When It Rains, It Pours: A Story of Loss, Love, and Survival
It’s almost that time of year when I plan how best to celebrate the woman who carried me for nine months and brought me into this world — my mum. Every year, I aim to make her day unforgettable, always topping the surprise from the year before. But this year, life threw me a curveball — blame it on post-travel expenses and a pending bill for a crucial surgery for my dad, who we fondly call Oga Fred. Yes, I call my dad that; it’s funny, but I like it. My finances were tighter than my ex’s hugs.
One sunny Abuja afternoon, lost in thought, my friend Mayowa caught me slipping into my feelings. “Omo, I need to send money for popsy’s surgery, but on the other hand, mumsy’s birthday dey come.”
Mayowa, ever the sweet Yoruba babe, exclaimed, “Chai! E no easy, ooo. But God dey.”
The clock kept ticking, and I knew I had to decide. My mind screamed, “What will be, will be,” and with a deep sigh, and my best na-who-get-life-get-hope mindset, I sent the money for both my dad’s surgery and my mum’s birthday surprise. My bank account screamed in protest, but my heart? It felt good like I had achieved a milestone.
The Special Day Arrives
Finally, July 1st arrived — my mum’s birthday! That day, the woman I fondly call “my sugar mummy” was super excited and clearly over the moon.
“Blessing,” she said, her voice sweet as ever. “Thank you. My God will bless you. He’ll give you more money. You don make me happy ooo, chai.”
“Amen, mummy,” I replied, smiling into the phone, my heart full.
…if only we dare to listen to our heart.
The rest of July rolled by, but something felt…off. I kept having this urge to travel home. It didn’t make sense. I had just returned in June. When I told my dad, he brushed it off. “No need,” he said. “It’s a waste of money.” But the feeling wouldn’t go away.
Still, the feeling lingered. Then came that fateful Sunday morning sermon on the 27th of July 2024, with Rev. Raymond, the guest preacher, titled “Is God Enough?” In his words, “Most of us are with God for what He can do for us. But when life hits or when we lose someone close to us, we abandon Him.” I didn’t know it yet, but those words were about to hit me like a freight train.
That afternoon, I received an unexpected call from my aunt just as I was about to take my favorite Sunday nap, the best nap. “Blessing, Grandma and I are nearby. Can we stop by your place? Grandma wants to know your place since she hasn’t been there before.”
Moments later, they convinced me to visit my grandma’s house saying since my grandparents came back from the States, grandpa misses me and would love to see me. I hesitantly went with them.
Everyone sat on the dining table, and I joined them, “Blessing, drop your phone,” my grandma said gently, holding my gaze. Then she spoke the words that shattered my world: “Sister Joyce j’3mi”-in our native tongue ada language. Meaning “Sister Joyce has left earth” as they fondly called her.
The orange I was sipping slipped from my hands and hit the plate. The world around me shattered. Silent tears traced my cheeks as Don Moen’s “Give Thanks” played in my mind, a painful reminder of the sermon I’d heard that morning, “Is God Enough?” I quickly wiped the 2-minute tears off.
Immediately I thought to myself, “Listen to your heart,” they say. Or is it a woman’s intuition? Whatever you call it, there’s a quiet, knowing voice within us that often speaks louder than reason — if only we dare to listen to our heart, if only I had listened to that voice to travel home maybe I’d have seen her before she took her last breath.
The journey of reality…
Booking the earliest flight home was the only thought on my mind. I was bracing myself to face my father, who was still recovering from surgery.
When I arrived, he sat in silent agony, arms crossed, looking helpless. His dark shades protected the just-operated eye and hid the tears that refused to stop. He had lost his best friend and only partner of decades — the woman who shared his life, his career, and even their bank account (he boasts about this and how his wife isn’t demanding and perfect for him).
Our home quickly became a hub of condolences — a mix of love and irritation. Each visitor, though from a place of love, was a reminder of the loss. Weekly trips to the mortuary turned into a painful routine. You never get used to a mortuary.
Every time I returned, I avoided blinking or closing my eyes, terrified of the image of her lifeless body that would flash in my mind. Each visit brought a new wave of pain: the long queues of grieving families, the signing in of new bodies and signing out of old ones, the uncontrollable tears, and that distinct, haunting smell.
Sleep became a distant memory, and food an enemy. Each night, I lay beside my dad, hoping my presence could somehow ease his pain. But the silence between us spoke louder than any words ever could.
Through the tears and sleepless nights, I held onto the memory of my mum’s voice, her laughter, her love, and our playful moments. And in this phase of life, I realized: even in her absence, she remains my strength.
Blessing the dreamer?
The next few days were a blur of tears, condolences, and pure chaos. My dad, still recovering from surgery, tried to stay strong, but I saw through his act. One evening, my dad decided to buy fruits from the junction. Hours passed, and he didn’t return. When he finally did, he burst in, exclaiming, “You people would’ve been here waiting for me, and the next thing you’d see is my corpse!” — in a typical African parent storytelling tone.
He narrated how a motorbike, headlight off, had come out of nowhere and thrown him to the ground. “Na God save me ooo,” he said, shaking his head.
It hit me like a wave: the dream I had earlier that week, burying both my parents, wasn’t just a coincidence. I turned to my dad, “Daddy, do you remember the dream I told you about? The one we prayed about when we woke up?”
Was it truly a coincidence? Or was it a forewarning, a glimpse into the pain and fear I now lived through?
A love that will never fade…
Preparations for the funeral are ongoing. We need someone to make her final outfit, but there’s no convincing him (Oga Fred) otherwise. “I made her wedding dress,” he said with determination, “and I’ll make the last outfit she’ll ever wear. It’s my way of honoring her, my final gift to her.”
So there he sits, paddling his sewing machine, making the perfect white garment, a shining lace material, a masterpiece fit for the love of his life. His R&B music plays softly in the background currently listening to You’re my bestfriend by Don Williams. His voice breaking as he sings along, tears streaming down his face. Every so often, he whispers to no one in particular, “Chai!…so, my wife don leave me go”.
You placed gold on my finger
You brought love, like I’ve never known
You gave life to our children
And to me, a reason to go on
You’re my bread when I’m hungry
You’re my shelter from troubled winds
You’re my anchor in life’s ocean
But most of all, you’re my best friend…
Facing the harsh truth and finding strength in loss.
The day is finally here. The day we say our last goodbyes. Emotions swell like storm clouds, heavy and relentless. Petals fall like whispered prayers. Leaves dry and crumble, mirroring the ache in our hearts. Tears carve rivers down cheeks as we gather around, mourning the loss of a mother who wasn’t just a mother but a best friend, a sister, and the gentlest of lovers.
Her absence feels like a storm that has stolen the sun. She was the melody in our laughter, the warmth in our silence. Life without her is an unfinished song, the lyrics hanging in the air, yearning for completion. But in our hearts, she remains, a luminous star guiding us through the dark, a whisper of love that never fades.
Grief has no manual. It’s messy, unpredictable, and relentless. But even in the deepest pain, I found something unexpected: gratitude, I found a strange amount of strength. I am grateful for the time I had with my mum, for the strength to care for my dad and siblings, and for the memories that no tragedy could erase.
This story, though marked by loss, is also one of resilience and love. The pain will never fully fade, but I carry my mom’s legacy in my heart, striving to live a life she would be proud of.
