Daddy's girl

--- *DADDY'S GIRL* A Novel by *Precious* *Part 1: The Only Princess* Lagos didn’t raise soft girls. But my daddy did. My name is Adaugo. “Daughter of the king.” Daddy said that’s what I was. His only child. His only princess. I was 8 when I realized other girls didn’t have daddies who packed their lunch, braided their hair, and checked their homework. Other girls’ daddies worked on oil rigs and came home twice a year. Mine sold spare parts in Ladipo and came home every night with Gala and a story. “Precious,” he’d say — that was his nickname for me, even though my real name was Adaugo. “You don’t need anybody. You have me.” Mama died when I was 3. Car accident on Third Mainland Bridge. Daddy never remarried. “Who has time to love another woman when I have you to raise?” He’d ruffle my hair and I’d believe him. By 17, I was his everything. I ran his shop accounts on Excel. I knew every customer by name. “Baba Ada, how far? How’s your fine daughter?” “She’s going to be a doctor,” he’d say, chest puffed. “My daddy’s girl.” I got admission to study Medicine at UNILAG. Full scholarship. The day the letter came, Daddy cried. A grown man, 46 years old, crying into my wrapper. “This is why I suffered,” he said. “So you can wear white coat and save lives.” First year was hard. Hostel, new friends, new boys. But every Sunday 6pm, my phone would ring. “Precious? You’ve eaten? Send me your account number. Don’t be collecting food from boys o.” “Yes, Daddy.” Second year, he started getting sick. Cough that wouldn’t go. “It’s just dust from the shop,” he said. “Don’t worry me.” Third year, he collapsed in the shop. The hospital said “lung cancer. Stage 4.” The doctor pulled me aside. “Your father has been sick for a long time. He didn’t want to tell you so you could focus on school.” I dropped out. I went back to Ladipo. I took over the shop. I learned how to bargain with mechanics who thought a girl couldn’t know the difference between brake pad and brake shoe. Daddy was home now, on oxygen. Thin. But he still smiled when he saw me. “My daddy’s girl,” he’d whisper. “You’re stronger than me.” “No,” I’d say, feeding him pap. “I’m strong because of you.” He died on a Tuesday. Rainy day. Just like the day Mama died. At the funeral, people said a lot of things. “He was a good man.” “He loved his daughter.” “Who will take care of her now?” I stood by his grave in a black dress and white head tie and made a promise. “I will make you proud, Daddy. I will become the doctor you wanted me to be.” But life doesn’t care about promises. 6 months later, the shop was robbed. Everything gone. The savings for my school fees. Gone. I was 21, broke, grieving, and angry at God. That’s when Uncle Emeka came. Daddy’s younger brother. The one who never visited when Daddy was alive. “Precious, my dear. I heard what happened. Come and stay with me in Abuja. I’ll help you get back to school.” I had nothing left in Lagos. So I followed him. Abuja was big. Clean. Cold. Uncle Emeka had a big house in Maitama and a wife who didn’t look at me. The first month was okay. The second month, he started asking me to pour him drinks. The third month, he walked into my room at 2am. “Uncle, what are you doing?” “You’re a big girl now, Precious. Your father is gone. Who will protect you?” I ran. With one bag, 2,000 naira, and Daddy’s old wristwatch on my hand. I slept in a bus park for 3 nights. I sold recharge cards. I almost gave up. Until I met Dr. Halima. She ran a clinic in Garki and saw me faint from hunger outside. She took me in. Gave me food. Gave me a job cleaning. And when she found out I had 2 years of Medicine, she said, “You’re not done yet, girl.” Dr. Halima paid for me to rewrite JAMB. She let me study at night after work. She called me “daddy’s girl” too, because she said she could see him in how hard I worked. 4 years later, I wore that white coat. My name: Dr. Adaugo Okonkwo. On the day of my induction, I went to the cemetery first. I put Daddy’s watch on the grave. “I did it, Daddy. I’m a doctor. Just like you said.” The rain started, soft this time. Not attacking. Like it was clapping. I’m still his daddy’s girl. Even without him here. Because some love doesn’t die. It just teaches you how to live. Got it — let’s go with *Option 3: Confronting Uncle Emeka — justice and closure* 💛 Here’s *Part 2* of *DADDY'S GIRL* A Novel by *Precious* --- *Part 2: The Reckoning* The white coat felt heavy the first time I wore it. Not from the fabric. From the weight of everyone who didn’t live to see it. Dr. Adaugo Okonkwo. Resident Doctor, General Hospital, Garki. Dr. Halima clapped for me on my first day. “Your daddy would be proud, Ada.” I touched the wristwatch in my pocket. Daddy’s. The glass was cracked but it still ticked. Life settled. 