My father's body lay on a cold, gunmetal-colored plinth, covered by a plain white sheet that reached his collarbone. His shaved head rested on a stone headrest, and as I gazed at him, it felt as though his body had withered alongside his disintegrating life.
The room at Omega Funeral Home was frigid, a stark contrast to the humid, rain-soaked streets of Lagos. Gripping my brother Femi’s hand, memories of the painful moment he called to deliver the news of our father’s death came rushing back.
“Anike,” Femi began.
“I was just about to call you,” I replied, but he interrupted me more firmly this time.
“Anike,” he repeated.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Daddy passed away last night, at 3 a.m.,” he said. My world stopped. I didn’t speak or ask anything, just dropped my phone and collapsed, my face buried in my hands. The agony was too much to cry.
Our father, Joshua Kayode Adepitan, had been admitted to the hospital with a fever. One day later, he was gone from a blocked colon, a condition we later learned was treatable. It had only been three months since I last saw him during my yearly visit after the New Year.
For years, I had arranged for him to visit me in the U.K., but at the last minute, he'd always call off the trip with reasons that varied from unfinished business to dire warnings from his religious prophets urging him to stay home. Eventually, I would make the trip to him.
After his death, Femi and I flew from London to Lagos to face the monumental task of giving a proper farewell to a once-respected man who had lost everything he held dear, spending the final years of his life in seclusion amidst failure and disgrace.
“We will honor him with a traditional Yoruba funeral,” Femi said, trying to comfort me. “We will celebrate the man he once was.”
Growing up, my father was my hero. A proud Yoruba man, he rose from obscurity and poverty in rural Nigeria to attain success and respect. His gift for storytelling was unmatched, and his presence lit up any room. I loved hearing him recount his experiences—from winning scholarships to studying abroad, to meeting my British mother in Sweden, to his triumphant return home, where he established two successful businesses and built a beautiful home in the affluent suburbs of Lagos.
We shared special moments, like when he took me to his furniture factory to inspect orders or when he let me ride shotgun on his speedboat as he raced down the Atlantic coast. I will never forget his grandmother’s words of encouragement: “You can do anything you put your mind to.” Our small family revolved around him; he was the source of our stability, security, and joy. All I ever wanted was to be like my father.
But after Nigeria’s economy crumbled, so did his businesses. The charter airline he owned was shut down by the government, and his furniture company suffered as demand dwindled. He stopped going to the office, ceased playing squash, and stopped traveling the world. He withdrew into isolation, only communicating with distant, mysterious “business partners” over crackling phone lines. Strangers began appearing at our gate demanding money. My mother, fearful of his shady dealings, divorced him, fled the country, and severed all ties with him. By then, Femi and I were abroad, in our early 20s, continuing our studies.

The author's family in Lagos, Nigeria, during their childhood years. From left: Anne, the author's mother (33); Femi, the author's brother (7); the author (4); and Joshua Kayode Adepitan, the author's father (43).

From left: Catherine (the author’s sister-in-law), the author, Femi (the author’s brother), and Mike (the author’s husband) at Archbishop Vining Church, Ikeja, Lagos, in May 2016. The funeral celebrants are dressed in royal blue ceremonial aso oke, complete with ileke, coral necklaces traditionally worn at times of celebration.

Just before the author’s father’s funeral, Mike, the author’s husband (left), and Femi, the author’s brother, placed money on the coffin, a gesture of respect.
