But I’m the Last Born

I was always my father's baby.

The last born.
The only girl.
The one who clung to his leg as a child, who sat on his lap, who searched for his approval like a sailor searching for a North Star.

My father was my world.
My gravity.
My centre.

And then, one day, he wasn’t.

In 2015, I left Nigeria for the UK to pursue a master's in international journalism.

I was always going to leave. That had been the plan all along; I was going to write; become a journalist. But my ex had outed me to my dad just before I left, and for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had his blessing.

Would he stop me? Would he take back all the dreams we had planned?

But I think, deep down, my father knew that if I stayed, I would die.

Because I had tried before.
Because he had seen the cracks in me.
Because he had held the weight of my sorrow in his hands.

Maybe, in his own way, he was giving me freedom.
Maybe letting me go was the only way he knew how to save me.

And so, I left.

I left behind everything I knew.
I left behind the man whose love had shaped me, whose approval was the axis my world spun on.

My brother, Frankie, always said that out of the three of us, I was the one who sought our father’s validation the most. That I needed his approval like oxygen. That it was killing me.

And he was right.

My father had the power to make the sun shine in my world—even on my darkest days. He could lift me, crush me. No one else had that kind of power over me.

Maybe that’s why I struggle with relinquishing control. Because I know what it means to surrender, and I swore I would never give anyone else that power.

But eventually, I was alone.

I found myself in a country that did not care whether I survived.

I was broke.
Homeless.
A ghost moving through the UK, untethered, drowning in a silence that threatened to swallow me whole.

I spiralled.
I unraveled.

It took a suicide attempt and a psychiatric hold before I finally sought help.

When the therapist told me to apply for asylum, I did; because it felt like the only way out.

To be a refugee is to denounce your home.
To say, “I can never go back.”
To become a person without a country.
An identity reduced to paperwork.
A life ruled by borders you didn’t choose.

There were moments I wanted to return, but what was the point?

I was still gay.
Nigeria still hated gay people.
And my father—well, he had made his feelings known.

There was nothing left for me to return to.

Until January 3rd, 2024.

Frankie called.

His voice was careful. Too careful. Like he knew whatever he was about to say would ruin me.

But I already knew.

No one calls me that late unless something is wrong.

“Daddy has cancer. Stage 4.”

And just like that, my entire world stopped.

I forgot about the UK.
Forgot about safety.
Forgot about everything that had ever kept me from going home.

I needed to get to him.

From that moment, the only thing that mattered was applying for British citizenship, getting my passport, and getting on a flight to Lagos.

Citizenship applications take time—months, sometimes longer.

But I didn’t have time.

So, I chased them.
I emailed. I called. I begged.
I submitted every document; every piece of proof.

I told them: My father has stage 4 cancer. I am his last born. I have to go home.

When citizenship was approved, I fought again—for my passport.

Your first passport as a citizen takes even longer.

But I didn’t have time to give.

So, I escalated.
I contacted my local MP.
I hunted loopholes.
I called. I wrote. I begged.

Until someone, somewhere, heard me.

Until I had a passport in my hands.

Until there was nothing left to stop me.

But the guilt still eats me alive.

I often think about how I could’ve applied for citizenship in July 2023.
I cannot shake the feeling that I was too late.
That time was a door I could have pried open if I had just moved faster.

That maybe, if I had been one step ahead, my father would still be here.
Still warm.
Still calling my name.

But time is merciless.
And it does not bargain with grief.

Grief turns your mind into a maze of “what ifs.”
It makes you replay the past like a film reel, searching for the exact moment you could’ve changed everything.
It makes you bargain with ghosts.
It makes you hate yourself for not knowing what you were never meant to know.

The truth is, I was scared to return.

I was not the same person who left.

I was older.
Harder.
Sharper.

I had tattoos. A septum ring. Ten ear piercings. A shaved head.

I had survived being broke.
Homelessness.
Sexual assault.
Depression.

I had built a life—piece by piece—from the ruins of everything I had lost.

That kind of survival gives you a power.

But what would my father see?

Would he see a stranger?
Would he mourn the girl I was supposed to be?
Would he still love me?

And then I saw him.

And nothing else mattered.

I ran into his arms, holding him so tightly I thought we’d become one.
For a moment, the world was right again.

The sun was shining.
The birds were singing.
I was home.

The last time I felt that safe was in his arms in 2015.

“My baby, be careful, your Daddy is not that strong again.”

I had forgotten. I had let myself believe he would always be the man I remembered:
Big. Slightly chubby. His potbelly a symbol of comfort.
The man who ran every morning, who walked like he owned the ground beneath him.

And then I looked at him—and the world tilted.

This was not my father.

Not the man who once lifted me onto his shoulders like I was weightless.
Not the man who filled doorways.
Not the man whose laugh could carry the sky.

This man was smaller.
His clothes hung too loose.
His skin stretched too thin over fragile bones.

This man was fighting a war his body was already losing.

And still, I called him Daddy.
Still, I ran into his arms like nothing had changed.
Still, I held him like my love could rebuild him.

John had warned me not to react.
Not to let my face betray the shock.
Not to make it about me.

But I didn’t understand.

And then I saw him.

And I understood.

But I’m the last born.

And yet, I had no choice.

Frankie and John always said, “There are only two people in this world who can make Daddy do something he doesn’t want to do — you and Mama.”

But Mama was dead.

So it was just me.

I became the mother of the house, as the live-in nurses fondly called me.

I was the one who convinced him to eat.
To take his medication.
To do chemotherapy.
To rest.
To fight.

I shuffled between the mainland and the island.
Between hospital and home.
Between daughter and lifeline.

I became his daughter.
His firstborn.
His mother.

But I’m the last born.

It’s strange how I carry pain so well that people forget I need gentleness too.

No one ever really asked how I was.

They said I was strong.
That I was doing beautifully.
That I loved him fiercely.

And I did.
But they didn’t see me living my worst nightmare.

They didn’t see what it meant to become a caregiver to the man who once carried me on his shoulders.
They didn’t understand that love doesn't age. That when I stepped back into his house, I stepped back into the body of a child.

I was 22 again.

Because the last time my father and I were truly together, I was still his baby.
The girl who followed him everywhere.
The girl who needed him to breathe.

So when I returned, I did not come back as a woman who had lived, who had survived, who had endured.

I came back as the last born.

And the last born should not have to carry this.

But I did.
Because I was the only one who could.

I stayed in Nigeria longer than I planned.
Because if I left, who would fight for him?

I fought.

I fought for my father with everything I had.

I neglected myself completely.

Eventually, I had to resign from my job.
Because taking care of him had already become a full-time job.
Because trying to balance it all was slowly killing me.

And I needed to be alive to fight.

Five days after I resigned, he died.

But if I had to do it all again, I would.

Because that time was precious.
It gave us the chance to love each other again.
To forgive.
To remember.

To be just a father and his baby girl.

When I kissed his lips, it was just us.
When I brushed his hair, it was just us.
When I held his hand, it was just us.

Not the system.
Not my sexuality.
Not my piercings.
Not my scars.

Just me and him.

And someone had to choose him.

And I did.

I loved him with everything I had.

And nothing—not death, not grief, not guilt—can take that away.

Not now.
Not ever.

I was once the child who clung to his leg.
Now, I am the woman who held him through his final days.

I am still the last born.

But I carry.
I stand.
I hold.

Even when I am the one who needs to be held.

- JJE