The plane touches down smoothly on the tarmac. When the doors finally open, warm air rushes in, carrying a familiar scent. I step out slowly, my fingers tightening around the handle of my small suitcase. Climbing down the stairs, I held my breath. The familiar memories come rushing in, flooding my mind with vivid images and emotions. My shoes touch the ground. With a sharp breath, I move forward, leaving the plane behind. Inside the terminal, the air was cool and heavy. Screens were blinking with arrival and departure time. Names of cities rolling past like reminders of lives still in motion. After completing the formalities and checking in, I am cleared and ready to go. I open the sliding doors and step out of the airport building.
I choose a taxi at the pickup lane to take me to my destination.
"Maitama please." I say, sliding into the taxi. The taxi pulls up at the familiar gates. I get down with my luggage and pay off. Looking at the house that held many memories, the outdoor design hasn't change much since I left. I enter inside, the walls breathe with echoes of laughter, the floor creaks under the weight of footsteps that never truly leave. I trace my hand along the doorway, and the warmth of countless arrivals and farewell lingers. The air carries the scent of old wood and familiar comfort, and every corner speaks of celebration, quiet nights, of whispered secrets. The house holds me as much as I hold it, alive with the presence of all that has been, yet still unfolding in this moment. Finally, I stand at the door, the threshold between what was and what is. The reason I came back breathes on the other side. My hand rests on the handle, trembling with the weight of return. I open the door, and there he is, not the strong, bubbling father I know, but a frail man, his chest rising and falling with the help of the oxygen machine. His eyes still carry the spark of recognition, yet his body tells a different story, one of fragility and quiet endurance. The hum of the machine fills the silence, reminding me that strength now lives in survival, not in vigor. Beside him, a doctor bends over, checking his vitals with quiet precision. I step forward, my voice steady but heavy with urgency.
" What is his diagnosis?" I ask.
The doctor looks up, his expression measured, the pause before he speaks carrying more weight than words.
" He is living with advanced pulmonary disease, the oxygen machine is essential now. His lungs can no longer sustain him on his own."
My father's gaze meets mine, fragile yet unwavering. I still can't believe my ears. How come no one inform me?
Still wondering why I wasn't inform until now. The doctor drops another bomb.
"He has few days left"
"Few days left???????" I repeat.
The doctor's words hang heavy in the air.
The room feels smaller, the hum of the oxygen machine louder, each breath a fragile tether to life. My father's eyes search mine, I step closer, my hand tightening around his, determined to hold on to every moment that remains.
"Why don't you tell me when I call? I will travel back" I say, sobbing.
" I don't want you to come running back."
" But I am here now, especially when you have few days left" I say, my voice breaking.
"Hush it, my daughter, don't cry. Smile for your old man. I know I offend you, please forgive me. Let me die a happy man" he says, his hand trembling as he wipes my tears.
" I forgive you already, please don't leave me" I whisper, tears shining in my eyes.
" Then I am at peace, because your love carries me. Besides, I will be with your mother and we will be watching over you." he replies softly.
After the teary reunion on his sick bed, I leave the room, making sure he is sound asleep. The doctor is always coming to check on his vitals. A month later, I am in a cafe, enjoying the nature since I have been at home taking care of my sick father. My phone buzzes on the table. I glance at the screen, my heart tightening as I see the doctor's number flashing. I hesitate, my fingers trembling before I pick it up.
"Hello?" I say, my voice low. The remaining conversation is blurry as I don't focus on it. All I hear is the pounding of my own heart, louder than the voices on the line. I suddenly stand up, rushing to go back home. I drive through the streets, crying quietly. This can't be, I continue repeating.
