The Last Time I Saw My Father

In the fading light of my father’s life, I watched helplessly as the man I once knew as vibrant and full of life slowly withered away. Though I loved him fiercely as a son, I did not realize how great my father was until years after his death. 

The last time I saw my father, he was very sick. The ailment wore his body down so much that I could barely recognize him. The smile that once brightened his face became hollow and lacklustre. His bones showed themselves through his skin, his eyes were pinched and his head had become barren of hair. His frail body sought support, hesitating to find balance before each step. My father was gradually fading away, from me, from our family. The last time I saw my father, his friend—whose son, Enyinna, and I attended the same secondary school—had come to our house to pick me up. The new session had just begun, and we were returning to school. I remember that day as clearly as the reels of film; the full, scorching sun, my pounding heart, confused with emotions. My siblings’ eyes, usually so full of life, were now heavy with unspoken sorrow, their silent farewells lingering like shadows. My mother stood at the doorway, her face a puzzle I couldn’t solve—whether it was pride in my return to studies or the quiet despair of our father’s illness weighing on her shoulders, I couldn’t tell. As we climbed down the stairs on our way out, I kept looking back to catch glimpses of my father. I did not realize at the time that those stolen glimpses would be the final memories I would have of him...