22 August 2013
I heard a loud bang on the gate, accompanied by the
screaming voice our family friend and neighbourhood panel beater, Uncle Bayo.
He was screaming for my sister and cousin to come down and open the gate. Being
used to the feigned deafness of the house rascals, I ignored the commotion,
knowing they would still go down to open the gate.
The baritone voice of my brother rang in my ears as he shouted
at my sister to get down and open the gate immediately. A few minutes later, I
heard a sound like when a slap is being dished out on someone’s smooth cheek,
and what sounded like my mother’s voice. “What would my mother be doing at home
by 3.40pm when she would ordinarily be at work?” I thought to myself, puzzled.
Whatever is happening in the living room would definitely sort itself out.
Five minutes later, my brother suddenly barged into my room.
The abruptness with which he opened the door got me scared and got me to leap.
I took a look at his 6-ft giant frame, and my eyes were immediately drawn to
his face. Strange! They were swollen, and tears were streaming down his dark
cheeks. What is it that would throw someone with such a stature into a sorrowful
state? Just imagine a NFL quarter back wailing. Strange sight indeed. And then
the first thing that registered in my mind was the slapping sound I had heard
coming from the living room. Right there and then, a barrage of thought ran
through my head, all at the same time, like pictures in a kaleidoscope.
“Armed robbers are in the living room of my house, and they
slapped my brother, and that’s why his face is swollen.”
“No if armed robbers were in the living room, they won’t
allow him to leave their site.”
I remembered I had heard what had sounded like my mum’s
voice, so I quickly changed my thoughts to “My mum came home, and she slapped
my brother.” Immediately realising how senseless this imagination was, I
discarded it.
It was then I realized I had been screaming “What happened,
what happened?” And he was responding with “Ha Tayo, it is Tayo.”
I said “Tayo.” I still couldn’t get the thought of the slap
out of my head, and I thought “Maybe Tayo is the one that slapped him.”
“Wait, Tayo. We only know one Tayo. What can be the
connection between Tayo and my brother’s tears?” The only logical answer is
“Tayo must be dead.”
I did not want to accept it, so I allowed myself to hope for
a few nanoseconds. “What happened to Tayo?”
He kept on saying “Tayo, Tayo.”
I asked “What happened, is he dead?”
He went on “Its Tayo.”
“Please, tell me what happened. He’s dead?” More of a
statement than a question. I was already falling to my knees at this point.
“Yes.”
I landed on the ground, letting out a wail that was louder
than the combination of the slapping sound, my mum’s voice, Uncle Bayo’s
screams, and my brothers yell, as I ran to the living room. I just couldn’t
believe it. It was only four days ago we were together in my house.
A neighbour heard my cry, and ran to my house. Uncle Bayo
immediately cautioned me to stop wailing, and drawing attention. He said my
tears would further deepen my mum’s sadness, and make her cry more. Like a stop
clock, my wail ceased immediately. I knew right there and then, I would no
longer shed a tear for you.
I was instantly reminded when my father died, when I was
crying immediately I heard about his death. My next-door neighbour told me not
to shed tears since we do not yet know if my dad’s death was ordinary. And if
it was not, the people that had a hand in his death might be lurking around,
planning to wipe my tears with a material, and go and use it for diabolical
reasons. I stopped crying then, and now eight years later, I have still not
shed a tear. Thanks to African witches, I was not even allowed to shed tears
for my dad for a period of five minutes.
I looked at my mum, asking her what happened, as I stilled
myself not to cry, while she ignored my questions. I walked to my room, calmed
myself for five minutes, and came out.
I asked again, and I got the story.
“You were changing your flat tyre, when a car came out of
nowhere and ran you over. You couldn’t be revived. Just like that, it was all
over.”
I sat and looked for five minutes, with a straight face. I
finally got pissed and walked to my room, noting the finality of it all.
Two Sundays ago, I remember begging you to accept a pack of
Toblerone, and sacrifice the t-shirt I intended to give you for another person,
as I left you, just like that, to attend to other business.
Just this Sunday, I remember us arriving from church at the
same time, and I harassed you to move your car from the front of the gate, so I
could park in the compound. When you protested my harassment, I turned them to
pleas. We gisted for about three minutes, and I went to my room to rest. If
only I knew. Would I have taken those last moments with you for granted, and
spent it on my bed?
You haven't even spent up to a year in Nigeria. You were
happy to be back home, always talking about how you wanted to do business in
Nigeria, how Nigeria is the place to make money, become an agent for change in
Nigeria, and so on.
My grieving process has just begun, and sadly, I would no
longer shed a single tear for you.
24 August 2013
"I would no longer shed a tear for you." Today, I
realised this statement is as false as the snow being black. I cried as I stood
by the rectangular hole in which you were being buried, and the finality and
hopelessness of the situation dawned on me. Then I knew that as long as I
didn't think about you, I won't shed tears, but when I'm forced to, like when
your graveside imposed your thoughts on me, the tears won't stop coming.
"I would no longer shed a tear for you." A lie
that even surpasses that of the devil.
RIP Temitayo Obasa
When People are about
to die, does death have its handwriting inscribed on their faces, because four
days ago, I saw no sign of it on yours.
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| Your last birthday on earth, Two months before you relocated to Nigeria |
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| You and I |
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| You, I, and my sisters, when we were younger |
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| Still finding it hard to believe... |
