Note to my mother
A million words I want to say to you. An endless list of questions I want to ask you — first off, why did you constantly tell me you were fine when you knew you wouldn’t be here much longer? Every single day since you passed has been strange. Somewhere deep within me, I have refused to accept this new reality. I have always heard of death, but it never occurred to me that it would sting as much as it did, let alone take you away from me.
Mom, I have questions. A lot of them. Why did you refuse to speak to me or my sister in the last hour before you died? Did you know this was going to happen? Was that the reason you requested I join your morning devotion on your behalf, just in case you slept? And was it why you kept asking for the time, incessantly? Why didn’t you tell me? Maybe I could have hugged you one last time, or stayed in the ward and just sat next to you, holding your hands like I always did. I just wanted to caress your hair, cradle your hand, and talk to you as we had done since you got on that hospital bed. Every day, I prayed and hoped you’d get better because every passing minute in that hospital broke my spirit. Seeing you in that condition nearly drove me to insanity. I masked my tears with smiles because I wanted to be strong for you, as you always were for us. Till the last hour, you never showed us any sign of weakness; you constantly told me, “I am fine,” when I asked how you were, despite the pain you were in.
Yesterday, I got lost deep in thought, reminiscing about how quickly it all happened. Everyone who came to pay their condolences kept recalling how they saw you just a few days ago. When I think of it, it breaks me even more. Maybe I should have taken you to the hospital that Tuesday evening when it started — perhaps you would have survived this.
I miss you every day. I have refused to believe this is the end for you. I can’t stomach the thought that you won’t be here for the rest of my life. Mom, they say this is forever? Why did you hold my hand and walk me this far, only to leave me when I am so close to the peak? I don’t know how to live life without you. You are present in my every daily activity. I remember just a few weeks ago, you called me even though you were at work to give me directions to my PPA. You cared for me like I was your only child. You really are the best mother in the world. Why did you have to go so early? I need you every day of my life. I need you even more now. I feel so clueless — I don’t know what I will become without you. You are my role model; you inspire me in so many ways. That, I wish I had told you more. I wish I had talked to you more often and told you about my day, my friends, my work, the girls, and everything. I would do anything to hear your laughter. I wish I had spent more time with you. Enough time so that I wouldn’t need to search deep in my memories to find one to replay in my head. Truthfully, your passing left me with regrets. It stings that you left so early when I had just begun to take care of you. You deserve the world. You deserve everything I have today. You raised me into the man I am today. The whole world’s perception of me was, is, and always will be a reflection of everything you instilled in me. That, I will forever be grateful for.
One thing that sweetens my heart is how everyone says I look so much like you. I love the sound of that. You are the most beautiful woman I know. Even when I saw you lying still in your coffin, I just wanted to hug you because you looked so beautiful and smelled nice as well. You never forgot to wear perfume, even on your funeral day. I want you to know that I have taken charge of all your half-used cologne, and I find comfort in the fact that I can smell like you when I wear them. I just want to feel you again, somewhere, somehow, because it doesn’t make sense that this is the end. I can’t fathom the thought of it. It will drive me insane.
Mummy, since you passed, I have felt so many emotions I didn’t know I was capable of. That Monday morning at the hospital when YK came out of your ward to meet me in my already disarrayed state and said, “She’s gone, they’ve already declared time of death,” I went numb. I couldn’t think or process anything. Her tears triggered emotions in me I had never felt before. Of course, I didn’t believe her words. I shunned her because I knew you couldn’t die. I spoke to you in the morning, and you told me you were fine. You told me to play your morning devotion program for you. You sang praises to God — so there was no way I could believe you had died. It didn’t make any sense. So, I just comforted her as she cried and said a silent prayer in my mind, holding onto the last thread of faith that the doctors had gotten it wrong. In the same vein, I refused to go into the ward to see you because I was afraid of what I might find. Mummy, it didn’t make any sense. It still doesn’t.
When we told your baby, Olamide, that you were gone, he held onto the same belief I had earlier in the day. He said, “God forbid, my mummy cannot die,” because, truly, you could never die. I could never have pictured you and death in the same sentence, even in a thousand years. You were my world, and you didn’t have permission to die. It’s so absurd to even think that you are no more. Where have you gone? I’m sorry for slapping your face when I eventually walked into the ward to see you lying lifeless after telling me you were fine an hour ago. I raised my voice at the nurse for putting cotton wool in your nose and ears because I knew you wouldn’t like that she did that. Mummy, I felt several things that day, but mostly numbness. I was laying on the floor and crying at the hospital entrance. I took my shirt off and couldn’t even feel my legs for a moment because shock waves were running through my entire body. My eyes were blurry with tears. I didn’t know what was happening to me. It felt like I had been picked up and dumped in some strange land. I had never been here before. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to feel. But what I did know was that I didn’t want to be there, not without you by my side, holding your hands.
