The first man I fell in love with was Leo. As a baby, it mattered little that he was happily married to my mother. I enjoyed the fact that he could easily sweep my tiny body above his 6ft frame and twirl me repeatedly through the air. "Do it again, Daddy, one more time!". He would accede and much to my delight, I would find myself in peals of laughter.

To the outside world, he was a strict teacher at Cornwall College.  But at home he was just Daddy. From as early as two years old, I would assist him in marking his students papers. I would laugh at the number of 'wrong bongs' he awarded the students, at the same time proudly displaying my 'hook sticks or tickeys' that I had earned at school during the day. It never occurred to me that he was merely humouring me.

'Irie Daughter' Lanie, inset, and with Daddy, the late great Leo Oakley.

Many times I would interrupt his grading of assignments for a bedtime story. My favourite book was The Little Gingerbread Boy. The story was enhanced by the fact that my father would change up his voice to fit the characters in the book. Needless to say, although I knew the book from cover to cover, this did not prevent Daddy and I from reading the story every single night. Thus began my passion for books.

But weekends were the best. In the mornings I would jump out of bed, knowing that I would be spending the entire day with my father. We would leave the house early to get the newspaper. Then we would spend hours poring over them. In between reading, he would recite songs, poems and speeches that he had performed at Cornwall College. Having won the Calypso King
Festival as a UWI student, he carried his love for the performing arts into our home.

But my childhood ended prematurely at age seven. My whole world crashed suddenly with the advent of that bitter pill called divorce. I was not ready for it. I blamed myself. I wanted to be with both my fun-loving mother and my intellectual, doting father.

We moved with Daddy to Washington DC where he worked as a diplomat. I detested the cold weather and the fact that we were the only black children in my school, and definitely the only Jamaicans.

One night, I had completely forgotten to study for an exam scheduled for the following day. Bedtime had long passed and so I just started crying in my bed. My father came into the room to have our nightly devotions and Bible study. On recognising how distraught I was, he gently took me from the bed and carried me to his den. We studied together and the exam was a breeze. 

We returned to Jamaica in the '80s. Like all teenagers, I rebelled.
I wanted to do my own thing, be my own person. I was tired of being Ms Goody Goody and Daddy's little girl. So my best friend, Nikki, and I had our first cigarette in a big mango tree in her front yard. We bought a beer and shared it. We went to parties.

I had my first serious crush and then fell in love every other day with some new cute guy that I happened to glimpse from a distance. I started blasting loud dancehall music in my bedroom. Deliberately trying to annoy Daddy, I would turn up the music. I was tired of Babylon and all the restrictions he imposed.

I wanted to get Daddy mad.
I was at the pinnacle of my rebellion. I told him that I wanted to become a Rasta, and that I wanted to marry a Rasta and have many little Rasta children. 

To all of this, my father calmly responded, "Irie, daughter." This calm response diffused all my rebellion. Daddy had clearly read enough books to realise my intentions and so my rebellion ended prematurely with his simple words.

Many years passed. Daddy celebrated my first and second degrees with me. Soon I informed him that I was getting ready for marriage. I had found someone with Daddy's warm, loving personality. 

He instantly agreed. The wedding date was June. In December, he sent his suit to the dry cleaners. In January he shared his plans for escorting his doting daughter down the aisle. In February, he started writing his toast. In March... in March he went to sleep and never woke up.  It was a devastating blow.

Eight years have passed. I still think about him daily. Last November, I graduated with a teaching diploma from Shortwood Teacher's College. People who don't know me ask, why would you do a teaching diploma after a doctorate? For me the answer is abundantly clear. That one was for Daddy.

Last night I dreamed of him and we spoke at length. You see, I am still his little Gingerbread baby girl. his Irie Daughter.