The Golden Scar: The Eulogy I Never Got to Give My Father

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in the hollow of your chest.” — Jamie Anderson.

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This quote perfectly captures the truth I’ve wrestled with for the past year: grief is simply love that has nowhere to go.

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It has been exactly one year since I buried my father. A year marked by the sudden absence of a man I still had so many 'firsts' planned with—a man I longed to see become a soft, doting grandfather, singing lullabies to his "babies' babies" after spending his youth raising us into warriors.

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The early days were shrouded in a complex pain. I envied my siblings who were by your bedside, wishing I could have felt the warmth of your final breath. It took time to outgrow those feelings, to replace the sharp memory of your passing with the better ones: the last hug before I left the country, watching you drive off after making sure David and I were boarded successfully. If only I had known it was my last moment with you in person; I would have run back and hugged you a little longer, hoping to lessen the pain I feel now.

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I will never forget that day you passed. We spoke that morning, joking and laughing to cheer you up—our lead warrior. You couldn't say much, but I hoped you would return from the hospital and tell tales of survival. We never said goodbye. A few hours later, my life turned around, and people expected me to "man up," as if growing some balls would make losing you feel less real.

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I miss you so much. I have searched for solace in books, poems, and songs about grief, but none can truly put into words how much I feel. I just cry and keep going. The memories and thoughts don’t seem to know when to show up—I could be shopping, taking a walk, or listening to music from your playlist: Osadebe, Evang. Nnamdi, Pericoma, C-Jec and the dynamites. I play them just to feel your presence.

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Who would have thought I’d press 'play' on an artist from your time? I still can’t accept your claim that your generation created the best music, but I know you’ll read this, or probably already know.

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David and I wished to come home and pour you a drink, but circumstances kept us away. Still, knowing that you’ve been in my corner over the last year, I’m pouring one anyway. Thank you for giving me enough memories to live by, and for always showing up in the corners of my dreams. Those dreams have kept me sane and made me feel better.

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Dear Pops, it’s been a year since I last saw you, and the world still hasn't stopped to let us breathe.

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Today, as I reflect on this past year of navigating unspent love, I wish to share some of the notes and reflections that have carried me. But first, I want to finally share the words that were meant for you on that busy day—the eulogy I wrote, but never got the chance to read.

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🕊️ The Physical Goodbye

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It’s insane how the world doesn't give people space to grieve. The minute you died, my sisters had to fling into action—paying bills, arranging the ambulance, making sure everyone who needed to know, knew you’d left. I was far away, and my biggest regret remains not being able to carry you, just as you carried me all those years.

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You left us physically on the 24th of October, but we let your body go on the 29th of November. I barely slept the night before. I just sat weeping quietly. I was your daughter, and this was my last shot at seeing your face and feeling your skin, even though cold.

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At the mortuary, I was chosen to sit with you for the procession back home. All I did through the ride was murmur under my breath, praying to you, asking you to watch over us and rest well, knowing we would care for one another.

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It was a long procession—a long trail of cars, traditional music, and some of the best men you cared for standing side-by-side with you, singing your praises. I felt proud, even happy for a minute, watching all these people honor you.

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Then came the lying in state. I never understood the phrase until I looked at your body and saw you just lay there—no longer in motion. After Mass, where the priest noted he’d never seen the church so full, we headed back home. It was time to finally let your body go. I felt fiercely protective. I wished there was a better way to keep you, just in case I could wish you back to life. But I had to let go so that you could let go.

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I barely recall everything from that moment on. By sunset, it was done. We sat to eat dinner at your favourite spot, with some palm wine, and right there was your grave, heaped and fuller than life—my giant father laid still.

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📝 The Eulogy I Never Got to Read

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I read your long biography at the funeral. I held my head high and spoke with confidence because you had lived an exemplary life, standing for the truth you believed in. In truth, “Ezigbo afa ka ego” (A good name is better than riches).

However, I never got to read the eulogy I prepared. I’ve held these words close for a year now. So, here goes nothing:

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Hey Pops!

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The first few weeks were hard. I had to make myself believe that I was going to see you one more time. Now I am here, dealing with all of this, but the good thing is that I won’t be doing it alone. I’ve got David, my sisters, and Mum. Some of our friends have held our hands through the year and some travelled all the way to spend this day with us.

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Everyone says to trust God and that he knows best, but does he? If he knew best, he would’ve let me see you as planned in a few months. He would’ve let me spoil you a little. I spoke to you that morning, and just a few hours later, you left. And now, I have to refer to you as late. You were never late for anything.

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Dad, the hardest thing about writing this tribute is having to write about you in the past tense. I struggle to do that. You might not be here physically, but you live within all four of us.

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I will keep all the beautiful things: How he calls me Oderaa. How he celebrates our coming home. The palm wine he buys to welcome me. How he called smoothie, 'swoodie'. Who’ll remind us to take malaria drugs?

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I want to mourn this man who gave everything to everyone. I hope you have the rest and peace the world couldn’t give you. You never wanted to be a burden, and as stubborn as you are, the first opportunity we got to be there for you, you left. We understand, and we hope you know how much we loved and cared for you.

