I Have To Be Rich, I said.

My uncle forced me to wave goodbye as the car zoomed off, but I refused, crying as loudly as my lungs would allow. How could I? I wanted to be in the backseat, pointing to every snack as we drove and most certainly getting all of them. This was my story as a 3 or maybe 4-year-old - I can’t remember exactly. It’s one of my earliest memories.

My Dad was nearing retirement when he and my mum had me. He would retire just after I turned 2. This left a lot of time for him and me to bond. I don’t remember us having much because - you know - retired dad wanted to preserve most of his cash - but my dad was the kind that would do anything to make sure his kids were happy.

I am the 11th of 12 kids in a polygamous family. My mum is the last of 4 wives and also the youngest. Until 2001, I was the last child of the family, and having my sister definitely made 8-year-old me mad, but she’s the love of my life - of our lives, I should say, because we all love her to bits.

My Dad, like me, was born into polygamy, one of 4 of his maternal siblings and the only boy. We had so much in common, I’m not surprised we shared such a strong bond as we did. He was my teacher, disciplinarian and everything I wanted to be as a man. I tell people, all the good traits about me, I picked from my Dad. This makes my mum jelly from time to time, but it’s okay, although she knows it’s a joke, she understands there’s an element of truth to it.

Growing up, I always wondered why my dad kept a bag of medication - every night before bed, he would pop 3-5 tablets, sometimes more. But as I grew older, in ransacking little corners of his room and file cabinets, I came across doctor’s notes. I researched some of the medications and realized what it was for. Diabetes.

It then started to make sense. My Dad stayed away from alcohol except on VERY rare occasions, he would take a sip here and there to keep prying eyes away. He ate very little amount of sugar and most of his meals were prepared separately from ours.

One day he told his story of how he escaped death by the whiskers as a child. He’d contracted smallpox - which was quite rampant in the late 40s and 50s. Children died like flies and adults weren’t spared either. There was little access to medication in those days and he was one of the lucky few that survived amongst his peers. He was in a coma for days and came out of it by a miracle. But the damage was already done.

The damage to his pancreas - a gland that produces insulin cells which then regulates blood sugar - was traced to the severe illness that almost killed him as a child.

I was lying on my bed in my dorm room one evening in 2014, I picked up my phone to call my dad like I always did on Sunday evenings. His phone didn’t ring. Puzzled, I called my mum. She told me my dad had been admitted to the emergency ward of our local teaching hospital. The night before, he lost balance as he was taking a pee and fell to the ground.

Then I started to connect the dots. The last time I saw him, he had been scratching his body severely, although we couldn’t figure out why, his room was always pristine, his sheets changed regularly, and laundry was done once a week. He also had severe hiccups. What could be the matter? I turned to Google and started coming to my conclusions - which I kept private.

I got on a bus the next morning and 2 hours later, I was home. Just in time for the doctor’s test results to be revealed.

Apparently, my Dad’s kidneys were failing fast and the only way to relieve the pressure on the kidneys was to start dialysis immediately.

A few years prior, he had almost lost sight in both eyes, a condition stemming from his diabetes. This time, it was his kidneys. We could barely afford his medications which were getting more expensive by the day. Now, we have to start dialysis.

How much does it cost? Where do we even go to get it done? The local hospital didn’t have the needed equipment, they’d been out of service for years due to a lack of government funding.

The nearest hospital was almost 3 hours away - factoring in the bad roads, each journey would take at least 4 hours one way. He needed to get 2 sessions per week. I fell on my knees and cried - just like the 3-year-old me. I cried not because I’d lost hope, but because I just knew the coming months would be torture.

We didn’t have enough insurance coverage to cover the dialysis sessions, my Dad’s pension could barely pay for one session, and we needed 2 to 3 sessions per week. I was just a college student who still sometimes relied on money from home when my photography business couldn't sustain me, how about the medication and the care he’d need? All these thoughts felt like a dagger to my heart.

In the weeks and months that followed, we sold property and borrowed from friends, and family, just to pay for the medical costs. For one year, my dad had 2 dialysis sessions per week. It was brutal. Tubes dangling from his neck, loss of appetite, frequent midnight scares. I broke down in tears most of the time. But he kept his usual fun demeanor through those months. He caught me crying one night and sent me packing from his room in anger - we laughed about it afterwards.

We ran out of money, out of property to sell, out of friends to call on. The end felt near and near each day. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror one day and said to myself - I have to be rich.

Being rich would probably have not changed the outcome, but it would have made the finals days easier on everyone - on me, my siblings, my mum, my step-mum and most importantly, my Dad.

I write this as I reflect on the 8 years since my Dad passed on, on 23rd September 2015. 8 years have flown by, it feels like yesterday.

I still haven’t gotten over the pain I felt that night as he lay in my arms, drawing his last breath. The pain was physical, I felt it in my chest, and everywhere that could hurt did hurt. It feels even fresher as I type this. But I feel better knowing that he’s in a better place

In loving memory of Chief Timothy Abidoye Falonipe, 1938 - 2015.