If someone had told me that death could teach me deep strong lessons, I would have said no. However, I learned four great important lessons thanks to death on the 12th of June.
That morning, I woke up to the bright rays of the sun. I welcomed the warm rays because I needed them to blot out the gloom that lurked within my heart.
My eyes glanced at the wall clock on the side of my room. 7:44 AM. An alarm went off inside me as I hurried off my bed.
“Mother would kill me,” I whispered as I dashed into the bathroom and began to clean up.
How could I have overslept? I wondered.
“Knock, knock.” I heard as I had begun sponging my body.
“YES?” I screamed.
“Aren’t you done yet?” My father’s deep baritone voice demanded.
“Daddy please, five minutes,” I said, rinsing off the lather on my skin.
7:52 was what the clock said when I was done dressing.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, picked up my purse, and dashed out of the room.
Today was important and I was almost ruining it.
When I got to the sitting room, I met my mother prancing about. My younger brother Tunde was busy on his iPhone. Daddy was seated on the sofa facing the ceiling.
“Sorry I am late,” I muttered as I got to them.
“Sorry for your sorry self. It’s me and this family that you want to disgrace abi? God won’t allow you…”
“Elizabeth!” My father cut her short. “Your shouting would do nothing to make us go earlier, it would only make us late. Now can we all go?” Daddy said with the authority that only the man of the house could muster.
I nodded slowly as my mother clicked her fingers in my face.
Tunde stood up and still glued to his phone, walked out of the house before any of us.
As soon as we were seated in the car, Tunde whispered in my ears “This dress looks beautiful on you. Are you sure I shouldn’t sell you off to one of my rich friends?”
“Shut up!” I pushed him as the car pulled out of our compound.
He gave a low chuckle as he pointed his phone at me and took a snapshot. “I’m posting this on Instagram,” he said. Instagram had been his best friend since 2020. It was the friend that had kept him company when the fear of death had raged through the whole world. Maybe, that’s why he didn’t seem saddened by the whole event of this week.
I mean, I and my family and many others whom we would be meeting soon would be clad in black, yet my brother didn’t seem to be in the funeral mood. Instead, he was here making me laugh. I looked at him and smiled. Grateful that at least I have someone who I could always count on to not be sad.
In less than five minutes, we arrived at the big dome of a building that was St Theresa. It was where Uncle had worshiped.
I got out of the vehicle and noticed that my brother was thoughtful enough to keep his phone in his pocket. I gave him a grateful smile and walked with my parents into the church.
We were five minutes early, but the church was considerably full, especially for a funeral service. Uncle Idoko was an influential man, so I guess it was to be expected. I just wondered how full the reception would be considering the number of people seated here to tell Uncle goodbye.
I sighted a few of my cousins and Tunde asked if we could go sit with them. However, Mother gave us the don’t-you-dare-try-it look. That kept our buttocks glued to our chairs throughout the service.
Lots of tears were shed. Not all of them were genuine. I know this because these same people had hoped he would die. Mother shed a little of her own. He was her brother after all. Father had looked stone-faced though. I know he had some respect for Uncle Idoko but his pride wouldn’t let him show any emotion.
When the service was over and we walked over to our cousins, I noticed some things. Helen was dressed in her usual manner. Her face was made up like that of a doll. Her clothes clung to her skin as if she had gone to a nightclub. My other cousins were dressed in rather amusing ways too. Well, I realized the only people who were dressed like they were mourning were Aunty Anita and her four-year-old daughter (Uncle Idoko’s immediate family). Everyone else, myself included had tried to look good. Some people even made it a competition, Mama Larry and Aunty Ene were giving off hard stares to each other as they appraised the gold on each other’s neck.
My cousins were discussing the latest trends and celebrity scandals. The adults were talking about the hike in prices and a few of the women were about the aso-ebi for Uncle Sunday’s wedding. It was like everyone had suddenly forgotten we were here for a funeral. My uncle died five days ago for crying out loud. Couldn’t the wedding wait? I guess it couldn’t because Uncle Sunday had proposed to his fiancee just hours after we had all learned of my uncle’s death.
This opened my eyes to the first lesson from death: (most) people would move on after your death, way before your body even gets cold.
That was what I mulled over in my mind as we drove to Late Idoko Ojo’s residence. The recently added title to my uncle’s name sent my stomach roiling. I didn’t know why I had added ‘Late’ to his name, but it was one reality I had to come to terms with.
