My Dad's Life Fell Apart. When He Died, I Logged On To His Email And Made A Shocking Discovery.

"Our father's body lay on a plinth the color of gunmetal. He was covered by a simple white sheet up to his collarbone, above which his shaved head was supported by a stone headrest. Looking at him, it was as if his body had shrunk in tandem with his dissembling life. I shivered. The visitation room in Omega Funeral Home was as cold as a meat locker, while outside the rainy season had turned Lagos into a sauna."

"When I grabbed my brother Femi's hand, I was reminded of the pain that flooded me when he called with the news of our father's death. "Anike," Femi started. "I was just about to call you," I began. "Anike," Femi interrupted, firmer this time. "Yeah?" I replied. "Daddy passed away last night," he said, "at 3 a.m." I asked nothing. I said nothing. I dropped my phone and slumped forward, burying my face in my hands. I felt pain so excruciating that I could not cry."

A father who had once been accomplished died suddenly from a treatable colon blockage after a brief hospitalization. His body lay in a cold visitation room while Lagos sweltered in the rainy season. A shocked child remembered the phone call that announced the death and experienced overwhelming, speechless grief. The father had repeatedly canceled planned visits, citing business and warnings from religious prophets, and spent his final two decades living as a recluse marked by failure and disrepute. Siblings traveled from London to Lagos to manage burial arrangements and plan a traditional Yoruba funeral.

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