It was the night before the D-Day.

I had looked forward to this day for so long. I was excited and sad. Overjoyed yet pensive.

How do you say goodbye to people, places and things you’ve spent your whole life nurturing just because you feel the urge to follow the light within?

This light has been my north star since God aligned our destinies. But does it make sense? Like we always say in Nigeria- make it make sense.

As I thought about this, all I saw, felt and touched was emotions. I never thought I was emotional. I used to be hardcore, or so I thought.

Lately, my emotions have been proving me wrong. They have been working for and against me. As I wrestled against my feelings, I heard the cloud’s walk on earth, which is another way I love to describe Daddy’s footsteps.

Daddy’s footsteps reflect his soft and gentle nature. I like to think of my baba as a bigger version of me. He walks the earth with an unmatched level of humility that even grasses marvel at his gait.

“Ruka?”

I was so lost in thought I didn’t hear him.

“Rukute Rukute.”

“Rukute Rukute… A nickname only Daddy and no one else calls me.

It’s light yet heavy. Simple yet complex. It’s what Daddy uses when he wants me to know that I’m very dear to his soul. It’s a nickname with a family history, and an inside joke that only a handful of people and the wind know about.

“Ruka?” “Rukute Rukute?”

Sir… I responded.

“Your mother told me you’re ready.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Gbà“. Take this. You’ve already embarked on your journey but you will need this.”

“Kílẹlẹ́yìí? What is this?”

“It’s what I wanted to give you. Keep it and hold on to it.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Daddy always gave us things no matter how little they were. I remember how he left money in places we could find them.

Little me, or Ruka, as my family and oldest friends like to fondly call me, thought money was like rain. It somehow depleted but also miraculously replenished itself. If only I knew Daddy was the one performing this miracle.

I was about to open what my father cupped into my hands but he stopped me.

Máa tíì ṣí. Don’t open it yet. Wait until the D-Day”.

“But isn’t today the D-Day, Daddy?” Èní ni màá kúrò. Today is the day I leave.”

“Today is the day but today is not the D-Day.”

“So how do I know the D-Day, Daddy?”

“Do you find it hard to see the sun on a clear day?”

“No.”

“Wàá mọ̀. You will know when it’s time.”

Why was Daddy speaking in parables? I was confused. But I knew at this point to never question or argue with an African father.

I went on both knees to thank him. Thanks Baba.

Daddy? Daddy?

Daddy! I could have sworn I saw him.

Daddy…Daddy…I heard my own voice, drenched in sweat, with hands cupped together – still protecting what Daddy gave me.