I reach the gates and run out of the car without parking well. Entering inside, there is no time to greet who I met on the way. I hurriedly run through the steps searching for one room in particular. When I finally reach the room, the doctor is already spreading white sheet over something. The situation made my heart hurt, tears cascading down my cheeks. My feet refuse to lead me through, I just stand there frozen, knowing fully what is under the sheet. I push myself through and stand beside the bed. Amidst tears, I force my hand to hold the sheet and drag it down. Staring back at me is my father's corpse. My breath catches, shallow and uneven, my knee weakens, threatening to give way, but I lock them in place. The air is heavy, thick with silence, pressing against my chest. His face is pale, lips parted as if frozen mid-sentence, eyes sealed in a sleep that will never break. I reach out with my trembling fingers, touching his cold skin, unwilling to let go. His body didn't react to my touch thus, confirming the sad news, my father is truly dead. I pull the sheet over him, my hands trembling. The weight of duty presses against grief, forcing me to move, to act, even as my heart resists. The staffs from a funeral home enters the room, closing their eyes out of respect for the dead. When they open them, they lift the corpse from the bed and place it into the wheelchair. They wheel my father towards the car, and I follow behind, crying. We all stop at a funeral home, they wheel him out of the car. My father does not rise to his feet but he sits on the wheelchair, looking drained. The doors open, and the body of my father is received. He is wheeled to a room that looks like a preparation room. The morticians work quietly, their movements steady and deliberate. On the table, my father is gently washed and dressed, each step carried out with dignity. They smooth his hair, adjust his clothing, and ensure that he looks peaceful. The atmosphere in the preparation room is solemn, almost sacred, as if time itself slows to honor the transition taking place.
When their work is complete, they pause for a moment, standing in silence. It is a gesture of respect, acknowledging the life that has passed and the family who will soon gather to remember him. Only then do they prepare to move him from the table toward the cool chambers of the refrigerator, where he will rest until the next stage of farewell. One of my father's close friends drag me from my seat and leads me to the car. At a point, my tears refuse to fall anymore. My eyes are bloodshot, burning from the grief that grips me. I return home exhausted, and walk into my father's room. His room decorations watch me, their silent eyes heavy with knowledge, as if they carry the truth of what has happened to their owner. I pull his clothes from the wardrobe, clutching them tightly to my chest, refusing to let go. The scent lingers, sharp and familiar, flooding me with memories I cannot escape. I sits on his bed, admiring the room and his pictures. In my pool of tears, I slept off.
It is finally the day to bury him. Rain drizzle, maybe it is a way for the heavens to say "we receive your father". My father is buried in a respected way on the mountains. At the funeral ground, I see him. My first love. His close friends attends, even those he helped when he was alive. My father is a philanthropist and everyone loves him, his death was a great blow. Finally it is time to go, but I stay back to mourn my father properly. I cry hard, knowing I will be alone henceforth. I look up, saying to them,"don't forget to watch over. I love you both." I kiss my father's tomb, promise to always visit him and head to the gathering to meet his friends. Acting like a guest, I pick different snacks and go outside to dwell in solitude. Guess who comes to sit without recognizing me? My first love. Looking closer, he grows into a fine and beautiful specimen. His features appear sharper than the last time I see him. He grows taller over the years. His short, trimmed beards add to his beauty. His lips look kissable, if only I have the right to do that. Gosh, he is so yummy. My inner voice tells me " you are ogling over a guy at your father's burial, have an iota of shame" I hear that and stop my train of thoughts. He sits by my side and we both stare into space. He breaks the silence. "you know, this man helps me in my childhood. I owe him gratitude. Now he is at rest" he says without looking at me. "most people haven't seen his daughter, we play together in our childhood, I fall in love with her but she doesn't know. I wish she is present." I adjust my sitting posture as I hear that. "from what you say, it seems she doesn't like to appear in public.
"Yes, she doesn't." he smiles as if recalling a memory. He finally looks at me.
"Pardon my manners, I am Harlem" he says, stretching his hand for a shake.
I know, I say in my mind. I take his outstretched hands and introduce myself.
I look around and see the guests leaving, that is my cue to go. I look at him and say it is time for me to leave. I leave him without looking back.