Twinkle In My Father’s Eyes

I was only a child when I watched the film, My Girl, for the first time. I remember feeling moved by the scene where Vada stands over her friend’s coffin, bawling. “Where are his glasses? He can’t see without his glasses! Put his glasses on.” I naively thought, “Oh, how silly. He’s dead. Why would he need his glasses?” Unaware of what I could not fathom. Decades later, when processing my own denial about my father’s death, that scene came to mind again as I sat on his bed, holding his glasses in my hands.

His defining object. The thing that made him, him. Yet here it was. Baba was never without his glasses. In all the time I knew him, I can barely remember a time when he did not have a pair perched on his face. You could not even draw a caricature of him without them. They were woven into his identity. Even when he took his glasses off to clean them, it was merely a brief departure, a flicker, before they returned to where they belonged. That is why, when I rested on the edge of his mattress gripping those rectangle frames, it finally hit me – he really had passed on, because he would not go anywhere without them. 

Baba really wanted a daughter. Someone he could name after his mother, Aisha. Since his two oldest children were boys, he decided to take the matter to a higher power. I hear it was all he wanted. Then I finally came and people say that immediately – not like I earned it — I was the twinkle in his eyes. It was nice to believe that. Maybe he did have a soft spot for me. When I was a baby, my mum travelled and entrusted me to my aunts. Though they tried, Baba found their efforts lacking, so he took charge. He fed me himself, and when I would not sleep, he tied me to his back with a wrapper. A Fulani man in the 1990s carrying his baby like that would have raised eyebrows. But apparently, he did not care. He had waited years for a girl, and now that I was here, he was going to make sure things were done right. 

He prayed for one daughter, and God gave him five. Five answered prayers. But that was typical. Life had a way of overwhelming him, whether with joy or sorrow. All or nothing.  

My father was a great man. Sometimes it is hard to think of him as Adamu Mu‘azu Modibbo: lawyer, banker, businessman, politician. He did well at First Bank, then at Sigma Pensions, and  made quite a name for himself in Adamawa. A ‘perpetual gubernatorial aspirant’ despite our best protests, he was perennially gearing up for the next elections. Sure, he was determined to serve. But I miss him for who he was, not just what he achieved. He made me laugh. He helped people. He was deeply admired for how brilliant he was. And he still had much to give. 

He must have been 45 and I, nine, when I asked him what drew him to politics. He sat me down and explained the importance of service to your country and people, of looking after the poor among us. He carried that conviction and managed to convince others of it in 2003. The support was infectious, fuelled by the wildly popular campaign jingle crafted specially for him, ‘Chanji Ya Iso’, ‘change is here’, in his bid to unseat Governor Boni Haruna. We joked all the time that had he won that election, it would have been thanks, in large part, to the power and reach of that song.

Adamu ‘nayi kiran ka Baba ka amsa

Amsa kiran, jihar ka babu kamar ka

Mulkin, Rabbana ya baka mu niqa

Don Adamawa za ta zamto daula

Adamu, kai ka zama ƙashi kama wuya

Kai ka kashe ma-hasada sun makara

Sai kuka suke suna sun makara

Adamu, kai gaban su dole su miqa

Although the jingle gave everyone else a single shoutout, the singer mentioned me three times. This did not help with the golden child accusations. I danced harder whenever it got to the verse that began with ‘Baban Kauthar kai ne da miya. In kuwa babu kai, tuwo bai ciyo wa’, or when he called out, ‘Ina Kauthar, ina kiran ki, ki amsa’. I let people come up with their own theories for why I was favoured in the song, never revealing the truth: I was there when it was written. The man behind it, Ahmad, had been staying at our house in Yola, following the campaign. Even at eight, I understood the value of persistence. I knew to visit him every day while he wrote, lobbying and bribing in my own ways to make sure he featured me as much as possible.

So much has changed since then. It is strange how those small victories from childhood, like hearing my name in a campaign jingle, now feel like treasures from a distant past. Time felt infinite in those days. Slow, generous, forgiving. Never realising how quickly it runs out. 

The last time I saw my father was September 18, 2019, when he drove me to the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Abuja at 6am so I could catch the British Airways flight to London a few days before I started my PhD. I missed my brother’s wedding a month later – school was too busy. I could not make it home in December either. I told myself I would visit in April, after classes had wrapped up. Then the pandemic happened. So, I said alright then, I will be there in the summer, or maybe later. I kept pushing it back, as if time would always wait. As if he would always be there.  

He offered to take me to the airport himself and stood beside me as I checked in and dropped off my bags. After I got through security, I turned around and he was still standing there at the barricade, watching me. When he caught my eye, he smiled and waved. That image lives in my mind when I think of him: smiling and waving. Watching over me. Looking out for me. Full of pride.

 It had long been our plan for me to pursue the PhD. We had talked about it for years, and he wanted it for me perhaps even more than I did for myself. He believed in knowledge, in learning as the path to progress. He encouraged the same in all his children, and we all knew him as someone who took our education very seriously. In the early years of my childhood, before any of my younger siblings were born, we got to spend a lot of time on our own. Curious as I was, he met each question with patience, teaching me to see the world with nuance and depth. The PhD was only a continuation of the  light he saw in me. The future he saw long before I could. In the twinkle of his eyes. 

When he died, I had to fight for it to not feel so hollow. The years after were a blur of pushing through, of trying to find meaning within a blinding fog of grief and confusion. The milestones were lacklustre. Emotionally, I had to start over, to learn how to want it for just myself, without the comfort of his shadow. There were moments when I almost quit. But to give up would have meant letting go of one of the last things that tied me to him. I used to think of this dream as something we shared, something that bound us together. Then it had to become something else. A path still unfolding, walking the lonely road, tugging at a thread that started in his grasp, trying to make sense of what now remains in my hands. To hold on to it, to finish it, to let it maim me, even if just in tribute. 

