Closeness Over Comfort
He never wore suits,
Only embroidered Hausa kaftans, always pressed,
with dark lips I carry like a family heirloom,
and narrow eyes that vanished when he laughed.
Tall and composed,
he smelled of a mix of burukutu
and aftershave,
the scent of him coming home past midnight
with koose or biscuits wrapped in nylon,
even when his wallet was empty.
He gave without asking;
shirts, shoes, whatever he had,
to anyone with open hands.
Closeness meant more to him than comfort.
He taught my mother how to give.
And I learned by watching.
Once, I called him “uncle,”
after too long away.
He packed my bag in silence
and took me home.
Even broke,
he chose closeness over comfort.
By day, he wore a lab coat,
Moved through rooms with quiet precision.
Watching him,
I thought maybe healing runs in the blood.
He showed up when it mattered.
Once at school,
when a teacher laid hands on me,
he didn’t just stand still,
his silence was a storm,
a warning in his eyes,
fierce enough to make the air shift.
He never went to church
but read his Bible daily
black hardcover, corners worn,
his handwriting crowding margins.
I didn’t understand then.
Now I carry his voice
in black print:
no sermons,
only clues.
Reggae played like prayer in our home.
Lady in Red by Chris De Burgh was his ghost song.
Sunshine…
He called me that just once.
And I’ve held that word
like a struck match
still burning.
Now when I laugh too loud,
or play his ghost song on repeat,
or give too much,
or open his Bible for no reason,
he’s there again.
Not perfect,
but permanent.
#bible #dailyprompt #faith #family #fatherSday #Fathers #jesus #love #newwriter #nigeria #nigerianpoems #nigerianwriters #poem #POETRY