I’m expected to say something nice about my grandfather’s death. That he was a great man or something sycophantic like that. In his life he could not be questioned, as a man and a breadwinner, and in his death, he also cannot be condemned for we should never speak ill of the dead. But like most people, extraordinary or otherwise, he was a deeply flawed man.  My grandfather used to beat his children and as one would expect, in a religious African home, that was his right. To caution his children and ensure they did not stray from the path. He also created an arena the fostered paranoia and obsession with prayer and protection. I guess in his eyes he must have succeeded because none of them strayed-- not really at least. They all remaind on the path of mediocrity and convention; biding their time until they could do the beating.  And with their stunted emotional maturity they all did. I am one product of 2 generations of horrible parenting.   I don’t think his death means much in the grand scheme of things; we all die. But life especially for those in Ijebu must feel like chaos now.   I have nothing good to say, I guess he liked me a lot, but he didn’t know me. He was a stranger to me until the end. You can imagine the amount of anger I must feel, having a stranger dictate my life simply because he was old, and now, even more so because he's dead. Nothing of my dreams, ideas or feelings. In the name of love, my grandfather had murdered me before I was even born.