She birthed me and cared for
me, breastfed me and gave me her all but it was only three months to my
thirteenth birthday before she left. I set up the bedroom and sitting room in
the way she I always did for which she thanked me. I made her bed with the new
bedspread she bought in wait for the little one’s coming and braided my
sister’s’ hair, so she would have one less thing to worry about when she gets
back. Little did I know… who woulda thought that she’d never lie on that bed or
see the poorly made hair my sisters had on?
I didn’t think much of it
then, but now, I wish I could have been by her side when she breathed her last.
I see her, lying on that bed, probably with some pain and a heavy heart and I
did nothing, understood nothing and felt nothing. I wish I knew you couldn’t go
on anymore, I wish I knew your body was letting you down although you wanted to
stay for us. It was just silence and as we left, she called out to my sister,
mumbled some things to her and requested for my dad. Little did I know that
would be the last I’d see her alive. It isn’t just because she was my mummy,
she was actually, truly a great mum. With the little I remember of her, she was
a rare sort. No doubt, she definitely had her faults but in totality, she was a
good woman.
We often think we have all
the time in the world to those around us, to those we love the most. Worst of
all, as kids, we never imagine that death will come knocking on the door at any
time and no matter what age we are, we are still in denial of that fact –
thinking we will live forever. We often major on the minors and minor on the
majors, forgetting that we really only have now assured.
Sometimes, it’s ego that
gets in the way, that apology is never made, that hug is never given, that
phone call never put through. Sometimes, we take the best things life offers us
for granted because we think they will always be there.
Today, I honour the memory
of my mum, Aje Omakeche Grace (nee Abuh) who lived forty six (46) years on
earth. She left before I ever even imagined that she one day would. I celebrate
you, mum, because you did so well, taught me a lot before ever I became a
woman. You lived an exemplary life, one that I have mostly followed,
unconsciously and I thank God for the gift that was you. It’s ten (10) years
now and it’s fully dawning on me now that you’re truly gone.
That afternoon, as we sat in
the hospital room where you lay looking so deeply into something that we
couldn’t see, I’m sorry; I didn’t realize you’d be gone so soon. By the evening
of that day, you left.
I want to thank you for
teaching me about taking responsibility. Thank you for taking the time to teach
me to work and care for others, too. Thank you for letting me watch Izozo with
you that night, you usually would have insisted I do the dishes before settling
down to watch the TV. Thank you for showing me how to be a mummy, because,
because of you, I learnt to be strong early in life. Thank you for the almost
fifteen (15) years you spent with daddy – you lived and laughed together.
Surely, it wasn’t rosy all the way, but you stuck through it all.
I like to think that there’s
a bit of you in me but it’s ok if I’m only just imagining it.
That strange gathering of
church members and distant relatives, the the sore look in daddy’s eyes; I knew
something had happened. The pastor’s wife drew us nearer and said “your mummy
has gone to be with the lord”. I just went numb, confused and I couldn’t even
cry.
In Africa, we ain’t really
brought up to tell our parents we love them, but I did love you, mum. You were
one of a kind and I wish I could have said it then as easily as I write it now.
We miss you so much, you have no idea. We didn’t know how to go on without you
but we try, and we’re thriving even.
I woke up this morning,
missing you like you’ll never know. I thought about you too, but that's nothing new cos I thought about you yesterday and the days before that too. I think of you in silence cos all I have are memories. God has you in his arms and I have you in my heart and now, you're about the only reason why I walk down memory lane, cos I know I'd run into you there.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I laugh at
memories of funny things you did or said, or things that you do that I now do.
I told a friend once that sometimes when I open my mouth, you come forth. Lol!
I’m laughing so hard now that if you were here, you’d have landed ma a slap
that’d further throw me into tearful laughter.
I don’t know if you’d be
proud of how we your girls have turned out but we’re proud to hear stories of
you from your friends and in-laws when they come around. We know we were your
hope and we’re trying so hard to keep your dreams alive. Too bad though, that I
didn’t turn out a pharmacist like we all thought I would, how that made you
happy!
It’s been ten (10)
years, so it’s getting easier. I’m ok now, standing on my own, holding you in
my heart. And by the way, your girls are blooming!