At the reception party, I was taken aback by the extravagance on display. This party was far fancier than the one Uncle Idoko had thrown for his fortieth birthday last year. That party was the talk of the town especially since it was thrown during the lockdown. He had boasted that the deadly virus couldn’t get to him, talk more of killing him. He had only made himself a target of the virus.
As usual, there were more people here than in the church. The dressing had taken on a more flashy tone. The tension between the women had skyrocketed. Now it wasn’t just Mama Larry and Aunty Ene, it was almost everyone. Even the teens were trying to show off their latest phones and devices.
I was tempted to yell “This is a funeral for God’s sake” but I doubted anyone would listen to me.
Following my parents with my brother, we sat at one of the tables for four.
“Good evening,” Aunty Eboh sang to our ears.
I plastered a smile on my face as I greeted her back. Tunde replied to her greeting as he quietly dropped his phone on the table. My father gave her a kind smile while my mother as usual only frowned at her.
“Morenike?”
“Ma?” I stared at her.
“Why aren’t you putting on a nice dress like your cousins over there? You look like your parents are not buoyant enough to take care of you.” She said with just enough bite to elicit a hiss from my mother.
“Uncle liked this dress a lot. I just thought to wear it to respect him” I replied.
“Hmm,” my aunt eyed me and faced her attention on my brother. “Tunde, so with all the time you spend on your phone, you can only post a picture of your sister and nothing else of the family?”
” I am sorry Aunty.” Tunde picked up his phone from the table, smiled at our aunt, and continued to operate his phone.
I was tempted to tell my aunt about the poem Tunde had written to our late uncle as a tribute, but the look my brother gave me had me thinking twice. I was sure when we get back home, he would say something along the lines of “People only see what they want to see” to me.
“Aunty Eboh, if there is nothing else, you can please leave now.” My father said in his usual authoritative tone.
She bit her gum one more time and left our table.
The ceremony started in full swing as the MC took the stage. I was taken aback by the MC. He was a top MC and expensive too. His fees were probably the same amount as Uncle Idoko’s surgery. But, I guess the family name could not and would not be disgraced.
“Hmm to think that this kind of lavish celebration is taking place for someone who died of something disgraceful.” I heard.
My head quickly spun along with that of other members at my table. Even Tunde had a frown on his face as he stared at the woman who had commented.
“What do you mean by that?” My mother barked.
“You guys should have used the money you are using to throw this lavish party on homeless children.”
“Of course, homeless people like you who come to funerals to eat for free. And yet don’t have the grace to even speak well of the dead.”
By now, people had already begun looking at us. The buzz had quietened as some attention was on us. The MC was making a serious attempt to get the party back on track.
As Mother opened her mouth to speak again, Aunty Ene was at her side, holding her and directing her out of the fight. And just like that, the tension was gone.
And that taught me my second lesson for the evening. No matter how good you are (were), one mistake (even if it is not your fault) and all your good is forgotten.
If Uncle Idoko was here, I’m sure he would have shaken his head with pity. It wasn’t like it was completely his fault that he died of the Coronavirus. Moreover, what was so shameful about it?
I know that he was such a good man. Death just needed the means to take his life and covid-19 was a good means.
“Morenike, go into the house and see if you can get me a bowl of water. I don’t know what is taking the servers so long.” My father said as he looked at his soiled hands. I was tempted to tell him to wash his hands under the tap positioned just a few meters away from us. But I’m sure he would give me one of his cold stares.
So I stood up, went into the house, and was met with a force of people.
It seems as my mother had rightly said, some people were just here to eat their fill. And to eat to your fill in an event like this, you had to know someone close to the family or be a family member who can enter the house to access the kitchen easily.
Most of my cousins who I wondered where they had disappeared to were in the house biting and chewing. I couldn’t blame them. There is always something addictive about party jollof.
I pushed through the mass of people wondering if they were not worried about the deadly coronavirus. Come on, that’s what killed the man we are here to celebrate. But I guess that as usual, the aroma of food had taken away their sense of reason. I dragged my nose mask back on.
As I neared the kitchen, I heard someone call my name. I turned around and saw Mama sitting close by.
“Mama umaine ma.” I greeted her in my mother’s local dialect.
