By Like every other year, forty came without noise. No ceremony. Just a quiet arrival and a clear signal that time has moved, and I have moved with it, burying the illusion of not ageing.
About two months ago, my second son, Tiwalade (Muqeet), looked at me without prompting and said, “Dad, are you getting old? I can see grey hairs in your beard.” What started as a casual remark became a moment of clarity.
“Yes, I am getting old,” I told him. “I will be forty in April.” Then I added what most people avoid saying. Reaching a new age also means I am closer to death. I told them to take as much as they can from me now because I will not be here forever. My time is limited. They must begin to take responsibility early. They must prepare for a future where I am not present to guide or protect them.
Adebola (Mukthadir) interrupted with the innocence of a child. “Dad, I don’t want you to die.”
I told him I am not dying, at least not at the moment, even though I do not have a say in my own death. At the same time, I made it clear that no one controls when death comes. If it comes early, they must be strong for themselves and for their mother, who has held the family together with consistency and sacrifice.
As I spoke, I saw the emotion build in their eyes. The weight of the conversation was too much for them at that moment. I changed the topic. Not because the truth was wrong, but because timing matters when teaching it.
Today, in retrospect, I see that our fear of death is an invisible anxiety about a destination we are certain to reach, consciously or unconsciously. Death is a process, a passage to permanence, with no aftermath for the one who dies. As the Asante proverb says, “Death does not kill a sick person; it kills the one whose time has come.” Across cultures, this understanding remains consistent. In many African traditions, death is inevitable and universal. It comes to all, not only the weak or the sick.
This realisation, and the emptiness of being, have shaped how I approach life. It removes the illusion of permanence and the urgency to impress. It forces me to focus on what holds value now, not what I hope will last forever.
As I turn this corner, I admit, for the first time, that I missed growing up with my father. Not because I lacked father figures, but because I long for the bond I am now trying to build with my sons. In practical terms, I am working from an empty space. I see how they cling to me, trying to learn, waiting for me to prepare them for the world ahead. Yet I am a novice in this role. I never had a father to hand me the manual.
In the last forty years, I have been what botanists and zoologists call saxicoline, living and growing among rocks.
When my father died, life did not stop. His presence might have shaped me differently; it might not have. His absence did not prevent me from becoming who I am. And when I die, life will go on for my children too. It is self-delusion to believe my death will shake the world. My passing will simply close the chapter of my existence.
What will remain are fragments of lived experience, moments, lessons, and memories. Whether my children thrive without a father is another story. Their path may require independence from fatherly influence. There is no manual for avoiding death. There is no manual for living. We are all making our way through effort.
For obvious reasons, I admit that I like the man I have become. A responsibly flawed adult, with minimal expectations, less ambition, and a focus on the immediate. This does not sit well with everyone close to me, but it has brought me peace of mind. “They shall not be disappointed, those who expect nothing.”
My understanding of life did not come from comfort. It came from work and constant movement. Still, I value the peace that comes with my comfort zone, even though I know it can hinder growth by breeding complacency. Comfort is risky. It creates the illusion that you have arrived. That illusion slows you down. As my brother once said, never be complacent. Complacency is the illusion of attainment that traps you in place, what the Yoruba call “Orun tan omo soko.”
Within my forty years, I have been blessed with three sons, and many others who are not biologically mine but look to me for direction. They expect answers. They expect strength. I give what I can. I improve where I fail.
Being a father is a burden you accept daily. It drains you. It shapes you. It forces growth. There is no applause in it, but it must be done.
Over the years, I have learned that nothing good comes from free lunch. The education and governance handed to us prove this. Someone once said, the first time you give, people appreciate it. The second time, they anticipate it. By the third time, it becomes an expectation. If you continue, you create entitlement. When you stop, you create resentment.
So you must control how you give. Generosity without discipline creates dependency. This applies to both people and systems. You must know when to stop. Blind belief is dangerous, in leaders, systems, and ideas. If you do not question what you follow, you lose your ability to think.
One of the jobs I took when I arrived in the UK, to afford transport to school, was working as a “perfume boy,” known as kpeke, named after the sound coins make when they hit the bowl. The job involved standing in club toilets through the night with cheap perfumes, soap, hand towels, lollipops, and a plate for tips. I called out to customers with lines like, “No spray, no lay. No splash, no gash. Smell nice for the ladies,” to draw them in.
After they finished, I offered soap, towels, a lollipop, and a spray of perfume, hoping they would leave coins or notes. The work was tough and often humiliating. The smells were harsh, but it paid enough to survive, especially on busy nights. I would close around 2 a.m. and still resume for a morning shift at 8 a.m. on some days.
The experience was humbling. It exposed the reality of survival work, where dignity takes a hit, but purpose remains clear. Earn, study, and move forward.
The job taught me early that there is no light waiting at the end of any tunnel. You bring the light yourself. You carry your torch into the tunnel and move step by step, lighting the ground in front of you. That is the reality I have come to accept.
In the UK, there is no grand plan or golden path. Progress comes in small, deliberate steps. If you want to build a life here, study how people who have stability do it, then adapt those patterns in a way that reflects your Africanness.
Many people here do not chase distant dreams. They focus on the present. They work, maintain routine, and build stability over time. In doing so, they create lives that feel complete.
The difficulty many of us face comes from expectation and pressure from home. Expectations create pressure. Pressure creates frustration. I have reduced my expectations, and in doing so, reduced unnecessary burden. I have chosen to want less. That decision has given me more peace than ambition ever did.
They say life begins at forty, but you cannot begin life at forty without accounting for the thirty-nine years that shaped you. In these years, I have learned there is no self-made man. Every person is shaped by others. Every act of support adds something.
A man without allies is weak. Friendship is structured. It expands your reach and perspective. At the same time, loyalty must have limits.
We live in a time where appearance often replaces reality. People accept what looks true instead of what is true. I take responsibility for my actions and decisions with no regrets. I understand that if you carry truth into a crowd, you will offend someone. This reality may be unpleasant, but it cannot be ignored.
Will I change at forty? No.
To the younger generation, keep your life simple. Read. Think. Question. Do not build your life on appearance. Take responsibility early. Delay makes things harder.
As I mark forty, I accept simplicity. I accept that life is not controlled. I accept that effort is the only constant. My wish is simple. Give more. Travel more. As I mark 40, I have made a promise to myself. I will visit as many places as possible where people gather to worship God, across countries and religious traditions. I want to observe closely and understand the differences in how we all relate to the same God yet claim to be different.
To all those who will take the time to celebrate me, I say thank you. May your #AtijeAtimu not be in jeopardy. Be Safe
