LETTER TO MY MOTHER PART 3.

  

My bleeding heart,

No. 56, Shattered Memories,

Inside the tunnel.

Earth,

19th, July, 2024.

Dear Mama,

It's been 2 weeks since the flood, 3 weeks since he left, 2 months since I heard my best friend's voice, 1 month since I got promoted to my dream job, 9 months since I got the Honda, and miserable years since you left us.

Daddy is such a tender and genuinely human father; it's easier to see his flaws and forgive them now. He calls me at 6 a.m. daily as usual, but after the flood and the growing rheumatism, he has resulted in calling me twice, 8 p.m. included. I tell him everything he needs to know; it helps to reduce the gruesome anxiety.

                                                                                                                                    We are all battling with inflation; Tinubu is now president; life has been unbearable; I haven't been doing well with calling, texting, and reaching out; I am growing into my shelf; I get scared of letting people in; maybe because I am aware of how shitty I am; maybe if I stay away, they won't realize who I am.

We have an addition to the family; it feels like this happens yearly. Gyenom is such a blessed child; she lights up a space as soon as she enters. Czar and Zira adore her, and they call her sister. Last December in Kwoi, I cried while looking at them. Czar must have wondered why “Aunty Cim” was crying. I am in awe. Isn't this what you have always wanted? To see your children's children, to see them united, care for each other, and love themselves genuinely, surely we have resulted in making their bond as tight as possible.

I am doing terribly badly at missing you, At book club. We read a story from Broken People's playlist, and I could totally relate to the fact that grief makes you cry in awkward places. There is something about the bridge leading to the mainland, a lonely drive after a long day of capitalism, something about Solomon Lang's voice, something about groundnut soup, something about yellow and red Ankara, something about your sisters voice, something about that picture of us in front of your compound, something about Kwoi that makes me cry, press my tummy, scream your name, lock myself alone in the house, and I wish that you can appear and I can talk to you one more time. 

Sometimes I wonder what I will say if I am given the chance to see you again. I'll probably beg you to forgive me for not being there for you as much as I would have, hug you tight, scream “I’m sorry” till the angels take you away, I'll roll, I'll tell you how difficult life has been, or I'll just shut up and let you talk to me; maybe I will be comforted.

Last year was a very bad year. I made a lot of mistakes and faked promises to myself; I held people in high regard; I lost myself; I did not place any value on myself, but amidst this chaos, I found what I have always loved to find ever since. I love the community so much; it's becoming a bigger part of me, and for the first time since I left radio, I feel like myself again. 

It will also delight you to know that I have finally gotten “My Big Girl Office.” Mama, it was a struggle; there were sacrifices, mistakes, a few bad jobs, scam jobs, jobs that didn't resonate with me, jobs I did just to pass the time. But I am here now, and, God forbid, I focus on the struggle. I am thankful, and I am living proof that good things happen to people who wait, and everything gets easier with time.

Age is such a funny concept. How can I explain that until I look at my date of birth, I don't recognize I am aging? Was it not years ago we were filling up my jamb form and you were begging Mr. Kofii to organize a good car that will take us to Sokoto to write, telling me what to do, demonstrating how to use the pepper spray, how to hit any man trying to assault me, how to run away and shout so that someone can rescue me, or our telemundo days, our addictions to such fake depictions of love, our tea days, and our scary little fights? If you were here, I'd follow blindly, I'd agree blindly, and I'd spend each second making you laugh and making sure your years on earth were worth it. 

I love to think about my life in two phases: before your death and after it. I am such a different person now, sometimes unrecognizable. I am forced to be strong, to pretend that I am not soft, that I too can be wicked, and to be assertive and insulting sometimes. I am forced to express myself in ways that you will be shocked to see that I now do. Someone says I don't show dominance over a place or people. I love to think that I got that from you. You never controlled me or your husband; you just showed us what to do and allowed us to be our own people. To me, this is how I want to love people and places: show them, love them, and give them the freedom to choose. If they pick me, it will be such a delight.

I am learning that no matter how heavy the secrets are, it is best to store them in my chest; nobody is worth trusting. Sharing secrets makes it lighter for them to store on people's lips, and just heavier and heavier for me. If you were here I wouldn't hide anything from you. How many people do I trust until my secrets are scattered on the market? 

I feel guilty that it was a struggle to write this. “Wipe your tears,” I imagine you saying to me, just like you did when I couldn't get over the fact that my grades did not meet my expectations. On whose standard will you say to me? What and who matters in the grand scheme of things? You will tell me to cheer up and write; nobody cares the depth to which I love you or how much I mourn you; people just want to read an honest, beautiful work of art. 

This is how I mourn you: I talk about you at every chance I get; I wear your clothes, stubborn to reduce them; I want them exactly as you wore them; and since your demise, there is hardly any piece of my writing that doesn't scream you. i listen to lange continuously, i imagine a song you will love, i call my siblings and talk about you, i whisper to my nieces and nephews that you love them and i can clearly see bits of you in them, i cry to sleep, i talk to you like you are here, i make Okro and ogbono on rainy days, i let my semo burn before i pack it, i buy onions, carrot, aya, groundnut during its seasons and use them generously,i fry my stew, egusi and groundnut till its dry, i fry my meat and fish like i plan to store them for years,I use the biggest cup to make my tea; I take the first gulp very hot so that it can burn me just like yours does; I buy biscuits and chocolate, hoping that kids will come and I won't lack what to give them. I prepare cow head pepper soup for nursing mothers; I forgive; I forgive so much so that I get accused of forgiving too much, just like how I used to accuse you; I would rather make peace than cause a problem; I focus on the happiest things in life; I get updated on what happens at “Buckingham Palace." You would have loved “The Bridgerton Series.” I use every opportunity I get to go home, A place where me and you exist, i feel your presence from the bridge at fly over, i feel you in the places we have been together, Sabo Market, Samaru Market, Chapel, Graceland, Zango, Silver, Your room,  the left side of the bed, i sit there and pull out your pictures, i stare at them till the tears drop and dry off, surely when you left, i lost the biggest part of me and i am not willing to let anyone fill that void

Even with that, I am nothing like you. Not even close, a replica of a replica, i don't plan enough, i don't document enough, i am hardly on time, i don't attend weddings, i don't forgive enough, i don't love enough, i don't see the bigger picture enough, i don't make excuses for people enough, i don't make meals and drinks that makes people bite their fingers enough, i don't pray enough, i don't read enough, i don't garner knowledge enough. I don't call or check up enough; I am just terrible at being your replica.

A lot of things have changed. I am a lot fatter, my cheeks are covering my eyes,I have grown a Fupa,and I can't seem to make it 10 steps without panting. I now fry my catfish, I always have chewing gum in my bag, I can sleep without a blanket, and I hardly speed while driving. I wish you were in the recent version of my life. I wish you were here this minute. I hate that I have to reimagine you. Imagine what you will look like now. I am jealous of people who still have their mothers, but at the same time scared for them. 

Indeed, you have left, but you will forever be in my heart.

With Love,

Simnom Emmanuel.