A thousand Splendid Suns☀️

Earlier this year, I got around to reading the classic book titled Anne of Green Gables. In it, the heroine made a statement that I find iconic. It says “The sun will go on rising and setting whether I fail in geometry or not. That is true but not especially comforting. I think I’d rather it didn’t go on if I failed”. A month and half ago, I got to relate especially well to it.

When I was 9, my parents got separated. Two years later, the divorce was final. The separation happened on the day I resumed secondary school and I remember my mum asking me how I was faring a few months after especially as a new friend I had made had a great relationship with her father. I shrugged because I didn’t grasp the enormity of the situation until I was much older. The reason for this is a man named Barrister Ayodeji Moses Soneye.

In my childhood, I cannot really recall a lot of experiences with my uncle but I am certain that I always felt safe and loved with him. So safe that he made sure I loved his girlfriend even though I was barely 5 before taking things to the next level. On their introduction, which coincidentally was my first family wedding experience, I sat between him and his bride. Despite my mum’s insistence that it was wrong, my uncle did not let me sit anywhere else. I was his baby. His first daughter like he proudly called me.

When my parents got divorced and my father mistook his role as one to a new high, my uncle slipped into this role effortlessly. He made sure my brother and I were sorted even though we had no idea until much later. Fees were paid on time and we had enough to eat. He would travel then and shop for me. Up until I entered university, nothing I wore was gotten in Nigeria as a result of my mum’s siblings. I got my first expensive perfume from my uncle and he made sure I was always sorted in that aspect no matter my mother’s complaints. He never relented in getting me the things I needed and wanted.

Getting into university was a hassle for me. For some reason, I didn’t do as great as expected and slightly missed the cut off for the course I wanted. My uncle went to meet someone he knew and pleaded as this was a lifelong dream since childhood. I got in and the pressure of making him proud made me really sick. I had an issue of juvenile HBP as they called it and after a few weeks, my digestive system failed. I could not keep anything down and would throw up through my nose every single time. I had lost weight and was very sickly. I had to be pulled out of the hostel. However I had classes still and exams were looming on the horizon. After visiting three hospitals with several tests, scans and even an x-ray at some point, my mum got tired and handed me over to my uncle as the doctors could not figure out what was wrong.

Every single day for almost two months, Uncle Deji, like I called him, would pick me up at home, take me to the hospital for the drip and tests needed before dropping me off at school so I could meet up with some classes. Never for one did he complain. At some point he wasn’t confident in the doctors at my NHIS hospital so he switched me to his and footed the bill. His hospital was farther than mine but he did the drive every single day before going to the office. I didn’t get better. We never found out what it was. However after my examinations, I magically became well. Sadly the deed had been done. I missed cut off by one mark and it drove me to depression. I stayed locked in my room day and night and refused to eat. Once again as the nepotism baby I am, my uncle met someone and tried to get me my dream course. At this point, my mother was not having it because of my health and asked that I switched instead. I was devastated to say the least but my uncle spoke to a professor to find out the best alternative, came to the house to talk to me about it and sold it to me as “the future of medicine”. I remember taking one look at his excited face and agreeing because if he could speak so highly of the course then it couldn’t be that bad.

My final year project came and my mum wasn’t liquid enough to pay the $500 needed. I called upon my biological father and he said he would pay (which he did but only 2 weeks to the project submission date). At some point, I called my mum crying and telling her that I was going to remove my project from my course work and elect for an extra year. That day, my uncle went to see my mum at work like he usually did, saw her demeanour, asked for the problem and immediately sent me the money. I was shocked and even when I called him to say thank you, all he said was “just make me proud”. Of course I got an A in my project and guess who the proudest person was at my graduation? He even threw me a graduation party and defended me that day when I got upset at my mum for going overboard with the guest list.

Then it was time for NYSC and not only did I serve in Lagos, I had a dream place of employment. I knew no one there but somehow got the NYSC officials to post me there. I went there with my letter and they turned me down. I got home and called my mum in sadness. It turned out she was beside my uncle and he called someone who called someone who called my boss. I was scheduled for an interview two days after in which I did amazing and got an offer letter the same day. I am still at this job till date. Sometime last year, I got so tired of the job and went to cry to my uncle as usual. He asked if my CV with him was the updated one before sending it to a few contacts of his. That same week, I got invited for an interview and after they said the job requirements, my uncle forbade me from taking it. He told me that I deserved more and it was coming soon. Barely four months after, I got a managerial position at my workplace.

For every presentation at our forensic symposium, every single time I represented my office anywhere, every award I got, every charity project I organised, even my work in church, I would get a message from my uncle telling me how proud he was of me. He never failed to do this. I would receive random calls from him asking me science related questions. Initially I would be so confused but would answer regardless. Only to realise I was on speaker when I would hear him tell his friends “I told you Oluwalolope would know. Thank you”. I would always smile at this while panicking a bit that there would be a question I would be unable to answer one day.

As his family was not in the country, I or my mother were his standing plus one to functions and my uncle had such a vibrant social life. He would introduce me to everyone he knew with such pride. I had no idea how much he talked about me until a stranger saw me about a month ago and said “I know that scar. I have heard so much about it”. I was mind blown. I called all his best friends “uncle” and had their numbers because as long as everyone was concerned, I was his first daughter. We went for meetings, parties, orchestra sessions, condolence calls, random pop in to see his friends… everywhere!

