CHILDHOOD GRIEF: WHEN YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU ARE GRIEVING

Part One: The Day My World Changed

I have been thinking a lot about childhood grief.

Perhaps because, as I have grown older, I have come to realise that some of the things I experienced as a child were actually grief.

I just didn’t have the words to call it grief at the time.

I grew up in what I would describe as a pure nuclear family—my father, my mother and six children.

But our family dynamic was, in its own way, a little different from what I saw around me.

My dad was the head of the home. When it came to decision-making, Dad obviously had the upper hand.

However, my dad trusted my mum so much that he would often send you back to her.

You would hear something like:

“Go and ask your mother. Your mother has the final say.”

And honestly, when you were a child, you prayed that Daddy wouldn’t send you to Mummy because sometimes, that final decision could very easily become a “no.”

But when Daddy said, “Let me discuss it with your mother,” then there was hope!

Looking back now, I realise just how much my dad trusted my mum with responsibility.

He was such a leader, and I knew that very early in my childhood.

Daddy

My dad was in the Nigerian Army and rose to the rank of Major.

Because of his work, he travelled quite a lot, both within and outside Nigeria.

And oh, how I loved it when Daddy travelled abroad!

The best part for me was when he came back.

Because Daddy never came back empty-handed.

He would return with all these suitcases, and the real excitement for me was when he would open those suitcases and start unboxing.

It was almost like Christmas.

He would bring something for each of us, and we would all be excited to see what Daddy had brought home.

There was also a tradition in our home that I particularly looked forward to.

Whenever one of us was moving into a new class or a new stage in school—especially when you were moving from primary school into JSS—Daddy would take you to have a passport photograph taken.

And then he would write you a note.

I had seen him do this for my older siblings, and I was genuinely looking forward to my own turn.

That September, I was going to enter JSS1.

I couldn’t wait to have that portrait taken and then receive that special note from my dad.

But unfortunately, I never got to have that experience.

September 1992

September 1992 came, and instead of starting JSS1 with the excitement I had anticipated, I was about to experience something that would change my life.

At the time, we were living in Owerri.

We had moved from Abeokuta, Ogun State, sometime around 1991, and by 1992, Owerri had become our home.

Daddy had travelled for a military promotional course.

I remember we had spoken to him over the phone about a week before.

Those were the days when Speed Post was a thing, and we had those analogue telephone lines.

Daddy had spoken to us and given us a rundown of his plans and itinerary for the coming days.

In my mind, Daddy was travelling and he was going to come back.

Of course he was coming back.

Why wouldn’t he?

My mum had travelled to Awka because she was rounding up her civil service job there.

So, on that particular day, it was myself and my younger brother who I remember vividly being at home and playing outside.

Then our neighbour, who would typically look after us whenever Mummy travelled, came to the house.

Something about her was different.

She looked worried.

She asked us what we were doing outside and told us to go inside and play.

She watched us go into the house and then gave the house help very strict instructions.

If anybody knocked on the door, we were not to open it.

Only she or Mummy should be allowed in.

I remember thinking it was strange.

But I wasn’t worried.

I was curious.

Soon, there were strange movements around our house.

There was a lot of military presence.

We usually had guards around in the evening, but that day, they were there much earlier.

People were coming around the house.

Some people came to the door and knocked.

We didn’t open.

I recognised some of the faces.

There were people standing around, and there seemed to be conversations happening outside.

But as a child, I wasn’t able to put all of those things together.

I was just observing.

When Mummy Came Home

Then Mummy came home.

And when I tell you Mummy was distressed, she was extremely distressed.

There were people with her, people I understood to be her friends, trying to calm her down.

And suddenly, I started hearing all kinds of conversations.

Plane.

Crash.

Calling Daddy.

Daddy wasn’t picking up.

I heard Mummy talking about a Speed Post letter she had sent that morning, and how the letter had returned that same evening.

I remember hearing her say something about Daddy not being a big fan of the C-130 aircraft because he preferred to fly commercial airlines, particularly Nigerian Airways.

