For My Perfect Gentleman 💙🕊️
I’m not really keen on the nitty-gritty of storytelling or creative writing, so I’m pouring this straight from the heart onto these pages.
A Rough Start to the Year
13-01-2025. My life as I knew it changed forever.
It was a rough start to the year, as my very dearly beloved Daddy passed on.
I had wanted to put my feelings—my hurt, grief, and confusion—into writing for a while now. But I was filled with dread and, might I add, a sense of cowardice. Everything felt like a dream. For the past three months, I’ve daily wished it was just that—a dream.
In my head, writing this would jinx it. It would confirm that it’s not a dream at all. And that would mean it’s real. That my perfect gentleman is really… gone?
I wasn’t ready.
Am I now?
It was a rough start to the year, as my very dearly beloved Daddy passed on.
I had wanted to put my feelings—my hurt, grief, and confusion—into writing for a while now. But I was filled with dread and, might I add, a sense of cowardice. Everything felt like a dream. For the past three months, I’ve daily wished it was just that—a dream.
In my head, writing this would jinx it. It would confirm that it’s not a dream at all. And that would mean it’s real. That my perfect gentleman is really… gone?
I wasn’t ready.
Am I now?
Maybe I'm expecting some kind of cathartic effect by doing this.
I’m not sure. But here I am.
I’ve written bits and pieces about my parents before, so I’m kind of glad this isn’t the first time I’m singing my Dad’s praises. It’s not just because he’s passed.
People close to me know just how special he was. I called him my perfect gentleman not just because he was a perfect human (who is?), but because, as far as Buki was concerned, he was everything God knew I’d need in a father.
Does that make sense?
Wo, I don’t know. But it makes sense to me.
This Isn't a Sad Post (Well… Mostly Not)
I don’t want this to be a gloomy post. I just want to pen down a few of my favourite things or memories about him.
There are many.
I get daily reminders, sometimes even triggers. If you’ve lost someone dear, you know the drill. But again, this is not a sad blog.
So… here goes.
(By the way, I’m really writing about him in the past tense. Sha. It is well. I’ll probably mix up the tenses at some point—please excuse me.)
I was recently telling my husband about how things like PVC and NIN never got me stranded. Those were things my Dad made sure we sorted the moment we were old enough.
I remember he once called me while I was in school to remind me that I needed to go register for my NIN during the holidays. Mind you, no one was asking for NIN at the time—but there was no arguing with popsy. 😅
I’m glad he did, though.
Same with voting. The moment you turned 18, you had to start voting. No questions. He made sure you got your permanent voter’s card. In fact, he wouldn’t let you rest until you did.
That was just the kind of person he was.
He could ask you to clean the car at 12 p.m. even if he wasn’t heading out until 2. I remember this especially on Fridays, when he prepared for Jum’at service.
Of all the many memories of this trait, this one stands out.
People close to me know just how special he was. I called him my perfect gentleman not just because he was a perfect human (who is?), but because, as far as Buki was concerned, he was everything God knew I’d need in a father.
Does that make sense?
Wo, I don’t know. But it makes sense to me.
This Isn't a Sad Post (Well… Mostly Not)
I don’t want this to be a gloomy post. I just want to pen down a few of my favourite things or memories about him.
There are many.
I get daily reminders, sometimes even triggers. If you’ve lost someone dear, you know the drill. But again, this is not a sad blog.
So… here goes.
(By the way, I’m really writing about him in the past tense. Sha. It is well. I’ll probably mix up the tenses at some point—please excuse me.)
A few favourite things/memories...
My Dad was the most proactive person I know.I was recently telling my husband about how things like PVC and NIN never got me stranded. Those were things my Dad made sure we sorted the moment we were old enough.
I remember he once called me while I was in school to remind me that I needed to go register for my NIN during the holidays. Mind you, no one was asking for NIN at the time—but there was no arguing with popsy. 😅
I’m glad he did, though.
Same with voting. The moment you turned 18, you had to start voting. No questions. He made sure you got your permanent voter’s card. In fact, he wouldn’t let you rest until you did.
That was just the kind of person he was.
He could ask you to clean the car at 12 p.m. even if he wasn’t heading out until 2. I remember this especially on Fridays, when he prepared for Jum’at service.
Of all the many memories of this trait, this one stands out.
I had recently resumed a job at a company in Lagos. One of the senior managers and I got talking and realized we were from the same village in Ibadan. His surname sounded familiar, so I told him I’d ask my Dad if he knew the family.
Turns out, he did. We left it at that.
Next time I went home, my Dad handed me a letter from Alhaji xyz—the boss’s uncle.
"You’ll give it to him when you get back to the office," he said.
I was confused. What letter?
Apparently, since I had mentioned I was still on probation, he went to the boss's uncle and asked him to kindly help speak to his nephew so I could be confirmed as permanent staff. 😅
I laughed it off and told him that’s not how things worked at the company. Besides, by God’s grace, I was doing really well and on track to get confirmed after the 4-month probation.
