It feels surreal that my aunty Sade isn’t with us anymore, like a piece of our world is missing yet everything else remains the same. Each time I catch the scent of spices or hear the gentle clatter of cooking utensils, I think of her — about how she used to cook large pots of delicacies for companies on the island, and no matter what, I always got my portion sent to me. She knew how much of a foodie I was and encouraged it, treating me as her own. In so many ways, she was like a second mother to me.
“Tolu, wa gba, buy yourself something. Ko gbadun ara e” she’d gleefully say as she was preparing to take her leave. Our home was her home, and her home was our home.
On other days, when I’m completely engrossed in the cubicle that is my life, heedless of her existence, she’d call to ask how I was doing and then ask where my mom was because she had failed to reach her. When they next met, our home would be filled with her and my mom’s echoing laughter and chit-chat, both teasing each other — either about how my mom didn’t pick up her calls or how Mummy Sade didn’t drop by whenever she passed through our area. Mind you, she visited a lot. They were best friends — a childhood friendship that never stopped blossoming.
The day began like any other — an ordinary afternoon at the salon styling my hair, blissfully unaware that life was about to unravel in ways I never once imagined it would until my phone rang. The voice on the other end, broken and barely comprehensible, was my mother’s. “Tolu….Sade ti looo. Tolu, won ni pe Sade ti ku!!”she groaned, moaned, and wept altogether. I froze. The world tilted, and I felt myself running before I even realized I had stood up. I ran as fast as I could with tears streaming down my face. With each step, denial fought against the rising tide of dread that overshadowed my heart. She couldn’t be gone. I questioned how. I asked why. I prayed to God with a desperation greater than that of a shipwrecked soul praying for the shore, and begged to wake from what seemed like a dream. By the time I reached my mom, she was already behind the wheel. Throughout the ride, my legs quaked in anxiety. I refused to accept it, not until we got to the hospital, facing the cold stillness of her body. Flashes of moments when she promised to attend my graduation began to vividly resurface, moments when she vowed to witness my success in life, several moments of a promised presence, as I stared.
People often use the description of bursting into tears, and I didn’t really understand the expression until cries escaped my lungs like a lament. My mother’s shoulders shook violently as sorrow, like a leech, consumed her heart. I felt completely defeated — this wasn’t a dream, this was real. Her body was real, the grief and the orchestra of wails overtaking the hospital were real. Death is real. Just like that, she was gone.
Over and over again, I prayed for a Lazarus miracle; my faith was bigger than a mustard seed at this point or rather, I wanted to believe it was. I held on to my conviction for hours, even though I knew she had already been taken to the mortuary. Whenever my mom received a call, I hoped it was them calling to say she had woken up, but I was mistaken each time. I was in perpetual denial. God didn’t show up in the way that I wanted, and I hated it. A week passed, and not a day went by without tears flowing. No longer was I waiting for a miracle, but dreading the acceptance of my dear Mummy Sade’s absence.
Even as I write these words, a huge lump of grief settles in my throat and once again, disbelief washes over me — reminding me that this sorrow is far from over.