“Abahole oyim?”
“Obiobi no ma”.
My maternal grandmother thought it taboo to speak to her in the English language. So all our discussions took place in the Idoma language.
“Please, can you go up and bring my bag with my medicines for me?” She asked in our local dialect.
I was tempted to tell her that my father was waiting for me outside, but everyone knew you never told grandma no.
So I nodded and made my way up the stairs. On reaching the door, I found out it was locked. I wasn’t sure if she closed it or if someone else did, but I had to bring her medicine fast so I could return to my father.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I could feel my heartbeat increase. I didn’t like these kinds of situations.
When I got to her, I told her I couldn’t get in because her door was locked.
She apologized and dipped her hands into her bag. She handed me a bunch of keys and waved me off.
My mind was in overdrive, I decided to ask my cousin who was standing around the stairs if she could go and give my dad the bowl of water. She answered yes and left for the kitchen. I breathed out in relief and moved to Grandma’s room in peace.
Once I got there, I opened the door and found out there were lots of bags with medicines in them.
I knew one had to be the one she was looking for. One thing was certain, she was diabetic and had high blood pressure. So when I saw metformin and lisinopril with other drugs in a polythene bag, I knew those were the drugs she was asking for.
I ran back down and handed it to her. She opened it, smiled, and looked up at me.
“Oyim, anya.”
“Anya mama,” I said as I went to get her a glass of water. When I came back, I cringed as I saw her chewing the drugs dry. She accepted the glass and smiled.
I walked back outside and as I made my way back to my family, a sinking feeling of dread overcame me. I couldn’t understand it and tried to shake it off.
When I got within a few meters of my dad, I knew why. There was a frown on my father’s face. My mother’s stare was even colder and Tunde wasn’t on his chair. My eyes fell into my father’s hands of their own accord. It was then I knew I was in deep trouble. His hands were still unclean.
My cousin hadn’t brought the water.
“Daddy, sorry here it is.” I heard Tunde say as he walked past me to our father.
I sat down tentatively. I didn’t know how I was going to explain myself without causing any trouble. To make matters worse, Mother was sitting there. So close to Father and the stare she was giving me was boring hot holes into my body. Tunde sat close to me and squeezed my arm. He would be here for me.
“So what happened that you spent a lot of time in there without bringing my water?” Father asked.
I swallowed hard. He wasn’t such a fan of Grandma and situations like this had caused trouble between Mom and Dad before. Father didn’t like and understand the way everyone seemed to be scared of Grandma. He always said that his mother wasn’t such a control freak.
After what seemed like an eternity, Father asked me again. “What were you doing that you couldn’t bring my water?”
I looked at both my parents, this wasn’t going to be easy. So I decided I was going to lie. I would tell them I had a case of brief amnesia. Or that as I entered the house, I suddenly remembered my uncle and froze. Just as I was about to say one of those two lies, I heard…
“Grandma pleaded with her to get her medicine,” Tunde said without lifting his head from his phone.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mother’s hard gaze dropped. Father’s however was more enraged by it.
“You mean you ignored me because your grandma asked you to get her medicine?” Father thundered.
Some faces were looking at us yet for the second time this evening.
“Is that why you are shouting?” Mother asked.
Father hissed, picked himself up from his chair, and walked out. Mother followed him, and I and Tunde knew it was time to go home.
“Why did you tell them and how did you know?” I asked as soon as we stood up.
“I walked in and saw you handing Grandma a glass of water and she mentioned it to me when I greeted her.” He said and glanced at me. “Look, don’t allow that fight to bother you, you did nothing wrong. Moreover, we know they would be fine by tomorrow morning.”
When we were all seated in the car and driving towards home, mother and father were talking and somehow, they had all turned the blame back on me. But one thing I was sure of was that we would all be okay by tomorrow morning.
That was my third lesson for the day. Do not worry about things there are not your fault. Things would always iron themselves out.
My mind began to drift. I could see my uncle, could feel his hands on mine. He was smiling twirling me. It was beautiful. My earliest memory of both of us.
I turned and looked at Tunde. He raised his head from his phone and smiled at me. I moved closer and snuggled into his body. I felt his arm wrap around me, and that gave me my fourth lesson for the day. Make lovely memories with your loved ones now for when they go, you would be only left with the memories you made with them.
Read – Green As Death By Wolfgang
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