Be a Voice
August 29, 2023
by Nez ObiOkoye
Dear Dad,
Last week I dreamt of my experience when I heard of your passing. I hurtled down from Enugu to Amaku General, Hospital Awka as fast as I could, thoughts flitting between Emeka's bleak assessment of your condition the night before and my dream in the early hours of you as a fresh-faced baby in a room with Amaka Abana who had unexpectedly passed away the previous month. I wanted to pray with you, encourage you to fight for your life, but you were nowhere to be found.
I toured the ICU and male in-patient wards in vain. I heard some nurses whispering as I stood outside crying in frustration because Emeka was not taking my calls to tell me where he had taken you. One ambled over to make an idiotic suggestion that I look for you in the mortuary. In the mortuary! "People are just so insensitive!"
Then Kingsley called for no reason, asking where I was. Dumb question, he knew I was coming to see you. Then he asked me to come get him at Amaku's gate, What was he doing in Awka? What was wrong with everybody? And why was Choby calling and calling? I already told him that I had no updates cos Emeka was ghosting me. Then Choby told me and Kingsley grabbed me as I flung the phone to the ground and tried to take off running to search harder. Because it couldn't be true that you had passed last night. Because surely the universe would have quaked at the passing of someone so illustrious, so giving. Then Emeka appeared, long-faced and bleary-eyed. And I gave up hoping.
What a dismal shell the body is without a soul. No pallor, no spark in the vacant eyes. The hectic, frantic burst of activity to prepare a grand burial ceremony does nothing to alleviate the silent knowledge that you are gone forever. After the DJ played the last burial song, after the crowds left and the kindred had exacted the last rite, after we said our thankyous and farewells, after we swept the house and shut the gates to go back to our lives, after the busyness came the silence.
Five years later, my grief is mellowed. I've battled anger, guilt, shame, remorse and sadness. Now, I reflect on the lessons that your life and death taught me. And this year, it is to vocally advocate for my strongly held conviction. Do not be that silent majority that stands by and lets it happen. Be a Voice!
Last week I dreamt of my experience when I heard of your passing. I hurtled down from Enugu to Amaku General, Hospital Awka as fast as I could, thoughts flitting between Emeka's bleak assessment of your condition the night before and my dream in the early hours of you as a fresh-faced baby in a room with Amaka Abana who had unexpectedly passed away the previous month. I wanted to pray with you, encourage you to fight for your life, but you were nowhere to be found.
I toured the ICU and male in-patient wards in vain. I heard some nurses whispering as I stood outside crying in frustration because Emeka was not taking my calls to tell me where he had taken you. One ambled over to make an idiotic suggestion that I look for you in the mortuary. In the mortuary! "People are just so insensitive!"
Then Kingsley called for no reason, asking where I was. Dumb question, he knew I was coming to see you. Then he asked me to come get him at Amaku's gate, What was he doing in Awka? What was wrong with everybody? And why was Choby calling and calling? I already told him that I had no updates cos Emeka was ghosting me. Then Choby told me and Kingsley grabbed me as I flung the phone to the ground and tried to take off running to search harder. Because it couldn't be true that you had passed last night. Because surely the universe would have quaked at the passing of someone so illustrious, so giving. Then Emeka appeared, long-faced and bleary-eyed. And I gave up hoping.
What a dismal shell the body is without a soul. No pallor, no spark in the vacant eyes. The hectic, frantic burst of activity to prepare a grand burial ceremony does nothing to alleviate the silent knowledge that you are gone forever. After the DJ played the last burial song, after the crowds left and the kindred had exacted the last rite, after we said our thankyous and farewells, after we swept the house and shut the gates to go back to our lives, after the busyness came the silence.
Five years later, my grief is mellowed. I've battled anger, guilt, shame, remorse and sadness. Now, I reflect on the lessons that your life and death taught me. And this year, it is to vocally advocate for my strongly held conviction. Do not be that silent majority that stands by and lets it happen. Be a Voice!