The conversations were all over the place.

And I was confused.

In between all of this, Mummy would cry and become very distressed, and people would try to calm her down.

The day became evening.

Evening became night.

And then it was 9 p.m.

For those of us who grew up in Nigeria, 9 p.m. meant NTA News.

Nigeria Television Authority.

That night, the news began with breaking news.

There had been a C-130 military aircraft crash earlier that day.

Then they began reading the names of the people who had died.

And then I heard it.

My father’s name.

Major Alexander Obiora Okeke.

The moment his name was mentioned, there was a loud cry.

Everyone started crying.

I saw my mother cry like I had never seen her cry before.

My younger brother and I were under the dining table.

I don’t even think anybody noticed us.

I remember holding him tightly.

And I remember looking at Mummy.

She was wearing a blouse and wrapper. I remember the colour of the fabric vividly—it was red.

It was one of those beautiful fabrics my dad had bought for her.

And I remember her grabbing the blouse and tearing it.

Her friends had to grab her and forcefully take her into the room.

I knew something terrible had happened.

But here’s the thing.

I didn’t understand what death meant.

I knew they had said Daddy had died.

But I didn’t understand that death meant he would never come back.

Daddy Was My Hero

I think that was because, as a child, I saw my dad almost like a god—not God, of course, but a hero.

He was my hero.

He was larger than life.

He was a military officer.

He travelled and returned.

He was the person who came home with suitcases.

He was the person who took us out.

He was the person who wrote those special notes.

He was Daddy.

How could Daddy simply not come back?

I don’t think I had the emotional capacity to understand that.

And perhaps that is where my childhood grief really began.

Not with a full understanding of death, but with the confusion of absence.

Daddy was suddenly absent.

And somewhere in my young mind, I think I still expected him to return.

Starting JSS1 Without Daddy

There was another layer to this.

I was supposed to be starting JSS1 that same September.

This was supposed to be a very exciting time for me.

I was looking forward to the portrait.

I was looking forward to Daddy’s note.

I was looking forward to having that special moment with him.

Instead, I went to school carrying a grief I didn’t understand.

I remember my very first day in JSS1.

I walked into the classroom.

Other children were playing and getting acquainted with one another.

But I was quiet.

I was confused.

And I remember crying.

In fact, for the first four days, I cried every single day.

One of the senior students, a prefect, eventually noticed me.

She wanted to know:

“Why does this girl cry all the time?”

She came to me and tried to understand what was wrong.

And she eventually became my school mother.

Even though I stayed in that particular school for only three terms, she became someone who looked out for me because she knew I had lost my dad.

Looking back now, I realise how significant that was.

I wasn’t just a new JSS1 student trying to adjust to a new school.

I was a child who had just lost her father.

I was entering a new stage of my life at exactly the same time that the person I had expected to share that milestone with me was no longer there.

I never got that portrait.

I never got that note.

I never got to hear what Daddy would have written to me as I entered JSS1.

And that is one of the things about grief that I understand much better today.

When we lose someone, we don’t only lose the person.

Sometimes, we also lose the moments we had imagined having with them.

The birthdays.

The graduations.

The school milestones.

The conversations.

The ordinary moments.

The things we simply assumed would happen because that person was going to be there.

For me, JSS1 was supposed to be one of those moments.

Instead, I walked into my new classroom carrying a grief I didn’t understand.

And Then I Changed

What I didn’t know then was that grief would begin to change me.

Before Daddy died, I was such an outgoing child.

I was very talkative.

Very inquisitive.

Very courageous.

I was the child who asked questions.

I loved going out.

My dad particularly loved taking me out because he knew this daughter of his was quite loquacious!

I could talk.

I could ask questions.

I was curious.

I was well composed.

I was exposed.

But after Daddy died, something changed.

I withdrew.

I started preferring to stay indoors.

Whenever Mummy wanted to take us somewhere, I would find a reason not to go.

“My leg is paining me.”

“I’m not feeling well.”

