My father's life unraveled, and after his passing, I logged into his email only to make a shocking discovery.

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Ngày cập nhật gần nhất: 1/5/2026

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.

Courtesy of Anike Wariebi

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).

He spoke of lucrative business ventures in India and Switzerland, deals involving vast sums that seemed too far-fetched. He frequented self-proclaimed prophets who claimed his relatives were plotting against him with voodoo. The once-proud twitch of his jaw now marred his expressions, and his familiar laughter had turned hollow. Even his wardrobe had shifted. No longer did he wear tailored Saville Row suits; instead, he wandered the house in dusty dashikis that swept the floor.

Courtesy of Anike Wariebi

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.

As the funeral day arrived and we approached the church entrance, we were greeted by a small group of friends already gathered. I recognized the mothers of two of my childhood friends, both clad in intricately embroidered aso oke adorned with sparkling diamante. Heavy jewelry cascaded from their wrists, necks, and ears. Their smiles greeted us as we made our way over in our own ornate aso oke, their faces showing approval. Soon, I spotted my Aunt Shola, my father’s sister, along with other cousins and relatives. They had journeyed from all over Nigeria to celebrate, each dressed in their finest aso oke, accessorized with royal blue caps and head ties. A new group emerged—strangers from the shantytown motel, wearing stylishly tailored outfits made from simple brown-and-orange Ankara fabric. As the funeral procession approached, led by drummers and dancers, everyone joined in the rhythm, tossing crisp Naira notes in all directions. They threw notes at us, and then at the dancers and drummers. It was a surreal blend of joy—the pounding music, the jubilant dancing, the smiles, the laughter—all at odds with the gravity of the occasion.

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

Courtesy of Anike Wariebi

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.

“We are so glad to reconnect with you,” Aunt Shola said, enveloping me in a warm hug. “It’s been far too long.” Inside the church, we sang “How Great Thou Art,” my father’s beloved hymn. At the reception that followed, we danced as an Afrobeat band repeatedly sang my father’s name, the beautiful call-and-response echoing throughout the room. Later that evening, my aunt turned to Femi and me, her gaze sweeping over the reception hall, taking in the royal blue decorations and the posters of our father’s smiling face. She told us that all our relatives had been perplexed by the sudden disappearance of their beloved brother, eager to understand what mysterious force had overtaken him, transforming him beyond recognition. I wanted to explain, to share the shocking details Femi and I uncovered in my father’s emails just days before. But as I watched her sway to the rhythm of the band, I held back. She had always admired her brother—the man he was before the con altered him. I wanted her to hold onto that image, to remember him as the accomplished, respected figure he once was. “Your father would have been so proud,” my aunt said at last, her voice soft as she squeezed our hands. For a long while, we sat in silence, watching the band dance in perfect harmony as they continued to chant my father’s name: Baba Kayode o, Baba Kayode we miss you, Baba Kayode we love you, Baba Kayode o. I thought of all the lost opportunities to reconnect with him, all the milestones he missed—graduations, weddings, and births. Time and again, we were shut out. But in his death, Femi and I were finally able to reclaim the father we had known, to honor him one last time and express the love that had long been denied.

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