Growing up as the last of 7 kids was comforting. I always felt my siblings and parents would do anything for me.
My dad insisted that we relocate from Jos to Lokoja, our state capital after he retired. A few months passed and he fell ill. Dad had cancer! What? At 80 years, how did this happen? We prayed and fasted. At least dad’s a pastor and mum a deaconess, so we knew the drill.
My Dad was admitted to the hospital. My siblings visited frequently and we all sent money every now and then. I had to travel home to see him when he was discharged. I held his hand and told him to be strong, for me and for my unborn kids. Tears dropped from his face and I went inside the room to cry loudly. If I had money, I would have taken him to India myself just to quickly save him.
His health got worse and we were back at the hospital. He was in pain and was losing blood. My mum was broken. I became bitter. Why would God let this happen to us? Bills were piling up. I started calling friends but I was disappointed by some. I knew we were losing him, but we had faith in everyone’s prayers.
I had to return to work in Kaduna. After some days, I got a call that things were serious and I should return. That was the last time I spoke to him. My dad was in a coma. I sat beside his bed looking at him and remembering all the sacrifices he paid for us all. I cried. We bought oxygen 12 times and blood almost every day. My dad died eventually.
I opened the cloth used to cover him and I cried & promised myself that no matter what life brings my way, I won’t give up. My mother is all I have left and I would do anything to give her the best. It’s been six months now without him. If I could turn back the hands of time, I would visit home every week just to kiss him and thank God for another chance to love and love and love. Nothing matters more than being there for the people you care about.
I’m still healing.