I would come up with something that would discourage Mummy from insisting that I go.

Weeks became months.

Months became years.

Years became a decade.

And I became the child who would rather stay indoors.

At the time, I didn’t know why.

I didn’t know that I was grieving.

I didn’t know that the little girl who suddenly didn’t want to go out was dealing with something much deeper.

I just knew I had changed.

And it would take becoming an adult—and much later having a very important conversation with my mother—for me to understand what had actually happened to me.

That conversation would happen almost three decades later.

And it would make me look at my childhood completely differently.

To be continued…

CHILDHOOD GRIEF: WHEN YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU ARE GRIEVING

Part Two: When I Finally Understood My Grief

Many years later, I would come to understand that what I experienced after losing my father was grief.

But as a child, I didn’t know that.

I didn’t even fully understand death.

For a very long time, somewhere in my mind, Daddy was simply absent.

He wasn’t coming home, but I don’t think I understood the permanence of that absence.

It wasn’t until I became much older that I began to understand what death really meant.

And when that understanding came, I think, in some ways, I grieved my father all over again.

Because suddenly, it dawned on me:

Daddy was never coming back.

That was a very different kind of grief.

The Conversation With My Mother

About six years ago, during the COVID lockdown, I spent a lot of time with my mum.

I had moved into her house during that period because, honestly, nobody really understood what was happening in the world.

We were all just trying to navigate this strange new reality.

And because I was spending so much time with Mummy, we had many conversations.

One day, something led to another, and I began telling her about my experience after Daddy died.

I told her how life had changed for me.

I told her how I had withdrawn.

I told her about the things I remembered from my childhood.

I told her how I didn’t understand death at the time.

And I told her that, for years—even into adulthood—I still didn’t fully understand the permanence of death.

I remember Mummy just looking at me and smiling.

Then she began telling me about her own experience.

Mummy Was Grieving Too

Mummy was in her thirties when she lost my dad.

She told me how difficult that period had been for her.

But she also told me that it was during that season that she made a very important decision.

She decided that she was going to dedicate the rest of her life to God.

She knew she was going to raise six children.

She knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

And she knew she could not do it by herself.

So she asked God for help.

She asked God for direction.

She asked God to help her raise her children.

She asked God to keep us.

And she trusted Him.

She also knew she was never going to get married again.

She knew that her life was now going to be about God and her children.

And when I look back today, I can honestly say that my mother was an Amazon.

She was just an Amazon.

She knew there was absolutely no way she could replace my father in our lives.

And she didn’t try to.

But she was extremely present.

Very present.

She filled the gap as beautifully as she could.

She continued from where Daddy stopped.

She took us out.

She exposed us to things.

She made sure we had experiences.

She continued to raise us.

She continued to pray.

She continued to show up.

And today, I understand something I couldn’t have understood as a child.

My mother was grieving too.

While I was trying to understand where my father had gone, my mother was trying to understand how she was going to raise six children without her husband.

And somehow, she did it.

She did it with God’s help.

Looking Back at the Child I Was

That conversation with my mother helped me understand myself better.

I realised that I had been grieving without knowing that I was grieving.

People who know me well today may find it difficult to imagine that I was once that child who would rather stay indoors.

My career has, in many ways, helped me become an extrovert in extroverted situations.

As a Talent Acquisition professional, I have to communicate constantly.

I have conversations.

I engage people.

I build relationships.

I interview.

I coach.

I train.

I am also a John Maxwell-certified coach and trainer, so I get to do some level of public speaking.

But I still recognise that part of me.

That little girl who learned to withdraw.

The little girl who preferred to stay indoors.

The little girl who didn’t understand why she didn’t want to go out anymore.

Today, I can look at her and say:

“You were grieving. You just didn’t know it.”

And I think this is one of the things we need to understand about childhood grief.

Children Grieve Too

Children grieve differently.

Sometimes, they don’t cry.

Sometimes, they don’t know how to explain what they are feeling.

Sometimes, they simply change.

They become quiet.

They withdraw.

