Amidst Grief, We Carry Your Rhythm

“The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.” — Irving Berlin

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It’s Your 59th Birthday, Pops!

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I miss you so much.

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Of course I used a palm wine gourd as a cover image for this piece. And that's because I miss our drinking together more than anything, those were the moments when you shared your stories and adventures. You gave me my first alcohol and because you knew I loved palm wine, you'd always have some whenever I was coming home. Other times, you'd keep the best bottle of wine or cream liquer.

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People would ask you why you gave your daughters alchohol and you'd say "why not?" Those moments made me feel super proud and loved. It didn't look like it but you did try to celebrate us the ways you knew how.

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Mum and the girls are getting by. We talk about you all the time. Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we fall into silence — the kind of silence that says everything. It’s the reminder of your absence, the pause where we wonder: What would Dad have said about this? Sometimes we even try to guess the jokes you’d crack or the comments you’d make in certain situations.

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We’ve had good days and hard ones. Some days I shine bright, and on others, I let out a scream that startles David. He doesn’t always understand why it comes out of nowhere. Other times, I cry quietly in the shower or bury my face in a pillow, hoping the tears will feel lighter when I let them out. And mornings like today, I handle it the only way I know how — by writing.

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Somehow, celebrating you is helping me break my streak of not writing. I had looked forward to writing again for so long but, everytime I tried to write, nothing made sense without you. I felt like everything I had to say somehow would lean back to how much grief I was buried in. To be honest, I am not out yet and I probably would never be but it makes me happy that I get to write again after such a long time. Thank you for giving me this gift of expression again.

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I used to think that because we fought a lot, it would be easier to let go. But the opposite is true. The more I heal, the more I’m reminded of you — your values, your rituals, your lessons. I see so much of you in me. And in my siblings, too:

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• Mmeso carries your strength and reminds me why people respected and feared you.
• Neeche lives easily, just as you always said — make the most of life because tomorrow isn’t promised — while somehow running the family business like she was born to do it.
• Benita spends with her whole heart, making sure she’s living her best life, just like you taught her. She definitely is spoiled, but we love her, and that way we get to tease her all her life for being her sponsors.
  
  

Each of us reflects a shade of you, and together we’ve formed a rainbow — stronger, tougher, more grateful. That’s how we’ve held on. That’s how we’ve carried you with us.

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You’re also the reason our family has its rhythm. You made sure we came home for the New Yam’s festival, Christmas, and Easter — not just for the food or the wine, but for the time together. I remember evenings with palm wine or a bottle open, all of us talking about nothing and everything. I didn’t realize it then, but you were weaving us together. Even now, after long days at the family business, mum and the girls gather in the sitting room to watch a show on TV. That ritual is you, Dad. It’s our unspoken family time, and it’s how your presence still fills the room.

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Dad, I never imagined doing life without you. You didn’t look like the dying type. You were so strong, so full of life. I still catch myself wishing this was just a nightmare — that I’d wake up to a text from you or see you walk through the door.

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Your passing has changed me. It’s made me clearer about what matters, and though it hurts, I’m better for it. Still, I need your cheering, Pops. I need to feel you rooting for me, for all of us, the way you always did.

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Today, on your 59th, I hope you’re resting well. I hope you’re cracking jokes with old friends and ancestors, sipping the finest palm wine, and smiling down at us.

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So here’s to your 59th, pops — may heaven be filled with laughter, love, and the best palm wine.

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We miss you. We love you. Always.

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