Still, that’s just who he was. Always looking out for us.
Next time I went home, my Dad handed me a letter from Alhaji xyz—the boss’s uncle.
"You’ll give it to him when you get back to the office," he said.
I was confused. What letter?
Apparently, since I had mentioned I was still on probation, he went to the boss's uncle and asked him to kindly help speak to his nephew so I could be confirmed as permanent staff. 😅
I laughed it off and told him that’s not how things worked at the company. Besides, by God’s grace, I was doing really well and on track to get confirmed after the 4-month probation.
Still, that’s just who he was. Always looking out for us.
Supportive husband sounds cliché, still...
Another memory… this one is mostly about his wife of nearly 45 years—my sweet Mum ❤️
I remember reading Ibukun Awosika’s The Girl Entrepreneur as an unmarried lady. One common theme in the stories of the highly accomplished married women in the book? Their husbands’ support.
I was unmarried at the time, so the closest couple I could view through that lens were my parents.
And it hit me—my Dad was that guy.
It became clear that the things I had considered “normal little things” were actually oozing supportive husband energy.
I remember reading Ibukun Awosika’s The Girl Entrepreneur as an unmarried lady. One common theme in the stories of the highly accomplished married women in the book? Their husbands’ support.
I was unmarried at the time, so the closest couple I could view through that lens were my parents.
And it hit me—my Dad was that guy.
It became clear that the things I had considered “normal little things” were actually oozing supportive husband energy.
My Mum, bless her heart, is one of the most hardworking women I know. Actually, she’s number one. A proper business katakara somebody. Lol.
She would go to Dubai, Ghana, Cotonou, and Lagos—and not pass on Kano. Count her in if it was about buying and selling (legally o!).
These trips were never a problem at home. I remember that when she came back from these trips, she’d usually call home to let my Dad know she was getting close to the bus park where she’d alight with her load, so he could come pick her.
I remember vividly how, once the call came in, my Dad would park his car near the gate and wait, strumming his fingers on the door while listening to the radio, waiting for the “Oya, e le ma bo bayi” (You can head towards the park now) call.
When she got back too, the most 'sacred' room in the house—my Dad’s room—was where her goods were stored. That room was off-limits to visitors, so it would be filled with bags, purses, shoes, or whatever was on sale at the time. One would literally need to waddle or tiptoe through the floor loaded with shoes, bags etc. And guess who never complained? Him.
He’d tease her, call her Iyalaje, or say her calculator must be showing Dirham already, lol—because my mother could be in the middle of a meal and ask for her calculator, and next thing you'd hear her punching buttons, muttering “xxx Dirham multiplied by xxx...” So when Daddy made that joke, it was fitting😂
Fridays couldn't come faster...
My Dad liked to read—I like to think he genetically passed that to me and some of my siblings.
I randomly saw Norman Vincent Peale’s Power of Positive Thinking in his stuff. He found the second part (can’t recall the title now) and encouraged me to read that too.
I left Joyce Meyer’s Battlefield of the Mind lying around once, and saw him reading it one day. I was pleasantly surprised.
I didn’t even know about his reading habit until he retired from civil service.
Maybe because he was what I used to call a “weekend Daddy.” He worked out of station and came home on weekends (Fridays).
Never empty-handed.
Back when Gala was still Gala, he always brought it home on Fridays. I remember my Mum had to make a rule—no eating Gala until Saturday—because Friday dinner became a struggle.
The gifts evolved over time. Eventually, it became cash. We simply collected our Friday allowance and spent it as we pleased.
I randomly saw Norman Vincent Peale’s Power of Positive Thinking in his stuff. He found the second part (can’t recall the title now) and encouraged me to read that too.
I left Joyce Meyer’s Battlefield of the Mind lying around once, and saw him reading it one day. I was pleasantly surprised.
I didn’t even know about his reading habit until he retired from civil service.
Maybe because he was what I used to call a “weekend Daddy.” He worked out of station and came home on weekends (Fridays).
Never empty-handed.
Back when Gala was still Gala, he always brought it home on Fridays. I remember my Mum had to make a rule—no eating Gala until Saturday—because Friday dinner became a struggle.
The gifts evolved over time. Eventually, it became cash. We simply collected our Friday allowance and spent it as we pleased.
Daddy🤞Routines
He was a man of routine. It didn’t matter that we were in university or no longer small children who needed sweets or biscuits—he still dropped that cash.
I also remember how he never stopped our monthly allowance, even when ASUU was on strike or we were home for semester break.
I wasn’t one of the lucky ones who got paid internships. I did my IT at a place with no salary. But guess who went back to school with a box full of clothes? Me.
Because my monthly allowance didn’t stop—even though I was home, eating free food and still collecting transport fare from my Mum.
