We Buried Our Father. Then the Fight Over His Land Began

We Buried Our Father. Then the Fight Over His Land Began

When our father passed, he left behind two things: memories and land.

I was the eldest. The one who stayed closest to him in his final months. The one who ran errands, accompanied him to appointments, and handled most of the logistics after his health began to decline. I didn’t do it for recognition, I did it because I loved him. Because he was our father.

But when the will was read, and it was made clear that he had named me custodian of the family land in Ogun State, something in the room shifted.

At first, nobody said anything. We were all still deep in grief. People nodded quietly, perhaps even supportively. I assumed we were aligned  that this was what he wanted, and that they would respect that.

I was wrong.

It started small… but it escalated fast.

Weeks later, at a small family gathering, one of my younger siblings casually asked if the will could be “re-discussed.” Another hinted that I’d had “too much access” to our father during his final days. It was subtle half-accusations wrapped in small talk.

But I knew what they were trying to say.

Soon, the whispers became confrontations.

“Daddy wasn’t in his right mind when he signed that thing.”
“Why should one person manage land that belongs to all of us?”
“You must have pressured him into it.”

I tried to stay calm. To remind them that I wasn’t claiming ownership just stewardship. The land was for the family, but someone had to lead its use and management. That’s what the will said. That is what our father wanted.

Still, the arguments escalated.

One of my brothers stopped attending family meetings altogether. A cousin said I should just “do the right thing” and divide the land equally. Another relative, someone I hadn’t heard from in months, called me to say I should return “what I took.”

At some point, I realized they didn’t just want a share, they wanted me out of the picture.

I had to defend what was already mine.

The emotional toll was bad enough, but the legal side drained me even more. I had to get lawyers involved. Had to prove that the will was valid. I had to send letters, make calls, and attend mediation sessions. I spent over ₦500,000 trying to defend something that was already mine by law and by blood.

All the while, I kept wondering: What happened to us?

This was the same family that used to eat together. The same brothers I played football with. The same cousins who used to say, “Blood is blood.”

Now, I could barely get a civil text back.

I still haven’t healed from it.

It’s been over a year now. The land is still mine to manage, legally but nothing feels the same.

We barely talk. Family WhatsApp groups are silent or cold. There’s a distance I don’t know how to fix. My mother says to let time heal it, but I’m not sure time is enough.

I often sit and wonder: Was it worth it?
Should I have walked away from the land to keep my family intact? Or was I right to hold on to what was entrusted to me?

I don’t have the answers. But I know I’m not alone.

There are many Nigerians going through family battles over land, property, or inheritance. Some win the land  and lose everything else. Others walk away — and carry that bitterness forever.

If you’re reading this, and your family hasn’t had “the talk” about property and succession… please, have it now. Write a will. Clarify intentions. Don’t wait until death leaves everyone scrambling. Because the land may be real. But the wounds it leaves behind? They’re harder to build over.

Have you ever experienced conflict over land or inheritance in your family?

Tell us your story. Your experience might help someone else make a better decision or avoid the same heartbreak.

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