‘Why did I hurt?’ A writer on grieving the father she never really knew

When my father died my grief was deep – for him and the dad I wished he’d been

Grief is a thing with wings. It swoops in when and how it wants, often uninvited. When I think of my father, I think of sound. His laughter: a deep rumble from his slightly distended gut, ending with a sigh, as if he were reluctant to let it go. The gentle push of his windscreen-shaped glasses up the bridge of his nose. I think of 5am wake-up calls – me at five or six, my brother five years older, both of us trudging drowsily to the dining table for maths lessons. I think of his short afro, often patted into a near perfect square.

An ex-military man, his life was ruled by discipline. He both scared and fascinated me. I was in awe of his mind: brilliant with numbers yet complex, shielded by an impenetrable layer. I admired his style: beige and unremarkable, distinctly his. His personality was uninhibited, exuberant, vivacious. He loved entertaining, clinking champagne glasses at our home on Victoria Island in Lagos, discussing Nigeria’s woes.

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