16/03/2026
Chapter One
The Night Everything Changed
September 1999 marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life. That month, I arrived in Surulere—but unlike the many times before, this was not a simple visit to see my grandmother and cousins. This time, I had come to stay.
The move happened suddenly and without much preparation. At the time, I did not fully understand why everything was changing so quickly. Only later would I realize that my relocation was closely tied to one of the most difficult experiences of my childhood—an illness that nearly claimed my life.
Just weeks earlier, I had been admitted to Crystal Hospital in Akowonjo, Dopemu. What followed were five long weeks that felt like an eternity for a young boy. My body seemed to be fighting battles on every front.
It all began in the most ordinary way. One afternoon, after drinking a bottle of juice that a neighbor had brought for my father, I developed a headache. At first, no one paid much attention to it. Headaches are common among children, and they usually disappear as quickly as they come. But this one refused to go away. Instead, it intensified, and before long it became clear that something was terribly wrong.
Doctors soon diagnosed appendicitis, and surgery was required. Thankfully, the operation was successful. For a brief moment, it seemed the worst was behind us.
But the real struggle had only just begun.
Not long after the surgery, I developed jaundice. My condition deteriorated further when my blood level dropped dangerously low. As the days passed, new and troubling symptoms appeared. At times, I lost my memory. Severe hallucinations followed. One illness seemed to invite another, leaving my young body exhausted and fragile.
Looking back now, it feels as though my body had been thrust into a battlefield it was never prepared to face.
Yet somehow, I survived.
Much of the credit belongs to Dr. Adeyemi, the owner of the hospital. His determination never wavered. Even when the situation seemed hopeless, he remained relentless in his efforts to save me. For five weeks, he and his team fought tirelessly to keep me alive.
Meanwhile, the cost of my treatment continued to rise. Day after day, the hospital bills accumulated. My father worked as a senior manager at Afribank, and even the health insurance coverage provided by the bank began to feel the strain.
As I lay in that private hospital ward, my days blurred into a routine of injections, medications, and intravenous drips. The treatments seemed endless. At one point, the doctors even worried that the heavy doses of medication might damage my liver.
Outside the hospital room, my parents were fighting their own battles—each in very different ways.
My father, shaped by his upbringing and cultural background, sought answers through traditional consultations. Being from Ilobu in Osun State, he believed strongly in certain ancestral practices and was determined to explore every possible path that might ensure my survival.
My mother, on the other hand, turned completely to prayer. By that time, she had already become a devoted Christian. Day and night, she prayed fervently, asking God to spare my life.
I was still very young—too young, perhaps, to fully grasp the meaning of death. While my parents were overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty, I experienced the situation quite differently.
In my mind, the most noticeable change in my life was that I no longer had to do house chores or run errands. In a strange way, that small relief made the situation feel less frightening.
Today, when I reflect on those days, certain details remain hazy. I cannot clearly remember whether I felt constant pain or whether I was simply too weak to react to it. What I do remember vividly is the overwhelming sense of weakness and helplessness.
And the loneliness.
After a while, the hospital began to feel like a prison. I longed to step outside again. I missed the warmth of the sun on my skin. I missed seeing the moon in the night sky. Those simple things suddenly felt like luxuries I might never experience again.
Visitors came frequently. Our neighbors and many of my father's colleagues from Afribank stopped by to see me. No one came empty-handed. Over time, my hospital ward filled with drinks, snacks, fruits, and other gifts.
Being the son of one of Afribank’s regional managers meant many people wanted to express their support and goodwill.
My father, however, was rarely impressed by most of those items. Having grown up in Ilobu, he believed that many packaged snacks and sugary drinks were hardly real food.
To him, they simply existed.
As for me, I had little appetite anyway. Food tasted strange, and more often than not I vomited shortly after eating. My younger sister, who stayed by my side throughout that difficult period, happily took care of most of the provisions.
One particular memory from that time remains vivid. While lying on the hospital bed, I watched the movie Witches. The film terrified me deeply. For many nights afterward, I suffered terrible nightmares.
Eventually, after what felt like an endless wait, the day finally came when the doctors declared that I was well enough to go home.
Returning to our house in Ijaiye Ojokoro felt surreal. The way people welcomed me made it clear that many had feared the worst. I was received almost like someone who had returned from the dead.
Although I was still extremely thin and physically weak, something inside me had changed. There was a brightness in my eyes that had not been there before—a quiet sign that life had returned.
Recovery was slow, but hope had returned with it. Gradually, my strength began to come back, and the darkest days were finally behind me.
My father had also received reassurance from the consultations he had sought. He had been told that my life would be spared.
Looking back today, I often reflect on a passage from Scripture that seems to capture that moment in my life perfectly:
“All things work together for good to those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose.”
After five long weeks within hospital walls, I was simply grateful to be free again.
What I did not realize at the time was that this experience was only the beginning. My life was about to take a new direction.
Long before my illness, my parents had already separated. By then, their separation had lasted three years. Many people had tried to intervene and reconcile them, but every effort ended in failure. Even my grandfather—a man deeply respected within the family—had attempted to mediate between them, yet his efforts proved unsuccessful.
Over time, the situation began to feel almost mysterious. My father would sometimes agree to reconciliation, only to change his mind later. My mother would also reconsider her position at times. The situation became a frustrating cycle of agreement and disagreement that left everyone exhausted.
My uncle, Brother Akin—whom my father often called “Ganiu”—was living with us then. He repeatedly tried to persuade my father to reconcile with my mother, but his efforts produced no results.
The reason for their separation, when stripped down to its essence, seemed surprisingly simple: my mother had decided to change her religion from Islam to Christianity.
At the time, I struggled to understand how something like religion could tear a family apart.
During my illness, my mother had been staying with her elder sister in Surulere. When she heard about my condition, she began visiting after I returned home from the hospital.
For her, those visits were filled with emotion. She was grateful to see her son alive again, but even more than that, she cherished the opportunity to be close to her child after being separated for so long.
She visited once.
Then again.
And then again.
Gradually, my father became uncomfortable with her frequent visits. To him, it seemed she was using my illness as an excuse to return to the house repeatedly. His discomfort soon turned into anger.
Eventually, he gave her an ultimatum: she should either return to Islam and regain unrestricted access to the house or stop visiting entirely.
That night, I was deeply troubled. I could not understand how a father could be so determined to separate a mother from her child, especially under such circumstances. Yet no one dared to challenge my father’s authority. His presence commanded obedience.
My mother, however, could not bear the thought of losing the chance to see her children again. Rather than accept either option, she remained resolute and continued visiting.
Then came the day everything changed.
The next time she arrived at the house, my father confronted her.
His voice was cold and unwavering.
“Since it is these children that keep bringing you to my house,” he said, “then tonight, take them with you and leave. I never want to see you here again.”
His words hung heavily in the air.
That night marked a turning point in my life.
It was the night my journey moved from Ijaiye Ojokoro to Surulere.
Without realizing it then, I had just stepped into the next chapter of my life.
