An ode to Ola: Joni Mitchell never lies (VII)

loss (lɒs)
noun – the fact or process of losing something or someone.
Hey guys. I didn’t need to give you the definition above this paragraph. But I just wanted to highlight the process of losing somebody, or rather my process. I don’t need anyone to tell me about loss, in the last two or three years alone I’ve lost two friends to suicide, another to leukaemia and a childhood friend to a brain tumour. This life takes and takes from you and before you know it, it’s your time to be taken from someone. As corny as this may come across, I have gained from all of those people that have passed away, I will have memories with/of them for the rest of my life. But I have never experienced a loss in the way that I have experienced my mother’s one.
The finality of life once it’s over is so crazy. There’s no written rule on how to cope or deal with the loss so I would never begrudge anyone for taking it badly. Tragedy will always teach you about someone; unfortunately tragedy taught me that my mum isn’t as bulletproof as she makes out. The process isn’t clear cut, but like happiness, it’ll take us on a journey. This will all make sense, so take another walk with me. (Journey, walk, no? You people don’t appreciate nice things).
I woke up on Monday in the worst pain, already late for work thinking it would be a bad day but I had no idea just how bad it was going to get. Cue a text from my little brother around midday saying that “mums mum is dead”. I froze. My breathing changed, in an instant life took a turn even I couldn’t see. I knew my grandma was unwell but I thought she would be alright for a couple more years at least. Then the chest pain came because I could picture how my mum was feeling.
I didn’t really speak on Monday, I spent the rest of my time at work listening to Isaiah Rashad’s “Brenda”, his own ode to his late grandma, and pretending to do work. I couldn’t even think about any of that, I felt bad because I wasn’t around. I rushed home to see my mum and what I found was surreal. My home is never ever quiet (most of us snore) but it felt like it was 11am on Armistice Day. Seeing my mum cold and pale like that broke my heart; her and her mum never really saw eye to eye when she was growing up (history really repeats itself, wow) but they had the same maternal nature that made them the women they are. Even my little brother was crying, which is actually crazy to me. Mum said that if we had met her then we would’ve loved her because everyone that met her loved her. I always said I wanted to touch everyone I meet in life, I guess I know where I got that from.
The truth is I never met my grandma and I would be a liar if I told you that I was close to her. But I loved her from when me and her first spoke over the phone. Normally my mum never answers the phone when Nigeria call; we think they heard Money Trees by Kendrick and decided that we have money in abundance over here. One day sha. But on that day my mum gave me the phone and she was so lovely to me. She was strong so her being sick didn’t come to mind as I could never tell. Her English was so good, I always thanked her for clocking that my Yoruba is atrocious (I’m working on it). That phone call meant a lot to me and she’ll never know how much it did.
By the time you read this she would have been buried on Thursday back home in Nigeria. I wish I could’ve gone but the Muslim side of my family stress that my grandma would have to be buried immediately. It just would’ve been nice to say goodbye. One day I’ll go over to her burial site and leave her some flowers. The most heartbreaking thing about this ordeal is that my mum hadn’t seen grandma in 40 years 😔 that’s an actual lifetime and it burns me. I can’t imagine me not seeing my brothers or my closest friends in 40 years. I think that’ll weigh heavy on my mum’s conscious until it’s her time but I can’t beat her up about that. Context is a wonderful thing, even in dire circumstances. But please, visit your grandparents before it’s too late. Please.
I don’t really know why I had decided to write about this; I had number seven (VII) lined up already. It was going to be about the Don’t Call It Road Rap documentary by Noisey, which is still pending obviously (wait on it). But my friend Rianna told me I needed to mourn and address the matter head on. It’s not often that she gives good advice but Lord knows that when she comes through with some you had better take it. I’m okay but sharing my mum’s pain is a different experience altogether. Will it change our relationship? Probably not. Mum is a creature of habit and a hard headed one at that so that is another process. But at least she knows that I’m here for her at least.
I say that to say this: life is way too short to be a prideful person. That friend that pops up in the back of your mind, you miss them don’t you? Shout them. Give them a call. That girl/guy that you like with the wicked smile that comes to mind? Pop up and let them know you were thinking of them. Your (grand)parents? Call them to say you love them. Harbour no regrets, don’t leave things too long like me and my mum did. I’m due a few sleepless nights over the coming weeks and months, but they’ll go.
Not a lot of people know this but the last time I saw Michael I was coming home from work by bus and I saw him playing basketball near Kennington Park. He looked so happy and full of life. Normally I would get off the bus to say hi but I was so tired that day I physically couldn’t. A few weeks later I was seeing RIP Michael all over Twitter. When his ex and someone from my sixth form confirmed it was him I never felt so sick in my life. His funeral was the saddest, everyone was crying or close to tears. One of my pagans, you know the type to tell your girl (ex girl) at the time you ain’t shit? He was there. He cried on my shoulder so much my suit was looking scuba! One of the worst days of my life.
Matt… oh God! I told you in my last piece about how we clicked instantly. I wish I took his number that day. We would’ve spoken about a whole bunch of stuff, maybe he would’ve let me in. I could’ve tried to help. But it wasn’t God’s plan, or Matt’s unfortunately. God rest his soul.
So do you understand what I’m getting at? Don’t leave things too long. Don’t let pride get in the way of things because when life becomes HD, it will hit you. The last thing you want in this life are regrets; not everyone can live with them like Jay-Z.
How I’m gonna honour her you ask? Good question. I’ve already put up money for her funeral. But more importantly, I’m finally getting my second tattoo. A drawing of Queen Nefertiti’s bust on my thigh (save your stripper jokes) to honour my Queen Olatunde Lawal; because without her I wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t have written this or anything else. “Olatunde Lawal 1945 – 2017" underneath that to highlight the finality of the situation. It’s still so crazy to me. I finished this on Wednesday but you’ll see a live picture of it when it’s done. Might hurt like hell, but it’s nothing compared to the pain my grandma was going through. I love her and I hope she knows this. I wonder if they have wifi in heaven so she can read this, who knows?

I just want to take this time to thank everyone that has reached out to me this week; colleagues, friends, strangers (even strangers!) I thank God for people that are humane, there’s not enough of us around. Funnily enough a man said this to me when he saw that I helped someone that cut their nose outside Elephant and Castle station on Sunday night. Gave him my flannel and water bottle to clean himself up with and called the ambulance for him. See? I’m trying to love my neighbour.
I’m happy I have people like my friends in my life, for the most part they haven’t tried to baby me or wrap me up in cotton wool. They know I’m a big boy, I put myself and my family on my back. If it weren’t for Tonte and Rianna however, you lot would not be getting this post.
Thank you for reading this and making me comfortable enough to share my story. I hope you take something from this and do the right thing. The human thing. Isaiah Rashad’s late nana will tell you that you can’t save them all.
- Sam
PS. RIP to Rashan Charles. The “police” need to stop killing my brothers because it’s unjust and it’s disgusting. That’s someone’s son, someone’s daddy gone just like that. The police don’t care about black lives and we’ve known this since before the days of Steven Lawrence. Change is needed; I can’t tell you the what/how but this needs to stop.
PPS. If you got the Joni Mitchell/Janet Jackson and Q-Tip reference you’re a real one!