24-hour calls. Patients who called me “aunty doctor.” Pay that was small but mine. For 2 years I didn’t think about Uncle Emeka. I buried it with Daddy. Then the letter came. “Re: Estate of Chief Emeka Okonkwo.” Not my uncle. Another Emeka. But inside was a photo. A family gathering in Abuja. And there, in the back, was him. My uncle. Older. Fatter. Still wearing that gold ring. My hands started shaking. That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing 2am. Footsteps. The door opening. “You’re a big girl now, Precious. Who will protect you?” I wasn’t a girl anymore. The next morning I requested 3 days leave. Dr. Halima looked at me. “You okay?” “No,” I said. “But I will be.” I took the night bus to Abuja. Uncle Emeka’s house in Maitama was bigger now. Gate, security, 2 SUVs. His wife Aunty Ngozi opened the door. She didn’t recognize me at first. Then her face changed. “You,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?” “I need to see him.” He was in the sitting room, watching football. When he saw me in my coat, with my ID card, he didn’t stand. “So. The daddy’s girl is now a doctor.” He laughed. “Come to beg for money?” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. Daddy taught me that a king’s daughter doesn’t beg. “I came for two things,” I said. “An apology. And to tell you I reported you.” His face changed. “Reported me? To who?” “To the police. To the hospital board where your company supplies drugs. To everyone who will listen.” Aunty Ngozi gasped. “You ungrateful girl! He took you in!” “Took me in to do what?” My voice was steady. “To touch me? To make me feel like I was nothing without a man?” Uncle Emeka stood up. “You have no proof.” “I have my statement. I have Dr. Halima who took me in when I ran. And I have this.” I pulled out Daddy’s watch. “Daddy told me before he died. ‘If anyone ever hurts you, Adaugo, you tell the world. Kings don’t hide.’” It was a lie. Daddy never said that. But I needed him to hear it. The police came 20 minutes later. Someone had called them. Maybe Aunty Ngozi. Maybe a neighbor. They didn’t arrest him that day. “We need to investigate,” the IPO said. “Come and give a proper statement.” I did. At Area 10 Police Station. 4 hours. They asked me questions I didn’t want to answer. I answered them anyway. For 17-year-old me. For every girl who didn’t have a daddy to call. The case went to court. It was slow. It was ugly. His lawyers called me a liar. Said I wanted money. Said I was unstable because my father died. Dr. Halima testified. Two other girls came forward. Girls who had “stayed” with Uncle Emeka too. He was found guilty of s****l assault and a***e of trust. 7 years. On the day of the judgment, I didn’t go to court. I went to the cemetery. I sat by Daddy’s grave with two plates of rice. One for me, one for him. “It’s done, Daddy,” I said. “I wasn’t scared. I spoke.” The wind moved the trees. It sounded like him saying “That’s my girl.” Coming back to Lagos that night, I felt light. For the first time since I was 17. Justice didn’t bring Daddy back. It didn’t erase that night. But it meant his daddy’s girl didn’t stay quiet. 6 months later, I opened a foundation. *Daddy’s Girl Foundation.* For young girls who lost parents and have nobody. We pay school fees. We give therapy. We teach them how to fight. Dr. Halima is the patron. On the wall in our small office in Yaba, there’s a photo of me and Daddy in the shop. Me, 10 years old, wearing his oversized cap. Under it, I wrote: _He raised me to be soft. The world taught me to be strong. I chose to be both._ Some nights I still miss him like crazy. I still want to call him after a hard shift. I still want him to braid my hair. But I’m okay. Because a daddy’s girl doesn’t die when her daddy does. She just learns how to be her own king. -- --- *Part 3: The Letter* 5 years after the court case, life looked different. I was Dr. Adaugo Okonkwo now. Consultant. My foundation had 3 centers — Yaba, Garki, and Enugu. We had 200 girls. We had a van with _Daddy's Girl Foundation_ written in gold. I still lived in a small flat in Surulere. Still drove a Tokunbo Corolla. Still went to the cemetery every year on Daddy’s birthday with rice and Gala. I thought I was done grieving. Grief doesn’t leave you. It just learns to sit quietly in the corner. That Saturday I went to clear out Daddy’s old shop in Ladipo. The landlord finally said he was selling the place. I hadn’t been there since the robbery. Dust. Cobwebs. Broken shelves. The smell of engine oil and memory. I was pulling down a loose board behind the counter when something fell out. A small envelope. Yellowed. My name on it in Daddy’s handwriting. _To my Precious. Open when you are strong._ My hands shook so bad I almost tore it. The date at the top: _March 12, 2018_. 