. When she
received the written medical report, she could not hide it. For some seconds her mouth was left
agape and when she eventually managed to sit, she kept staring into empty space. This sudden turn
of events was hardly easy for her to control. They moved too quickly and far too disjointedly.
Divorce proceedings were just about to kick off when this sad news kicked in – like a kick boxer –
knocking everything in its path upside down. The lawyers had to compel the judge to hand down a
stay-of-proceedings, at least, for the time being. For more than thirteen years, she had been married
to her now estranged husband and during that time, he never showed any sign of cancer – he hardly
fell sick too. What was more surprising was that he'd been diagnosed of gastrointestinal cancer; a
very rare type. When he said that his family had no history of chronic illnesses, she believed him. He

13. might have been a cheat, but he was never a good liar, for he gave away too easily when she
confronted him with shy proofs of his extra marital affair.
Amongst the three of us, Annalise was the only one who fared good at managing her feelings. For
me, it was almost impossible to concentrate at school. Even when we were asked to engage in fun-
filled extra-curricular activities, the smile would never come. Despair was virtually setting in.
Everywhere I looked I would see his weary face, feebly supported by his gaunt neck sticking out from
those grisly hospital clothes. I prayed every night that he would get better; that the sickness would
not take him; that his demons would not drag him to the underworld where he would have no
chance to shine like the stars he told me about. The preceding eight months could easily be said to
be the worst days of my life. Everything seemed to fall apart – as Chinua Achebe ( of blessed memory
) said – the centre could not just hold.
Life is so unpredictable when you are behind the wheels, speeding at the rate of 190km/hr through a
long narrow bridge on a rainy evening. One wrong move, one second’s lapse of concentration, could
lead to a series of events culminating in heart-wrenching tragedy. Dad completed chemotherapy in
October. By this time, he was feeling a little better, managing to smile with less difficulty. This made
us very happy; most especially, me. School closed and summer vacation began. I could spend more
time with him now in his hospital room, laughing and chatting just about anything just like we did
when we were a family – strong and indivisible – and when love was our most sacred value. Each
time I went up to visit him that summer, I became more convinced that he never really changed.
He'd made a mistake – we all do – but the chance to correct it never came easy for him. For mum,
love and trust were two separable phenomena though pain is felt when the two are so carelessly
detached. She still loved him. I saw it in her eyes. Not merely out of pity for a suffering man, but I
guessed an unfair mixture of both emotions coursed through her.
Soon after he had completed his chemotherapy, it became clear that he needed more treatment. The
doctors were reluctant to break the news at first, but they finally did, as the funny niggling pains
recommenced. The tumors had already spread to other body parts, scathing the liver and kidneys.
He needed radiotherapy now. He needed it badly. If the tumors succeeded in riddling his delicate
organs, he would be gone for good.

14. Late in October, he went under the light. The first sessions turned out to be the most gruelling. He
reacted awfully. His vomiting became much more violent. He could keep nothing down. His screams
grew louder, sounding rather eerie. For some reasons which the doctors could not explain, the
anaesthetics could not be administered any longer. The nurses doubled their numbers, shuffling up
and down the long narrow hallway that led to the large theatre, moving supplies, trays and towels
as the three of us – Mum, Annalise and I – stood, sometimes praying, sometimes pacing around,
other times weeping, hoping the nightmare would cease quickly. When it did, we had to face the
creepy aftermath. We walked into the large room gently, as he slowly dabbed at his eyes which were
already bulging red out of his colourless face. I decided from that day onward to never leave his side.
I told myself I couldn’t let him go through the torment alone.
One Friday evening, I went to visit him as I now so often did. I moved towards the window to let
some air into the room as his sad eyeballs rotated along. He was still holding incorrigibly on to the
slick taut tendrils of life, though the pains racked him body and soul, so he continued to sink lower
and lower into the profoundest depths of hell. The disease had turned him into a vegetable as tears
frequently rolled monotonously down the sides of his face, amidst whimpers, while his body
convulsed in pain. He was disappearing deeper into the sheets; his pale face appearing more like a
poorly done artwork than a real being. He was vaporizing right before our eyes, becoming the
shadow of the man he once was but I knew that shadow still loved me. He called out my name
through his failing voice: “Amanda”. “yes Dad” I replied softly. Then he continued: “you know, I'm-
I'm really sorry for what I did to you and Annalise. I should’ve never left the way I did. I know you
may h-h-have hated me for what I did……….maybe even now……” I had to cut him short. “ please
stop, don’t say that Dad”. The tears had started to build up – slowly but steadily. I walked towards
the bed and held his shaking hands carefully, wishing that, in that moment, nature would allow me
defy its course, so I could bear his cross; to absorb half of all the pain that troubled him inside; that
made him writhe and whimper as a little child, leaving him with no faint trace of courage. Still fighting
to hold back the tears, I said, “ I'd never hate you….not now, not ever……. I love you now Dad, I'll
love you always”.
Two days later, – the 15th of November 2007 – he kicked the bucket. Somehow, someplace, strength
filtered into his bones. He'd climbed up the stairs, to the top of the building. He spread his arms wide

15. like an apparition and dived – head first – or so I heard. I sometimes blame myself for his death. I'd
promised to be by his side always but I failed to keep it. I was rather found strutting the back of the
massive hospital compound at the moment of his demise. I wanted some fresh air but I could hardly
breathe when I arrived the scene. It was a horrifying din of wailing voices. Fresh lumps of gashed
tissues and brains littered the floor, blood on the concrete, chaos, bedlam! This time the tears did
come, stinging with every drop that did fall. He was gone, and he was done.
In December, we had the funeral. To me, it seemed like fiction and ceremony was all there was to
it. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t real. Just a little while back, he was here; not just as a part of
a story or some recent history, no! He was blood and flesh. He was my favorite and I was his too.
The vignettes of his existence still float seamlessly through my mind. Dad had once said that life was
partially hot and sweet at the same time, but it was hotter in hell and sweeter in heaven. As he was
lowered six feet under, the choir continued singing. lights will guide you home was the tune they
rendered, their voice reaching a highly sonorous crescendo when they rounded off. I prayed tearfully
that God would have mercy on his poor troubled soul. He'd begged for euthanasia but none was
offered him, so he took the plunge. He dived deep, all in a bid to escape his demons – not minding
if there were a thousand more on the other side. He spread his arms wide like a bird; willing to fly,
willing to be free from all the pains and sorrows of this dreadful biosphere.
Dad, I had no doubts when I said those words on that Friday evening, holding your hands while I
fought back the tears although I can tell that I felt one drop fall and hit my outstretched arm, or was
it two? I love you now Dad, always and forever. Loving you was hard but loving you was real.
PRINCE ERIGO is a Nigerian lawyer, imaginative writer, content marketer and loyal friend. You can
have a chat with him at princeerigo@gmail.com