When I think of my dad, I think of love, laughter, discipline, and plenty of memories that only someone who grew up in Warri, Delta State, can fully understand. Dad was funny in his own way. Sometimes he said things so sharply, you weren’t sure if you were supposed to laugh or just behave –; but most times, we did both. He was strict, yes, but deep down he was soft-hearted.

He used to call me his “last card” – his last born – and I wore that name like a badge of honor. That was our special bond, and it made me feel like no matter how grown I got, I would always be his baby. To my husband, Dad wasn’t just a father-in-law – he became a true father. And to our children, he was the best grandad.

Dad, we will miss your humor, your wisdom, your sacrifices, and your unwavering love. Rest well, Dad and Grandad. Your “last card” and the whole family love you deeply.

Words can’t fully express the extent of your love and the care you showed to us all through your life. Today I celebrate your life because it was a life well lived. I remember you picking me up from school everyday, ensuring we had everything we needed to feel loved and carefree as children.

Though you were a strict parent in many ways, I now understand that every lesson taught and every instruction given has made me the adult I am today. For this, I am eternally grateful to God for giving me a perfect father like you. Today we will remember you with friends and family and we will thank God for 81 fruitful and blessed years.

You will remain forever in our hearts. Love, your look alike, Bolinton.

Daddy was one of a kind. He was a pillar of strength, a beacon of wisdom and very accommodating. He would affectionately hail me “The Gee”, then he would respond to my greetings with “Mavo? Eve”, meaning “how are you” in Isoko. Lately, we would gist about the Warri days. He had a rich bank of anecdotes on those experiences and he had a great sense of humour. He showed me love from the very beginning of my relationship with Nuru.

He valued the preservation of culture and always spoke the Yoruba language to the children. Ayo always practiced new words in readiness whenever “Sagamu grandpa” was visiting. Daddy balanced discipline with compassion. He always asked about the children’s academic progress.

Dear Daddy, we will continue to uphold your legacy. You touched many lives. We will cherish your legacy forever. Thank you for raising an amazing gentleman that I’m blessed to call my husband. Sun re o, Daddy!

GLADYS SHOTUBO

WE MISS YOU!

When I first met my future father-in-law, I admit I was a little nervous. Meeting the man who raised my wife was no small thing! But my nerves quickly faded. From the moment he welcomed me, he treated me not just as an in-law, but as his own son. That warmth and unconditional acceptance was one of his greatest gifts.

We miss you Daddy, rest in peace!

I fondly call him Daddy, because from the very first day I got married into the family, he never treated me as a daughter-in-law but as his very own daughter. He even gave me a special nickname – Yewande Baby – a name that always warmed my heart each time he called it. His voice carried excitement and love whenever he said it, and it always made our conversations extra special.

Daddy loved my husband deeply, and he extended that same love to me and the children. Whenever we visited, it was always a joyful time. He was full of life, and we would gist endlessly – about Sagamu, about Nigeria, and sometimes about those gbeborun stories that always left us laughing. Those moments will forever remain precious in my heart.

Daddy, you will be greatly missed – your warmth, your laughter, your wisdom, and the love you poured into everyone around you.

May the Almighty God grant you eternal rest.

May He forgive all your shortcomings, accept your good deeds, and grant you Aljannah Firdaus.

And may He comfort the entire family you have left behind, giving us strength to carry on your legacy of love, kindness, and unity.

Rest well, Daddy.

Daddy, you welcomed me into the family with so much warmth and treated me like your own son. You always called to check on us and ask how we were doing, and I will never forget hearing you fondly call my wife “Mojisola Alasho Oke” as you both laughed and talked about life.

She misses you deeply and speaks of you often. We love you dearly, but Allah loves you more, and we pray that He grants you Al-Jannah Firdaus.

From the very first day I met you, you welcomed me with love and warmth. You never treated me as a daughter-in-law, but as a daughter.

I will always remember your words to my father at my introduction: “I have come for my daughter, whom you have taken such good care of for me.”

You gave my daughter her name, a name she carries with pride, and you extended your love not only to me but to my parents as well.

Thank you for your love, your care, and your constant support. You will be deeply missed, but forever remembered with gratitude.

Daddy lived a full 81 years. To look back at the man he was in his youth: vibrant, strong, always moving with purpose, it is hard to reconcile how age eventually slowed him down. Yet even in those later years, the depth of his care for us never dimmed. Every sacrifice he made was for one reason only: to see his family succeed, to see us independent and thriving.

He demanded discipline, as fathers of his generation often did. But he also balanced it with a tenderness that was unmistakable. I remember him handing me the newspaper as a child, insisting that I read even if it was only the cartoons. But there was always a lesson attached: I had to ask at least one question about something that stirred my curiosity. Over time, this practice became the foundation of my love for current affairs, fueling conversations with him that spanned politics, history, and the world beyond our walls.

Those conversations were never one-sided.

My father believed that children, too, had a voice worth hearing. Unlike many parents of his era, he did not silence us with the claim that only adults should speak. Instead, he encouraged us to share our thoughts, while guiding us with the etiquette and grace needed to engage meaningfully in public discussions.

Daddy had a way of giving freedoms while still applying invisible guardrails. He trusted us to make choices, but he also reminded us of responsibility. We shared an emotional bond too. I once confided in him about my academic struggles in my early Uni days, and the tears in his eyes sparked in me a determination that has carried me through life; an inner fire lit by his love and my commitment to earn his trust.

He loved music, gatherings, and people. In that, I take after him. Our home was never quiet; the voices and melodies from Dele Abiodun, Sunny Ade, Obey, Barrister, IK Dairo, Tunde Nightingale, often wafted through our home. Friends were always welcome, and on Ileya celebrations, our house in Warri or Sagamu became a lively place of banter, laughter, and shared meals. He was truly a man of the people: charming, open, and ever ready to share an experience as his way of coaching. I recall with fondness how he would visit me at the University of Ibadan, long after most fathers considered their sons independent. Even when it embarrassed me, it was a testament to his boundless care. He stood beside me in difficult times, his quiet support unwavering, his only mission my happiness and success.

He was also open-minded in ways that were rare for his time. When I embraced Christianity, his response was not one of judgment, but of understanding and acceptance; a reminder that love, at its purest, has no walls.

I treasure the last time he visited me in Lagos. Over tea in the courtyard, he spoke softly about his youth, his early career journey, meeting our mum.

He was quietly preparing us for a future without him. One day, he even told me where he wanted to be laid to rest when the time came.

And on May 2nd, 2025, in the stillness of the morning, Daddy slipped away quietly, leaving behind a legacy of love, wisdom, and strength.

May God rest his soul and grant him Aljannah Firdaus.

Daddy – Forever in my heart.