WHEN YOUR FATHERS GETS BACK!!!

Growing up, there was one sentence that could instantly ruin my day.

“When your father gets back...”

Nothing else needed to be said.

No explanation.
No shouting.
No threats.

Just those four words.

My heart would immediately start racing. My brain would begin calculating every possible punishment. I would suddenly become the most obedient child in Nigeria, hoping somehow that good behavior could erase whatever crime I had committed.

Because what do you mean when the king comes back?

Please.

Kill me.
Butcher me.
Feed my soul to the birds if you must.

But please... don’t leave my fate in the hands of my father.

Now here’s the funny part.

If you’ve been reading my stories for a while, you already know one thing about me.

I am such a daddy’s girl.

I love my dad.

Like... I love-love-love my daddy.

But I was also scared shitless of him.

The two feelings somehow existed together.

And somehow, they both made perfect sense.

My mum was the complete opposite.

She wasn’t the “I’ll beat you blue-black” type.

She had one weapon.

Her voice.

That woman could scream.

She could lecture.

She could shout from morning till evening.

But raising her hand to hit us?

Almost never.

Sometimes I genuinely wished she’d just beat me so the matter would end there.

Instead, she’d talk until your ancestors started apologizing on your behalf.

My father, though...

My father believed in order.

There were rules in our house that weren’t written anywhere.

Everybody just knew them.

Rule number one:

You do not walk past an elder without greeting them.

Not if you valued your life.

My father loved greetings.

He loved respect.

He especially loved children who greeted properly.

If any adult ever reported,

“Your daughter just passed me without greeting...”

You might as well prepare your hands in advance.

Because the case had already been concluded before you even got home.

Rule number two:

Never leave the house without permission.

Back then, I genuinely believed my parents were the strictest people alive.

Now that I’m older?

I’ve met parents who make mine look relaxed.

My mum honestly wasn’t bothered most of the time.

As for my dad, if he knew where you were going, who you were with, liked the friend or the family, and you came back exactly when you promised...

You were free to go.

Simple.

No unnecessary drama.

Just don’t abuse the freedom.

There was another funny thing about my dad.

If you enjoyed listening to his stories...

Oh, you had automatically become his favorite.

This man loved talking.

History.

Politics.

Village stories.

Life lessons.

Random experiences from thirty years ago.

Anything.

And if you sat there, genuinely listening without looking bored?

You had entered premium membership.

You’d receive favors.

Extra money.

Random gifts.

Special treatment.

Sometimes I genuinely wondered if my siblings realized they could’ve bribed him with attention.

Now let’s talk about discipline.

Contrary to what people might expect, my father’s biggest weapon wasn’t actually the cane.

It was disappointment.

That man could give a speech.

Not the motivational kind.

The guilt-tripping kind.

The kind that starts with,

“I didn’t expect this from you.”

And before he’s halfway through, you’re already crying.

Not because you’ve been beaten.

Because you’ve disappointed him.

Honestly, I think those speeches hurt more than anything else.

The beating only came after repeated warnings.

And even then, there was a system.

You knelt.

Opened your palms.

Received ten strokes.

If you withdrew your hand halfway...

Congratulations.

The counting restarted.

Character development.

Premium edition.

Then, after the tears.

After the punishment.

Came another speech.

Somehow this second speech made you cry even harder.

Then something strange happened.

The matter ended.

Completely.

No silent treatment.

No bringing it up every two weeks.

No “remember what you did.”

Instead...

He’d buy suya.

Bring your favorite yogurt.

Ask if you were hungry.

Then hug you.

Like nothing had happened.

Looking back now, that part always confused me.

How do you go from making someone cry to cuddling them ten minutes later?

Parents are fascinating people.

By the time I turned fifteen, the beatings stopped.

Not because I suddenly became perfect.

I just became older.

The cane disappeared.

But the fear?

It stayed.

I hated staying out late with friends.

Not because my father would necessarily beat me.

I just couldn’t imagine disappointing him.

By then, he had become quieter.

He barely raised his voice anymore.

Sometimes he didn’t even need to say anything.

One look.

One sigh.

One expression.

And I immediately understood.

Body language became an entire language on its own.

People hear stories like this and usually conclude,

“You were conditioned to live in fear.”

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I’ve thought about it a lot since he passed away.

And I don’t think fear tells the whole story.

I don’t remember a man who forced me to become someone I wasn’t.

I remember someone whose opinion mattered so much to me that I naturally wanted to make him proud.

There’s a difference.

Was I scared?

Absolutely.

Terrified, even.

But underneath that fear was admiration.

Respect.

Love.

The kind of love that makes disappointment feel heavier than punishment.

Do I think every parenting style should look like this?

No.

Some children grow up carrying fear into adulthood.

Some never recover from parents who confused discipline with violence.

Some parents never gave the hugs after the punishment.

Some only knew the punishment.

I know that now.

Growing older has taught me that not every child experienced what I experienced.

And that matters.

If I ever become a parent, I honestly don’t know if I’ll raise my children exactly the way my father raised me.

There are things I’d keep.

Teaching respect.

Teaching accountability.

Keeping your word.

Owning your mistakes.

Those things shaped me.

But there are also things I’d probably do differently.

I’d want my children to feel safe enough to tell me the truth before they’re caught.

I’d want fear to never be the first emotion they associate with me.

I’d want conversations before conclusions.

More listening.

Less assuming.

Yet somehow...

When I think about my childhood, I don’t immediately remember the cane.

I remember the suya afterward.

I remember the yogurt.

I remember the hugs.

I remember sitting beside him while he told endless stories.

I remember wanting him to be proud of me.

And maybe that’s why, even years after losing him, I still catch myself making decisions and wondering,

“Would Daddy approve?”

Grief is funny like that.

The people we lose don’t always leave with them.

Sometimes they stay.

In our habits.

In our values.

In the little voice in our heads reminding us to greet elders properly before walking away.

And every now and then...

When life gets noisy...

I still hear that childhood sentence echo somewhere in my mind.

“When your father gets back...”

Only this time, he never will.

And somehow...

I’d give anything to hear those words just one more time.

I'm curious: What was discipline like in your home growing up? Were you more afraid of your mum or your dad? And looking back now, do you think their parenting style helped you or hurt you? I genuinely want to hear your stories.