I kept taking pictures of every moment when you were on your sick bed, hoping they would eventually become happy memories to look back on and thank God for pulling you through. For the first time in my life, I was in an ambulance, sitting by your side, but I was happy to be there. In fact, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else but by your side. You kept smiling at me each time I held your hand and reassured me that you were fine. Not once did I see your expression change to worry. Instead, you kept asking about my well-being and that of my siblings. You were a mother till the very last minute, the best one at that. It pains me deeply that you sacrificed so much for our family only to leave when it had just begun to get good. Mummy, remember how you said I was going to buy you a car because you were so certain I was going to be successful? What do I do with that now? Who do I gift the car to when I eventually buy one? You believed in me more than I do myself. I don’t know what my life holds without you in it.
To be honest, I have tried to stay mad at you for leaving me in so much despair, but I can’t. I have cried more than I ever have in my entire life. You were the only one who had seen me cry this much before, and now you’ve made that part of me visible to the world. On the day I saw them lower you into your grave, I kept calling out your name, hoping you would answer me. You always did answer when I called. My biggest fear has happened. I want to be able to text you and get those cheesy sticker replies from you. Mummy, I love you so much! The word “love” can’t even begin to express how much I want you in my life. You are my world. You are my entire being.
I cry every single day because you’re present in every corner I look. Mummy, who will call me on my birthday and pray for me now? Who will call me “Corper Shun”? Who will tell me not to work late nights and to make sure I eat early in the morning? Who will make my custard the way I like it? Who will take care of me when I’m sick? Who will describe places in Lagos I’ve never been to before? Who will call me late in the evening to ask about my whereabouts? I’m not sure you thought about all of this before you left me. Who will take care of your baby, Olamide? He hasn’t shed a single tear since he heard about your passing, and I’m really scared for him. Will he be okay? Will I be able to care for him the way you did? Who will listen to your daughter’s long rants about work and life? You have left us with a void that can never be filled. People tell us to be strong, that it will get easier with time, but how can I be strong when all my strength came from you? I don’t know how to be strong without you. You were my anchor, and my entire world revolved around you.
Now, I sit in my room alone, hoping you’ll come to me. Hoping you’ll show yourself, say something, hug me, or give me answers to the countless questions swirling in my mind. I met your sisters and brothers, and I have learned how complicated our family tree is. I wish I had asked you more about it while you were still here. I wish I had started buying you birthday gifts years ago. I wish I had come home from school during the holidays to spend more time with you. I wish we had taken evening strolls together, gone to the cinema, and just had fun. You didn’t wait long enough for us to start enjoying life together. Now I wonder — what will I do with all the success I hope to achieve without you to share it with? Will I ever heal from this loss? Will I ever be able to let go of these regrets? I don’t even know if I’ll ever be the same person I was before you left.
But I promise you this, Mum — I will take care of Olamide, your baby. I will make you proud, and I will never forget you, not even for a second. I take solace in the fact that you are now at peace, resting in the bosom of God, far away from the pain and troubles of this world. But, in truth, I just want to be with you. Sadly, this is my new reality. If my tears could turn back time, I know you would still be here with me. I never wanted to write this letter, and I tried to hold on to my anger for you leaving too soon. But I can’t go any longer without speaking to you, my beautiful jewel.
Thank you for the prayer you sent me as a voice note when I was in camp. I listen to it often now, and it fills me with so much peace. It feels like you’re still praying for me, and I can hear your voice whenever I want. It’s almost as though you prepared us all for this moment. I hope it’s okay for me to pray to you sometimes. I want to talk to you as much as I did when you were here. I hope you can appear to me somehow and give me the comfort and reassurance I desperately need. I need your strength again. My spirit is weary, and I don’t know how much longer I can endure this low.
This isn’t goodbye, Mum. This is a letter full of unanswered questions you left behind. I want you to know that I love you, and you will always be my favorite person in the world. I want to hug you so badly right now. But I guess that’s another void I’ll have to carry with me for the rest of my life.
Until we meet again and part no more.
Goodnight, my jewel.
