I was 11,163 kilometres from my dad when he died. It's taken a year for my heart to accept that

This First Person column is written by Ife Adekoya, who lives in Edmonton. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

As I spoke into my phone In the chill of March 16, 2023, the 11,163 kilometres between my father and me felt further than ever before.

I was on my usual commute to work when I pulled into a cul-de-sac, got out my phone and — as I've done thousands of times since immigrating to Edmonton — called my parents' home in Nigeria. 

My dad had been having health issues and I was intending to visit in June after completing the probationary period at my new job. I was worried and I wanted an update on how things were going. 

My worst fears were confirmed as my sister tearfully described my father's state. I began to cry and asked her to set up a WhatsApp video call that changed my life forever. 

On the small screen of my smartphone, I saw my dad — the splendid centre of my family — lying on his back, head slightly raised on a pillow, breathing with his chest muscles. He couldn't speak and my sister told me he wasn't in pain, but his eyes were wide open as he stared at me. I sensed the overwhelming love in his gaze and I knew he had so many things to say to me. 

All I could say was E pele, meaning sorry in my native language of Yoruba. I fought back tears because I didn't want it to be a pitiful conversation. I saw his vulnerability as, his lips quivering with the effort, he struggled to form the words that he could not speak. 

I lasted 45 seconds before my tears came. It was within these precious 45 seconds that he bid his farewell to me.

I wept inconsolably as I drove to work, sensing that could be our final face-to-face conversation.

Indeed, it was.

First, I left for school. Then I left for good

I grew up in Nigeria with five other siblings. As the youngest in the family, I was the one who spent the most time with my parents. 

When I was about 19, my dad was diagnosed with kidney disease, which he was able to properly manage for many years. 

In 2015, about nine years after his diagnosis, I left Nigeria for South Africa to continue my studies. It was my first time being so far away from home, but I still visited Nigeria from time to time and I called regularly. 

Then the distance became even bigger after my husband and I relocated to Canada in pursuit of better opportunities. We arrived in Edmonton on the night of Dec. 13, 2017, welcomed by a temperature of -23 C.

Leaving for Canada, I had no way of knowing that there would only be three more opportunities to be with my father in person.

I brought my four-month-old son to Nigeria in 2018 to see my parents, and the following year, my parents came to Edmonton for a visit. We had a great time visiting museums and zoos and going to concerts. 

Due to COVID-19, their next trip didn't happen until 2021, which coincided with the birth of my twins. My dad nurtured my kids and we listened to traditional Nigerian folk music while driving to the stores or playground. 

I cried and hugged him tightly before they returned to Nigeria. 

Not long after, his health began to decline. 

Regret that I wasn't there

That March day in 2023 was a cascade of mixed emotions, sensing that the end was near for him but still hoping for a miracle. 

My mum took the initiative and contacted the Anglican diocese to organize a consecration service in the home. At 3 a.m. the next day, I watched via WhatsApp as he took holy communion, marking his last meal. 

Less than 24 hours after that, I saw my mum's message. "Your father is gone."

Chief Bamidele Olotu died peacefully in his sleep at around 6 a.m. GMT on March 18, 2023, on the other side of the world from me.

My anguish was indescribable. Deep sadness, anger toward fate, questions of whether something else could have been done, profound loneliness and — most grievous — regret that I wasn't there.

I returned to Nigeria in late May for a four-day funeral procession held in his honour. I got home to a house that was filled with people but felt empty. 

According to tradition, my father's body was brought to the home where my siblings and I were raised. There was a gathering of family, friends and well-wishers before he was taken in a convoy to Iro-Ekiti, the town where he was born. When his body was finally committed to Earth, I joined my family in pouring the sand into the grave. 

Despite the grief, I felt joy and pride as his life and accomplishments were celebrated. 

Coming to terms with my grief

Since my dad's passing, my thoughts have explored the unanticipated complexities of grief as an immigrant. I was angry and depressed. I questioned human existence. I was carried through by the support of family, friends and the church while books provided many answers. 

Through it, my perspective and approach to life has changed. 

I have learned to hold and release, to understand times and seasons, to enjoy and take life more simply, to never hold grudges and to place less emphasis on earthly possessions. I have learned to cherish every moment I have with my loved ones because memories are the most precious things that will remain. 

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My dad was an incredible person. Sometimes that makes me feel inadequate, but I try to live up to his example by supporting his causes and staying connected with people who he loved dearly.

Saying goodbye to my dad at the end of our visits was always hard, daunting and filled with uncertainties. But I still had the hope of seeing him again. 

Our final goodbye on March 16, 2023, was not the one I wanted but it's the one I have come to embrace as the bond between my father and I remains unchanged.  

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For more stories about the experiences of Black Canadians — from anti-Black racism to success stories within the Black community — check out Being Black in Canada, a CBC project Black Canadians can be proud of. You can read more stories here.