At the time, I was living with my mum and sisters in London; that's where we'd grown up. Dad flew over here to be interviewed by the press. I remember the thrill of seeing him on Channel 4 talking to Jon Snow. I was wrapped up in the excitement of it all. Seeing him then is one of those moments I have replayed in my head a million times. My father's presidential campaign had been called Hope, and I remember thinking about this word 'hope' and wanting to understand what it really meant - what it meant to all the people who had voted for him.

We were over the moon when he said he would send for us to be with him during his inauguration. But that inauguration never took place. Not long after his return to Nigeria, he was incarcerated by the ruling military and held in solitary confinement.

We had no communication with him whatsoever. All we could do was hope for his release, which wasn't granted for another four long years. Then, the day before he was due to walk free, he died.

I am still trying to make sense of it all. When my father was first imprisoned, Mum had been told that the elections had been annulled and that the military would only release him if he denounced his mandate to become president. My father refused, because the elections were seen as being fair. To withdraw would have been to turn his back on the people who had supported him. He couldn't do that.

International criticism flooded in. Nigerians were so outraged and aggrieved, they came out onto the streets. There were demonstrations and strikes everywhere. People were even killed. What was amazing about this, though, was that it wasn't just his own tribe in the south, the Yoruba, who protested, but people from tribes all over Nigeria. It was this inter-tribal support that had been pivotal to my father's election.

My father was a charismatic, powerful orator. He could speak many of the different dialects. His populist appeal also had something to do with his humble beginnings. There are extremely wealthy people in Nigeria and extremely poor people, and he came from the extreme poor end. The dirt-poor end. His family was from a small village and his mother had 23 children. Every one of those children, except my father, died. Not knowing whether he would also die, his parents gave him the middle name Kashimawo, which means 'Let's wait and see'.

Not only did my father survive, but he went to school, passed exams and won a scholarship to study accountancy in Glasgow. He then worked in government contracts, and he eventually acquired several businesses of his own, including an airline, and a publishing group called Concord. Despite his wealth, one thing Dad always said was: 'Never forget where you came from'. When he moved into politics, he made trips to the poorest areas, giving money for schools and other community projects. It's why the people loved him. They called him Baba - father.

Some people said that he was controversial, because while on the one hand he campaigned for democracy, on the other hand he was close to the military. But I guess my father understood the way Nigeria worked. He understood the struggles - between the large and small tribes, between the Muslims and the Christians, between the businesses and the military. He knew he needed the co-operation of everybody.

When his death was announced, everyone was in a state of shock - of disbelief. The military said he'd had a heart attack. An independent postmortem confirmed this. All I could think of was this one photo that had been taken of him shortly before his death. He was standing with UN representatives. He looked good; he looked in high spirits.

Whatever I think, I can't bring my father back. Sometimes I think about what he died for, and sometimes I think maybe my dad was the sacrificial lamb that Nigeria needed in order to move forward. But then I think of all the pain I've carried. I don't show it but it's there. It doesn't go away. Are we just meant to become conditioned to all this pain? When my father died, I didn't really know if I would ever be capable of anything myself: it was like his existence had somehow validated me. I also didn't know how he would be remembered. It felt like a personal burden, and I've spent many years trying to learn how to surrender that burden. At the same time, I know that who he was then has shaped who I am now. I'll always be the daughter of Chief Moshood Abiola.

When I finished school, I did a degree in politics. But then, after I completed it last year, I did something completely different: I signed up with Storm model agency in London. And it has been my work as a model that has validated me. Seeing huge billboards of me across the city, I realised I was projecting not only myself, but also my dad. Nigerians would know who I was, and because of that, my father would be remembered. I know now that my dad isn't really dead, because he lives on in me. He always will."