When I close my eyes long enough, I can still walk through that house as if I never left. The floors remember the sound of my bare feet — hurried, unsteady, curious. The air itself carried your scent: tobacco, aftershave, and that faint trace of paper from your study, where you spent endless nights reading files instead of stories to me.
I remember how the mornings used to begin — the steady cough of the generator announcing dawn, the housemaids whispering their prayers in the backyard, and Mother's voice from the kitchen, soft but commanding. I would always wake before everyone else, tiptoe to the window, and watch the dew glisten on the lemon tree leaves. The sun would climb slowly, painting the entire compound gold. I used to think the world was made of gold, Father — our world at least.
Do you remember how I used to wait for you by the gate each evening? I'd sit on the curb, ignoring Aunty Margarita's calls to come back inside. I'd wait for the sound of your car horn, that long impatient blare that always sent the gatekeeper into a panic. Then the gates would part and there you'd be — in your dark suit, your face unreadable behind those tinted glasses. I'd run to you, my heart thumping with pride, my little hands stretched out to touch you. Sometimes you'd smile. Sometimes you didn't. But I always ran, no matter what.
I can still taste the bitterness of the days you didn't look my way. Those were the nights I'd climb into Mother's bed, pressing my face into her nightgown just to breathe her calm. She'd stroke my hair and whisper, "Your father loves you in his own way." I used to believe that. I still want to believe that.
There was one afternoon I remember so clearly — the day I brought home my first prize from school. I stood by your study door, trembling with excitement. You were on the phone, pacing, your voice sharp and impatient. I waited for you to finish, clutching my certificate close to my chest. You turned and saw me, your eyes softening for just a moment before you said, "Later."
Later never came, Father.
That evening, I slid the certificate under your study door. I thought maybe you'd find it and be proud in silence. I never asked you if you did.
I miss Mother's laughter in those days. It filled every corner the way sunlight filled the hall. She had that gift of making everything alive — even the dull moments. When the rains came and the whole compound smelled of wet earth, she'd let me run barefoot across the puddles. You never liked that. You said it made me uncultured. But she'd only smile and wink, and whisper that life was too short to fear a little dirt.
On Sundays, you insisted we attend church in our best clothes. You walked ahead, always ahead, as if the rest of us were shadows trying to catch up. After service, you'd shake hands with people who spoke in careful tones, their words dripping with respect. I didn't know why they respected you so much then. I only knew that when they greeted you, I wanted to hide behind Mother's dress.
Do you remember Daniel's laughter? My brother's? He was wild, reckless, full of noise and dreams. He'd tease me until I cried, then sneak into my room with biscuits he'd stolen from the pantry. He used to say you liked him more because he was brave, and I used to think bravery was what made people lovable. So, I started pretending to be brave too — climbing trees, jumping fences, doing things that made Mother scream. I wanted you to see me.
But you never looked, Father. Or maybe you did, and I just didn't understand what your kind of looking meant.
The house staff were my secret family. Adamu, the gateman, who told me folktales every night about spirits that lived in trees and animals that talked. Aunty Margarita, whose food smelled like happiness. And Michael, your driver, who once let me sit behind the steering wheel when you traveled, teaching me how to pretend to drive. I can still feel the rough leather of that wheel under my small hands, the illusion of control. I didn't know then that life itself was a car I would never really steer.
There was a corner of the compound — near the mango tree and the swing you bought from Dubai. That was my kingdom. I buried my secrets there — tiny notes, beads, and broken toys. Once, I buried a photograph of us, taken on my fifth birthday. You were smiling in that picture, Father. I often went back to dig it up just to look at your smile again, as if it might disappear from the world if I didn't remind it to exist.
Sometimes, when I couldn't sleep, I'd stand by your study door and listen to the sound of your pen scratching against paper. I'd imagine what you were writing — maybe a letter to me, maybe your will, maybe just numbers that meant nothing to a child. I'd whisper "good night" through the door before creeping back to bed. You never heard me, but I said it every night.
The day you cut down the lemon tree, I wept. You said it was old and blocking your view. But Father, that tree was more than shade — it was my childhood's cathedral. It held my swings, my secrets, my laughter. Its scent filled the whole yard after every rain. When it fell, I felt something in me fall too. I didn't know how to tell you that then, and you wouldn't have listened even if I did.
But not every memory is sad. There were mornings when you'd lift me high onto your shoulders, your laughter booming as I screamed with joy. You smelled of rain and tobacco, and I felt safe up there, high above the world. That was before the distance between us grew like weeds, before your silence became the wall I could never climb again.
Now, when I think of those days, I realize they were not perfect but they were real. The house, the laughter, even your anger — they made me who I am. I carry them all like old coins, worn but precious.
If I ever come back to that compound even in spirit , I know I'll still find my footprints near the mango tree, faint but there. Maybe the soil remembers me, even if you don't. Maybe the wind that dances through those pine trees still whispers my name, the way it used to when I believed the world revolved around the sound of your voice.
Father, I grew up waiting for your approval like a seed waiting for rain. But now, as I write these words from this cold hospital bed, I realize the rain may never have been meant for me and that's all right. The seed still found a way to grow, even in drought. I learned that love doesn't always come from the source we expect. Sometimes it hides in the places we least look in the smile of a stranger, the hand of a friend, or the memory of a father who, for one fleeting moment, lifted his daughter to the sky and made her believe she could touch the sun.