By Alabi Ebubechi
I watched a video on Buzzfeed’s Instagram account about Moms who lost their children and children who lost their Moms. One of the mothers who lost her child said it’s okay to cry and even if it takes a thousand years to heal, then let it take a thousand years. I felt that I needed to hear that and I needed to talk about it. I have been trying to come to terms with the people I’ve grieved for and it just put me in this emotional depression. I’ve lost two very important people in my life; my grandpa and his first grandchild. I can’t say I was very close to my grandfather but I remember the little things he did for me as a child. I remember when I got admission to Louisville in Abuja, he wrote my full name on my items. He had the neatest handwriting ever and that was what made it so special. He also made us read the newspaper to him so we could practice our diction especially the phonetics. It didn’t hurt me as much when he died because he was in the US. But hé came to me in dreams and gave me life lessons and good advice. That’s what makes him so special to me. For me, my grandfather lived a good life and during his funeral, so many people could attest to that.
The person that couldn’t move on from that death was my aunt. His last born was the closest to him and she went into denial and depression. I couldn’t understand what it was like but a year later I did.
The only one I couldn’t find solace in was my cousin’s death. Her name was Deborah Folarin. She was two months older than me and it got me so many “can you buy two months in the market?” and I would always respond “yes, there’s two months cream, two months soap and two months perfume”. Don’t judge me, growing up, there was a lot of that.
She died September 2016 and the events that rolled before, during and after that keep replaying in my head everytime I think of her.
At first, she had a stomach ache and she complained of not being able to use the toilet. My mum started giving her teas to detox and flush her system but then it got worse. Her stomach started swelling. She was in the hospital by the time I got back from school. I had just finished secondary school and I was excited. When I first saw her, the first thing that came to my mind was “is this girl pregnant ?” And “is that the sickness my mom was talking about?”. My mom finally told me about the sickness and I could see how she was struggling. Her stomach was bloated and filled with fluid. She couldn’t eat well, she couldn’t sleep, her back kept hurting and she was just in pain. Every week, the doctors drained the fluids from her stomach and she was at her weakest then.
When we thought she was improving, we brought her home. Walking around was difficult and you couldn’t back her because of her stomach, so I had to back her from behind. She followed us to church every sunday because she believed that God will heal her. She went for deliverance and special prayers. I wanted her to be well and I begged her to put effort in moving around and acting strong. I thought maybe if she forced her movements, she would get better. She would leave stuff everywhere and I would complain. I would be like “ so you can’t bend down and pick it” and I would always tell her that she’s not helping herself. I think that was my biggest guilt. I didn’t know what she was going through. I was too blind and too stupid to understand. That was even the first time I’ve heard about that illness.
She had to go to the hospital again when she couldn’t breathe and unfortunately for us, she went to LUTH. We heard people saying, if you go to Luth, you won’t come out Alive but at that point, we were desperate. She was admitted to the emergency Ward for just a week. A WEEK!!!
I followed my mom to see her that day and at that point, I couldn’t even hold my tears. I knew she was going to die. She was literally hanging by a thread. There were tubes in her, there was no position comfortable for her and she kept saying she was tired. I wanted her to live. She had a purpose. She didn’t come all this way to just die like that. My mom was optimistic. She said don’t worry, she would live. That was the last time I saw her but deep down, I prayed that she would survive this.
My dad promised my siblings a trip to Ilorin that year and we postponed it for too long. My mom finally agreed to go and I’m sure she regrets that moment every day of her life. Once we got to Ilorin, it was already dark. My mom told my Dad and I to buy dinner while everyone else unpacked. On the way there, my dad received a call from my mom, telling him that Deborah was dead. He was trying to hide it by using vague words but I’m not stupid now. I confronted him immediately and he said it was true. It kept ringing in my head, Deborah is Dead, Deborah is Dead. I couldn’t even cry. I just looked up at the sky with an empty mind. My told my sister when I got back to the hotel and I sat at the balcony thinking. I was numb and I only felt guilt. I had to see my mom. She couldn’t even talk. She just kept crying. I know how much she invested because she wanted her to live. My mom didn’t come out of her room for three days. It was heartbreaking. When we got back home, they planned the funeral. They didn’t want me to go but I forced myself through it. Her dad was holding so much, I just felt it wasn’t in my place to cry. If her father can hold on, who am I?
I didn’t cry at the funeral. I didn’t cry weeks after that.
My aunt told me she was there when she dies and she said one of the tubes opened and they were calling for a doctor to change it and they didn’t arrive till evening when she was unconscious. My aunt kept calling her and she kept answering “hmm” until she left.
I felt guilty for telling her that she wasn’t trying. Or helping herself. I didn’t know how she must’ve felt. She had the willingness to live but I keep telling myself God knows best. I kept some of her clothes but everywhere I look, I remember her. When I go to school, I see the cemetery she was buried in and I remember. I meet people that knew her. I meet people that look like her. I have had series of outbursts on her instagram page begging Instagram to take the page down. I cry everytime I listen to Justin Bieber’s Cold water i remember doing a flipagram for her with that song. I remember a lot of things. Our childhood, our gists. The times apart and how we reacted whenever we saw each other again. I also remember when my mom compared me to her; “Why can’t you be like Deborah?” Or can’t you see what she’s doing. I can’t help feeling guilt and pain when I think about her or that idea of what could’ve been if she was alive. I wanted to die at some point. I felt that if she was so good, why didn’t God take me instead of her. We were all looking forward to her 18th birthday so she could start living with us. I miss her every single day And even if it a hundred years to heal, then let it be a hundred years.