I remember after I got my first job, I called him and said he could stop sending my allowance. He was a pensioner at that time so I really wanted to spare him the hassle. He asked for my salary. I told him. He asked about transport expenses. I told him. He just chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll stop sending it when you get a better job.”
This is getting long. There’s still so much to write. I’ll end with this one last, very poignant incident that multiplied my love, admiration, and respect for my Daddy dearest.
I also remember how he never stopped our monthly allowance, even when ASUU was on strike or we were home for semester break.
I wasn’t one of the lucky ones who got paid internships. I did my IT at a place with no salary. But guess who went back to school with a box full of clothes? Me.
Because my monthly allowance didn’t stop—even though I was home, eating free food and still collecting transport fare from my Mum.
I remember after I got my first job, I called him and said he could stop sending my allowance. He was a pensioner at that time so I really wanted to spare him the hassle. He asked for my salary. I told him. He asked about transport expenses. I told him. He just chuckled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll stop sending it when you get a better job.”
This particular one 🥹
Sigh.This is getting long. There’s still so much to write. I’ll end with this one last, very poignant incident that multiplied my love, admiration, and respect for my Daddy dearest.
It was a few days before my wedding. I was back home. I naturally have a low social battery, so I often hid around the house. In fact, my Dad’s room was my absolute favourite hiding spot during functions or when the house was full.
I loved just sitting there in silence with him. He was a man of few words, but those moments were so peaceful. I really just loved them.
Anyway—on this day, I was in the living room, tired from the wedding preps. I sat hidden behind a curtain, choosing which guests to 'show face' to.
A certain elderly relative came in. I didn’t know him (that’s a story for another day—I’m the unpopular child in the family. A lot of people don’t know me, and I don’t know them, lol).
He greeted my Dad and they began discussing the wedding plans.
He asked my Dad what time the Nikah (Muslim wedding ceremony) would be.
My Dad told him there wouldn’t be one—just the engagement and reception—because the groom was Christian.
The man’s voice changed immediately, laced with disdain. “Again?” he said. “Alhaji, why do you allow these children to do whatever they like?”
My Dad wasn’t a fan of confrontation, so he simply replied, “Do you expect me to force husbands on them? Let’s just leave that alone.” And he changed the subject.
In that moment it hit me that that was not the first time he was going through that.
You see, I was the 4th of 5 children to get married, my two sisters wedding followed the same format my Dad explained to the man because their grooms were also christians. My oldest brother’s wedding as a matter of fact took place in a church because again, bride was a christian. It’s safe to say that 90% of my Dad’s extended family members are muslims. The snide comments and criticism he must have received with every wedding could only be best left to imagination.
And guess who never for once complained whether directly or indirectly- my Daddy.
My Dad’s tolerance level was unmatched.
Now that he’s gone, I’m making a conscious effort to emulate that and be more like him.
That day, I began to look at him in an even brighter light. He moved even higher up the scale of the high esteem I already held him in.
Now that he’s gone, I’m making a conscious effort to emulate that and be more like him.
That day, I began to look at him in an even brighter light. He moved even higher up the scale of the high esteem I already held him in.
There’s still so much I wish I could share, but time, space, and a respect for privacy won’t let me. Still, I can’t help but imagine—if each of my siblings poured out their own cherished memories of him, Omo, we’d need an entire book to even begin to hold the love, the laughter, and the moments we carry in our hearts.
Let me end here
The finality of death is… intriguing.
I picture it as the last full stop in a novel. After that, the pages are blank—100, 500, even 1,000 of them—stretching endlessly with nothing to fill them. The story simply ends.
You can flip forward, but there’s nothing.
That’s one of the most devastating realizations I’ve had since my Dad passed:
I can’t do anything for him or with him ever again.
It’s just… over.
Yes, life goes on. But in my story, in my present and future, there’s no “Dad” anymore. Those pages will remain blank. All I have are the ones already written—the moments we shared, the memories we made.
I picture it as the last full stop in a novel. After that, the pages are blank—100, 500, even 1,000 of them—stretching endlessly with nothing to fill them. The story simply ends.
You can flip forward, but there’s nothing.
That’s one of the most devastating realizations I’ve had since my Dad passed:
I can’t do anything for him or with him ever again.
It’s just… over.
Yes, life goes on. But in my story, in my present and future, there’s no “Dad” anymore. Those pages will remain blank. All I have are the ones already written—the moments we shared, the memories we made.
And that’s all there will ever be.
Maybe you can relate…
While these emotions are personal to me, I know they’re not unique. Someone reading this knows exactly what this feels like. Because you’ve walked—or are walking—this same path. If you have experience, hit me with tips on how to cope abeg!
In the midst of it all, I’m grateful that Alhaji R.O. Sanusi was specially handpicked by God to be my father on this earthly side of things.
I wouldn’t change it for anything.
I’m grateful that I got to love him, and that I experienced his love.
Cheers, Daddy 💙🕊️
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