Laycon

33 MOMENTS BEFORE 33 DAY 20/33 My Dad 🤍 My first memory of my dad is running into his arms and having him throw me up into the sky. I remember watching Indian action movies with him and movies like Commando and Rambo. Back then, he was the person I ran to, the person who encouraged me. As I grew older, especially when I became a teenager and got into university, we weren’t as close. But there are things I learnt about him later that made me look at our relationship differently. My mum once told me that when I was younger, I would walk around with my headphones on, rapping to myself. People in the neighbourhood would ask my dad why his son was always talking to himself on the road. And he would tell them, “No, he’s rapping. That’s what he’s doing.” He never even had that conversation with me. He didn’t need to. He understood what I was doing, and he defended it to other people. In 2012, my dad had an accident and had a fracture in his leg. His recovery took almost a year, and that was around the time I got my university admission. I would go to check on him, and those were some of the moments we shared. Then, in 2016, he fell ill. He didn’t really tell people much about what was going on, and by late 2017, things had become serious. I was serving at the Lagos State Ministry of Information and Strategy at the time. I remember going to see him on a Wednesday evening and leaving on Thursday morning. That was the last time I saw my dad alive. When he saw me that morning, he tried to speak. I remember praying with my brother for him. I remember him crying. I was scared, and everything was happening so quickly that I don’t think I fully understood what I was witnessing. I was supposed to visit him again on Saturday. Around four am that day, my brother called me. Before he even said anything, I knew. “Hello, Lekan. Popsy don die.” Those were his words I went home. Because he was Muslim, he was buried that same day. I was there when they bathed him. I helped carry him, dress him and bury him. I put sand on him, and I cried. There was one thing he asked me to do before he died that I didn’t do. He wanted me to perform for some boys in our neighbourhood, and I said no. I don’t live with that as a regret, because I know I didn’t understand what I understand now. But sometimes, I wish I had done it. I wish I had known that it would be one of the last things he asked of me. Years later, when I started working on Káshìmaawòó, I began hearing more stories about my dad from other people. I learnt things about him that I hadn’t known before. I got to see more of the person he was, how intelligent he was, and the parts of him I had only caught glimpses of while he was alive. And somewhere in all those stories, I began to realise something: I am him. A lot of the traits I have came from my dad. Some of the things I admire about him are in me, and some of the things I didn’t like about him are things I’m still working on in myself. It’s made me understand that this isn’t about trying not to become my father. I already am my father. The work is in becoming a better version of him. Becoming the person I believe he could have become, taking the things he passed down to me and doing more with them. Because if I can become my father, then my son can become me. And perhaps that’s part of what it means to carry someone forward. Not to pretend they were perfect, not to erase their shortcomings, but to recognise what they gave you and take responsibility for what comes next. I miss my dad. There are conversations I wish we could have now, questions I wish I could ask him, and things I wish he could see. But I’m still learning about him, even in his absence. And I’m learning about myself in the process. I guess a part of growing up is realising that our parents were people too, still figuring things out, with their own strengths, flaws and unrealised possibilities. And now, some of that work belongs to us.