3 months before he died. I sat on the dirty floor and opened it. --- _My Adaugo,_ _If you’re reading this, it means I’m not there to say it to your face. And that means I’m sorry, pikin._ _I’ve been coughing for a long time. The doctors said things I don’t understand. But I understand this: I won’t see you become a doctor._ _That’s my biggest pain. Because I promised you. “My daddy’s girl will wear white coat.”_ _But Precious, listen to me. You don’t need me to become her. You already are her._ _Remember when you were 9 and you used to bandage my finger with tissue when I cut it at the shop? You said “Daddy don’t cry, I’ll make it better.” That’s a doctor._ _Remember when Mama died and you brought me water every night and said “Daddy eat, so you’ll be strong for me”? That’s a doctor._ _You’ve been healing people your whole life. The coat is just cloth._ _I’m scared for you. The world is hard for girls without fathers. Men will try to use you. People will try to break you. But you have my blood. Kings don’t break. They bend, then stand taller._ _If anyone ever hurts you, you tell the world. Don’t hide for anybody. Not even for family. Do you hear me?_ _Last thing: Don’t spend your whole life being sad for me. Marry. Laugh. Have children and let them call me Grandpa from heaven. Be happy. That’s the only way you can pay me back._ _I love you, my only princess. I’m so proud of you I could burst._ _Always your Daddy,_ _Baba Ada_ --- I cried. Not the small crying I did at the funeral. Not the angry crying after Uncle Emeka. This was the ugly, 10-year-old crying. The kind where your chest hurts and you call for your daddy even though you know he can’t answer. “Did you hear me, Daddy?” I whispered to the empty shop. “I did it. I told the world. I’m wearing the coat.” I folded the letter and put it inside my coat pocket. Right over my heart. Next to his watch. That night I didn’t sleep. I wrote. I wrote about the girls at the foundation. About the 14-year-old who lost both parents and wanted to be an engineer. About the one who was touched by her uncle and thought it was her fault. I told them about Daddy’s letter. The next morning I framed a copy and put it on the wall of the foundation. Under it I wrote: _“Kings don’t break. They bend, then stand taller.” - Baba Ada_ Girls come in and read it and cry. Then they stand up straighter. 2 years later, I got married. Not to a rich man. Not to a doctor. To Tunde. A teacher. He met me at the foundation when he came to volunteer. He never asked me to be small. He calls me “Dr. Ada” and “Precious” in the same sentence. On our wedding day, I put Daddy’s watch on my wrist and his letter in my bouquet. At the reception, Tunde gave a speech. “I married a daddy’s girl. And thank God her daddy raised a queen.” I looked up. The rain was falling soft on the canopy. Like drums. Like clapping. After the wedding, we went to the cemetery. Just me, Tunde, and a bottle of Chapman. “Hi Daddy,” I said. “I brought someone for you to meet. He’s kind. He listens. He lets me be both soft and strong.” Tunde squeezed my hand. I’m 33 now. I have 2 kids. A boy and a girl. We named the girl Adaugo. After me. After him. Every night before bed she asks, “Mummy, tell me about Grandpa.” And I tell her: “Grandpa sold spare parts. But he sold me the biggest thing — belief. He believed I could be anything.” Last week she brought me a drawing. Me in a white coat. Her in a tiny one. And a man with a cap in the middle. “This is Grandpa,” she said. “He’s watching us.” Maybe he is. I still go to Ladipo sometimes. The shop is a phone accessories store now. But when it rains, I swear I can still smell engine oil and hear him: “Precious? You’ve eaten?” I answer him in my head: “Yes, Daddy. I have. And I’m feeding other people too.” Because that’s what a daddy’s girl does. She takes the love she was given and gives it away.