I am the Cold War kind person when offended. My uncle would surely catch wind of whatever misdemeanour had been done to me and avenge me regardless of who it was. He was objective to a fault and if he ever told me I was wrong, I never argued or questioned it. I was wrong then. He always sided the truth and I would always go crying to him when his sister started stressing me. He would start with “You know you shouldn’t talk to your mother like that. I’ll talk to her but you still need to apologise” to which I’ll squeeze my face but apologise that day after not talking to my mother for a few days by then. Someone upset me in church, went to meet my uncle to lie and report me. My uncle first defended me citing that I wouldn’t do what the person was accusing me of then called me after to ask what happened. When I told him the truth, he was so livid and swore that the person would come to apologise the following Sunday. Oh yes, I went to the same church with him. He recruited me into serving in the Guild of Stewards and trained me himself. I was one of his pride and joys.

I could never get tired of him complimenting me on my makeup, my dressing or my perfumes. I would always beam and run off to tell my mum the compliment he gave me. When he started keeping his beards in 2020, as a beard girlie, I would tell him how much I loved it. Even when my mum complained about it, he would refuse to cut it because “Oluwalolope likes it”. I would stick my tongue out at her because mmmeeehhhhhh really. She would hiss and walk off in a huff. I have no idea how he found out about my writing. One day I heard him brag to one of his close friends “Do you know that Lolope is a fantastic writer?”. I almost broke my neck with the speed I used in turning to look at him. I was so shocked because I hid it from my family. I was so shy. I still am. However it was our little secret after that day. He would send me well written pieces he thought I’d enjoy. He would tell his children to message me to go over their school essays before submitting. He would give me feedback on my pieces.

The only thing I drew the line at was following him on one of his long walks. The one time I did, I nearly passed out. Almost two hours and according to him he reduced his pace because I was a newbie. I told him I’d rather starve myself to lose weight than do that with him. When I would start gaining weight, he was my prompt to watch it. He loved keeping fit and he stayed away from salt, alcohol and added sugar, ate healthy, made sure he got in 20,000 steps a day and took his medication every morning without fail. He was the healthiest person I knew.

On the 3rd of May, my world as I knew it shattered. I got a call from my mum that he collapsed and was dead within ten minutes. It didn’t make any sense and I went to that hospital with the sole intention of raising him how Christ did Lazarus. For some reason, I kept getting the answer of peace as I prayed. All the way to the morgue, I held him praying and telling him how much I loved him. When we got there, they had to pry him from me and tell me to let him go. I couldn’t. The only father I had ever acknowledged was being ripped from me by death and I was supposed to agree like that? How? I got strength to do as they asked my looking at my other uncle (equally as fantastic). That was when my world truly crashed.

The next morning, the sun rose and it shone so bright. It felt unfair given the situation in my heart. I had no right to feel anything. It had no right to make me feel. Everywhere was to be dark, gloomy and cold like the state of my heart. I needed a sign from the universe that my pain was felt and consequential. I got none. The next two weeks went in a blur. I was not eating. I could barely sleep. My temperature was high. I was forgetting things and everyday bled into the next. Visitors kept commenting on how I spoke like I was expecting him to walk in. Of course I was. He couldn’t leave me like that. The same person that catered to my every whim, made sure I had enough cash to get to work during the scarcity, defended me when my mum reported and made her always retort “Make sure you follow her to her husband’s house because the way you’re training her, they will return her to you”. The person that held my hand all through my life and made me feel like no matter the issue, it would be sorted by him. There was no way I was going to believe my dad died. I cried a bit but it didn’t really translate in my head.

Then we had his funeral a month ago and I saw his body lying there so lifeless. That tore my heart out and stomped on it. I cried for hours. All through the lying in state and church service, on the way to the cemetery and even when they asked me to pour dirt on him. I was going to have to leave the person that never left me for a day in my life. I used to call myself strong but after being held because I couldn’t carry a shovel myself as I was shaking and crying so profusely to having a number of grown people hold me up after doing it, I realised I wasn’t strong. I was just in denial all along. That day, I got to experience the true definition of pain. Losing the love I thought was for me was far inferior to this. It felt like someone had taken a blunt chain saw to my heart while another was stabbing me in my mid region in multiple places. An integral piece of me was buried that day.

I am grateful to have had almost 27 years with him. I am grateful to have had him come to my house to check on me 7 days after I was born and rush my mum and I to the hospital due to complications at my birth. I am grateful to have known, loved and be loved by him all of my life. I am grateful for the father he was to me, my brother and the entire family. I am grateful that he knew just how much I loved him and what he meant to me. I’m grateful I made him overwhelmed with emotions so many times that he cried. I am grateful for the gift he was to me.

Shine on my angel. I’ll definitely make you prouder in death than I did while you were alive. You’ll live in every single thing I will do and all I’ll be.

Thank you for being mine. Waiting till we meet to part no more. I definitely owe you a punch for not preparing me.

I love you my daddy ❤️

Sleep well.