When my grandpa died, it was not a too painless death but he left at the chilly hours of dawn. That sweetest hour when it is best to turn on your bed until the not too friendly sun rays stings you to wake up. It was unbearable but my grandma was there, not to weep for her dying husband but to bid him farewell for a battle well fought; stepmother was there too. Although the name stepmother is not a title I wished I called her but yet the title is something that can’t be denied her, she was there with syringe in hand in an attempt to remedy whatever is left in him to rejuvenate but grandpa was eager to go. Grandpa was eager to leave this world where he couldn’t go to the bathroom himself, if not for anything at all, he couldn’t bare me his grandson carrying him to his bed or having to change his diaper. And so grandpa left being very eager to leave the world where his children were needlessly fighting and he kept on looking without the strength to put an end to it.
‘Grandpa passed on’ the person at the other end of the line solemnly said and I sprang up from my bed. I was waiting to be stung by the sun rays of the morning but the call woke me. My father was the other person at the end of the line and I wished he had called earlier. I wanted to see that very light of life leave his eyes but instead, my stepmother was given the privilege. I wanted to see him draw his last breath but now hearing the news of his death from my father who didn’t check on him throughout his sickness trial made me sick. I was confused, not knowing whether to cry or thank God for taking him away.
His burial was the worst I have ever seen. Quarrel upon quarrel, fight rolling over insults and curses triumphing over mockery but at last he was six feet below the ground. The first night was the first time I dreamt of him and I thought because I bathed his body, it should definitely be the work of my imagination but it didn’t stop. I kept dreaming and dreaming, I started getting warned and when I told my mother or other people I kept hearing it was the power of my imagination that was at work. And then the last dream came. I was lying on my bed down with malaria and not able to sleep. I haven’t dreamt about grandpa for three month and so this is not the power of my imagination, I wasn’t thinking about him so this is not the power of my imagination, his picture was no longer popping in my head and so this is definitely not the power of my imagination. He rose up from his casket and told me hell is real. He told me to stay away from certain friends and he told me Jesus himself told him to go about for thirty days preaching to his children and after thirty days, he would finally die. ‘accept Jesus as your lord and personal savior’ he whispered to me and he took out the now yellow coloured wool in his nose. I inserted that cotton wool myself when he died and it was snow white, I was part of those that dressed him up in a white lace but now he was dressed in a fur. Grandpa stood up and walked round the compound which in my dream appeared to be his compound. He kept ringing the bell and shouting as far as his strength could carry ‘accept this Jesus as your Lord and personal Saviour, he is coming even before your current age and time flows into the next. Brethren hell is real’ he kept on saying until his back was lost in the fog of my dream and then I woke up. Grandpa said hell is real, Grandpa said I should accept Jesus but I am no longer a virgin Grandpa, I have once kissed a boy Grandpa, I drink grandpa, I smoke Grandpa, I watch porn Grandpa, will Jesus still accept me grandpa? And then from the corner of my mind, something whispered to me ‘But it was just a dream’…

O’tobiloba S. Bankole

Like what you read? Give Otobiloba S Bankole a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.