They don’t want to go out.

They lose interest in things they used to enjoy.

They become fearful.

They become unusually dependent.

Or sometimes, they simply behave in ways that adults don’t understand.

And because they are children, we may assume they have moved on.

But sometimes, they haven’t.

They just don’t have the language to tell us that they haven’t.

I know this because I was that child.

I didn’t know how to say:

“I am grieving.”

I didn’t even know I was grieving.

I simply changed.

Grieving Then and Grieving Now

Interestingly, having lost my mother, I now understand grief in a completely different way.

When I lost my father as a child, I grieved without awareness.

Today, I am grieving my mother with awareness.

I know what grief is.

I understand what it means to lose someone.

I understand that there will be days when the pain feels heavier.

I understand that grief doesn’t necessarily follow a straight line.

And most importantly, I understand who I am in Christ.

So yes, I am grieving.

But does my grief define my faith?

No.

Will I allow my grief to take the upper hand over my faith in God?

No.

I can grieve and still believe.

I can cry and still trust God.

I can miss my mother deeply and still know that God is with me.

That, for me, is the difference.

As a teenager, I was grieving without knowing that I was grieving.

As an adult, I am grieving with an awareness of what is happening inside me.

And I know where to turn.

I turn to God.

What I Wish We Understood About Grieving Children

This is why I want to encourage parents, the Church, communities and anyone caring for a grieving child.

Please don’t just tell the child to be strong.

Hold their hands.

Listen to them.

Watch them.

Pay attention to changes in their behaviour.

Give them room to talk.

Allow them to ask questions.

Don’t assume that because they aren’t crying, they aren’t grieving.

And please don’t assume that because they have gone back to school, they have moved on.

They may be functioning.

But they may still be grieving.

Sometimes, they need someone to sit with them.

Sometimes, they need someone to listen without trying to fix everything.

Sometimes, they simply need to know that someone understands.

If I could speak to the adults around the little girl I was, I would tell them:

She may not have the words yet, but she needs you to notice that something has changed.

And as Christians, I believe we also have a responsibility to introduce children early enough to the knowledge of God.

Not because God replaces the person they have lost.

He doesn’t.

But because God can become their anchor.

Help them understand that death is real.

Help them understand that the person they love is not coming back physically.

Don’t leave them waiting for years, trying to understand why Daddy or Mummy hasn’t come home.

But at the same time, give them the hope that we have as Christians—the hope of eternal life and the assurance that death is not the end for those who belong to Christ.

What My Story Has Taught Me

Looking back, I am thankful.

Not because losing my father was easy.

It wasn’t.

Not because I think children should experience grief.

They shouldn’t.

But I am thankful that God held my hand through that season, even when I didn’t know He was holding my hand.

I am thankful for my mother.

She could never replace my father, and she knew that.

But she filled the gap.

She showed up.

She prayed.

She raised us.

She gave us the best of what she had.

And I believe God honoured that prayer she prayed in the early days of her widowhood.

She asked God to help her keep her children and direct us.

And looking at my life today, I can say:

God answered her.

He held my hand through childhood.

He held my hand through my teenage years.

He held my hand into adulthood.

And today, as I grieve my mother, I am holding on to that same God.

The God who held me then is the same God who holds me now.

Perhaps that is the biggest lesson my journey with grief has taught me.

Children grieve too.

They may not have the words.

They may not understand what is happening.

They may not grieve in the way adults expect them to.

But they grieve.

So, if there is a child around you who has lost a parent, a sibling, a grandparent, or anyone who represented something significant in their life, please don’t underestimate what that loss may mean to them.

Hold their hands.

Walk with them.

Listen to them.

Pray with them.

Give them space to grieve.

And, most importantly, don’t rush them through the process.

Because sometimes, that child may only understand what happened many years later.

I know I did.

And when I finally understood, I realised that I had been carrying grief for years without even knowing its name.

Today, I know its name.

It is grief.

And I also know the One who has carried me through it.

Jesus Christ.

And for that, I am grateful.