Baba died of COVID on July 19, 2020, right in the thick of the uncertainty. Those of us in the UK were rounding up on our first lockdown, but no one really understood what it meant. What would the virus take from us? How would life carry on? Flights were still grounded. Gatherings were limited. The highlight of most days was a walk around the neighbourhood just to regain a semblance of normalcy, any attempt to shake the weight of isolation.

That Sunday, I woke up from a late nap around 4:30. The sun was out, and for a moment, I considered joining it. I decided instead to grab something to eat before calling to check on Baba. For me, at that point, it was an ordinary day.

I had no idea that in Nigeria, the news had already broken for hours. I was the last to know. People had been sharing their condolences online. Calls were pouring in. Prayers were being whispered. Inna lil lahi. Mun yi asara. Allah ya sa ya huta. Mahaifinku mutumin kirki ne, mai himma da taimako. Allah ya gafarta mishi. La illaha illallah.

 I sat down with a bowl of something that is now lost to my memory. That was when I saw a missed call from my sister and her text letting me know what had happened. I never touched that food, and I could not eat for days after that. The word of his death landed like a stone in still water. He had been terribly ill in the hospital for a week, but even so, nobody saw it coming. Least of all me. 

And I was so far from home. 

Now fatherless. Rudderless.

It took me two weeks to get from London to Yola. I have to admit, I was slightly amused. He was a true son of the soil. Baba always said he wanted to grow old at home in Jimeta, and even though growing old just was not a part of his story, that was where he died. Before time had a chance to age him, while we could still remember him as being larger than life. Muslims bury our dead quickly and unceremoniously, a practice meant to honour the body and accept Allah’s decree. So they got on with it first thing Monday morning. As a woman, I would not have had the chance to stand by his grave anyway, to hear the prayers said over him and feel the finality of the earth closing over his body. Somehow, photos of his burial made it to social media. The images showed a group of men in hazmat suits gently laying him to rest. The caption identified him. In the background, I could see my older brother, his face cupped in his hands, crying. I had to beg the account to take the photo down.

Imagining him alone in his grave made my chest ache. He was never someone who thrived in solitude. He was boisterous and animated. Magnetic during his political campaigns. He loved being surrounded by people. Yet, in the end, the pandemic kept the crowd away. The funeral and mourning period, closed to all but family, were painfully quiet for someone who lived so loudly. It did not suit him. 

Much of what should have shaped my bereavement – the gathering of family and friends, the prayers spoken out loud, the strength in numbers – we could not partake in. We missed the rituals that normally soften the blow. This is not how my people mourn.  In addition to losing my father, we also missed the cultural script for how to mend that wound. My own mourning took place in silence, in a different country, under a different sky. It was not only the grief I carried, but a spiritual and cultural disorientation, a rupture in the sacred ways of bidding farewell. 

I was caught off guard by how physical grief feels. It is heavy, dragging at my shoulders like a wet shroud. It steals air from my lungs. My heart refuses to quiet. My throat tightens around every swallow. Even walking becomes an enormous task, only managing to take a few steps before I get winded, undone. Just existing in my body hurts. 

Closure should have come when I finally visited his grave, but I felt nothing. The dirt had settled, and the rawness of the emotions captured at his funeral had dissipated. Part of me wondered if I would ever stop feeling left out of the collective grief, having been away when they all faced it together. By then, a small child had been buried to his left. I found myself staring at the child’s grave longer than my father’s, struck by the smallness of it, the shape of the little body outlined in the sand. I turned to the cemetery groundskeeper waiting for the story. The child had fallen ill, and his family could not save him. He was no older than five. Something about that hit a more tender nerve. I do not know why, but I was more emotionally attached to the boy’s resting place. The grave beside his could have belonged to anyone.

After his passing, the hospital sent a bag with his things. My mother could not bear to open it, so it remained untouched for weeks. When she finally asked me to go through the bag, I walked upstairs to his room and turned the key, opening into emptiness and darkness. Even I had to work up the courage to do it. I took out his wallet, which still held a little cash. His driver’s license, which was not in the wallet for some reason. His fountain pen. He always had a fountain pen in his front pocket. Then, I took out his glasses. That was the moment it became real. I eased into the side of the bed he used to sleep in, holding the glasses and sobbed. I knew then that he was not coming back.  He would not go anywhere without them, because he could not see without his glasses. 

I am still working towards the future we once dreamed of. In many ways, I am grieving for the first time. Until now, I was suspended in shock while fixated on that one goal. Since my return home after finishing my  PhD, his death seems more poignant. I did not know a Nigeria without him. Now that I must, I am afraid of what life will be like in his wake. I fear becoming someone he will never get to know. But in his honour, I cannot stay stagnant. 

My graduation was initially scheduled for next week. I think about what it would have meant to him. I wonder what he would have said. Forever, I am left to wonder about a lot of things. It is not the ending we imagined, but maybe part of what it means to love someone deeply is to keep your promises and walk the rest of the road, even if you have to walk alone, even if there is no map to show the way. 

Adamu Mu‘azu Modibbo’s clock stopped on the 19th day of July in the year 2020. He left behind two wives and nine children. But more than that, he left behind a life unfinished, and we each bear him with us, knowing that nothing can take the place of where he once stood.

Allah yafe, Baba am. Thank you for being my dad.