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I know you fought hard. I know you would’ve given anything to get better. And that is why it calms me to know that you don't have to live with so much pain anymore.

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I always imagined you holding your grandkids—more like a babysitter—and I was jealous of my kids because I felt they’d get the most lovely version of you. Every time you gave me a shortbread cookie or cashew nuts, I felt your hug.

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You screamed at us all the time. I wouldn’t do the typical funeral thing and only focus on the good parts, because you knew: We were terrified of you. I feared you for the most part of my life, Dad. Never looked forward to the sound of your car honk because that meant we had to perfect the house in seconds. I often blame being a perfectionist on you.

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But you taught us gratitude and made sure we worked hard and turned out strong. Being a tribe of women didn’t stop you from raising us to be tough. You were probably preparing us for these moments.

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Looking around this compound, I’m struck by how rare it is to have so many people gathered like this. Losing you at home shook me. Now, every hug I give, every bow to greet an elder, I wonder if it might be the last time I see them.

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Thank you to everyone who came to honor my dad. I hope you keep your head strong, love wholly, and treat each breath as a blessing — one I would have traded anything to keep for him. Remember him as the pillar of truth he was. He wasn’t perfect, but he was real.

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We love you, Dad. I hope you’re smiling down on us. For every star we see in the sky, we will be reminded of your light that shines on through us.

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✨ The Aftershock and the Kintsugi Scar

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The most hurtful thing about death is having to prepare and plan the funeral. One minute you’re having a normal life, and the next, you’re picking a coffin.

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I wake up every morning with a feeling that can only be described as “someone reaching into my chest and pulling my heart out.” It hurts like hell. I stopped listening to music because I was terrified of what I’d feel. Gospel music reminds me that God took you from me. How do I sing Psalm 34 when it asks me to magnify God? I am too pissed to magnify!

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The Japanese art of Kintsugi involves mending broken porcelain with gold lacquer. Everyone says we’ll come out stronger, and the thought of this golden repair crawls up my mind. Yes, I want to be strong, and I look forward to not feeling this much hurt. But why did getting stronger have to cost me your life?

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I learned late—but better late than never—that you might not have loved me the way I learned love to be, but you loved me and my sisters the way you learned. You were my dad.

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Today, at the one-year mark, the grief feels less like a sudden tear and more like a permanent, constant ache—a golden scar I am finally learning to carry.

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🌅 The Vow: Rebuilding the Rituals

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I imagined your wrinkled hands, and even took joy in knowing that one day I’d be the one moving you to live with us, against your will, wherever we lived. I looked forward to having actual arguments with you because I finally had something to say back, but I held back because to me, what you said was what it was.

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I see the best and the worst things I am—the perfectionist, the detailed, the controlling, the one who always takes care of everyone but myself—and I see you.

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I used to mock you for always meeting my “I love you” with “thank you” or “ooooo,” but I’ll really take that over this deafening silence.

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Now, whenever I feel enraged over the loss, I remind myself that I ought to focus on your legacy. Did I learn to live freely? Dance more? Love more?

Rather than wish Dad back to life, I want to live a whole life, daring, living, and loving like today could be my last, in your honor. We will laugh, drink, and hold you in our hearts because there, you’ll live forever.

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I love you so much, Dad. And I am grateful I got to tell you that as much as I could. I still imagine you’re here, and I write to you about everything that’s happening so if you ever feel like you missed something in my life, look in my notes and journals.

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As we move forward, Dad, it’s the small rituals that keep circling back to me. You never let us leave for school without ironed clothes. You always made sure we had yoghurt or snacks tucked into our bags. You took us to Mr. Biggs like it was a family tradition written into our DNA.

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I hear the sound of your radio in my head — the way you used it to wake us up without actually calling our names. On long trips from the North to the East, you played Osadebe and Pericoma on repeat, and I swear those songs still smell like road dust, roasted corn, fried yam at Lokoja, and home.

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These rituals linger because they shaped us. And even though you’re gone, the memories keep breathing. I look forward to rebuilding new rituals with my family — not to replace you, but to stretch your legacy into the future.

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We’ll carry the music, the discipline, the laughter, the tough love, and the tenderness disguised as shortbread cookies. We’ll build a life that honors you without being overshadowed by grief.

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And in those quiet morning moments, when the world is just waking up, I know I’ll still hear your radio — reminding me that you’re never really gone.

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A Note to you, my gentle Reader

If you have stayed with me this long, you know that grief is the tax we pay on love. Use the presence of your love—that beautiful, messy energy—to fuel your life. Don't wait for a devastating anniversary to realize what matters.

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‍Honor your loved ones by choosing joy and action today. Live fiercely, take the trip, say the thing you need to say, and build the rituals that will sustain you. We can’t control the timing of loss, but we can control how much life and love we pour into the moments we have right now.

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I hope you live and love wholly.

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Till I write you again, Obiagu✌🏾