How can I say goodbye, Dad?
If I could, I’d ask you why you had to go, and knowing you like I do, you’d smile that simple, enigmatic smile of yours and say, “Johnny, it was time. You need to let go”.
It is hard to imagine you not being here. It is so hard. You made me the luckiest man on earth when you not only welcomed me into your family, but treated me like your son in all ways, bar none. You never were a father-in-law, you were my father in all ways than I could imagine. You counselled me, laughed with me, celebrated me and loved me in a way that befuddles me to this day. My father, my buddy, my confessor, the voice of my conscience.
Dad, you were special and completely irreplaceable. Neither time nor prowess, can fill the shoes you left behind. These tears will fall forever.
Perhaps that is why I feel so broken, a sense of loss that cannot be replaced by tears. How do you capture the joys of thirty years in a few lines of tribute? I could never do you justice. You are in my heart and it weighs so heavily. Even as my beard turns grey with age, I cannot stop the tears from flowing. I know you had to go. Nwakaibeya. My Lion. Not for you the mortal frailness of the impaired life, no. Nor would you accept the caging of limbs slowed down by age. You were a lion, king of the pack, born to roam free and live life on your terms. And go, you had to, because it was time. Trouble is, I still was not, nay, I am not, ready to say goodbye.
You were an enigma dad. Stoic, proper, irredeemably traditional. For you there was a proper place and a proper protocol for everything life had to offer. But then, you had more compassion, affection and kindness than anybody else I have ever known since my own mother. How was that? You never tired of supporting, comforting, seeking peace, even as age ran headlong towards you, and quietened that incredible physical strength of yours! Nwakaibeya! Who do we turn to now?
I will miss hearing the excitement in your voice when I call. I will miss our arguments across the generations. I will miss hugging you and watching your pathetic attempts at taking your medication. I will miss your reviews of my writings, your WhatsApp messages on current affairs, and I will miss our visits to the pub, just you and I, for lagers you generically termed ‘draught beer’. I will miss you dad, even in knowing you are now free and in glorious happiness in heaven. I will miss you.
Rest in eternal peace dear dad, until we meet again. May the Angels hold you in their wings and welcome you home. And please continue to watch over us.
And thank you for being my father. I will always love you.
John Mozie