Morbidity
Growing up as kids and as far as I could remember, we’ve never had enough of anything. Not money, not food, not clothes nor shoes or even sleep for that matter, and we’ve lived that way too long that neither I or Fidelis complained at any point. We knew as children we could demand for certain privileges but we never did, but that wasn’t the case with Samantha, she was the last child so we understood her desire to have more of everything including our own ration of food if she could. But she is the sweetest thing that ever happened to us.
Fide fancied watching and playing football, he is a die-hard Arsenal fan, people often mocked his team because they were in drought of trophies and was the worst team in English football. But he never paid no attention to their mockery, Fide was more than just an elder brother, Fide is my confidant! On most days after school he spent his evenings at the school field close to our house, you could hear the shout of “Goal” every time someone scored.
During early evening hours Mama always prayed and since Fide was at the field, I and Samantha were her prayer partner. Scratch that, I was her prayer partner because Samantha was always too tired to pray, she mumbled words but it was all gibberish. Sometimes, while we prayed I become distracted by the shout of “Goal!”. Samantha would open her eyes to look at my reactions each time. I never liked praying but you could not tell Mama no especially when it involved prayer.
I didn’t fancy playing football as much as Fide did, and I never judged him for doing so, I spent my free time glancing through magazines or any old newspaper I could lay my hands on and made collage from them, Papa and Fide would talk about sports for hours, watching a game with the two of them was exciting, that is if it’s the Super Eagles playing.
Mama says I was the creative one in the family, Sam the Doctor of the house, while Fide is the brain box. And frankly she is right, I consider Fide as the ink to my pen. Fide edits all of my stories and letters, Fide has the perfect word for every sentence.
He often read and spoke about my stories and what he felt, he particularly liked my style of writing, he said it had that child’s voice, that it still had that innocence “of course I’m still a child “I’ll say. I fell flattered at first, and a couple of times but then it sounded too familiar.
I considered Fide a better writer than myself because he knew exactly how to express himself with words, we both knew that. And I would always insist he edits my works. Fide, I like to describe as the one with a Midas touch. All of my pieces had always come to life whenever he edited them, it felt different and the tone changes immediately. I enjoyed how he chose his words, his descriptions were always vivid. Plain yet simple, he paints a picture with his words and it’s beautiful to read.
Both our parents believed in God so much, I often wondered how they were so happy with life and still talk about how God loved them and us so much. Mama said we need to go to church to serve God, I once asked her if the church was where God lived, she responded with a smile and touched my heart and said “he lives here“. I remember giving this confused look to her answer, how could he be living in my heart I thought, if God actually lived in my heart, why did we have to go to church on Sundays to worship? And, getting up early on Sunday mornings were my worst days.
Fide and Sam were always excited about Sunday services, but not me, Sam danced too much I always told Mama. Samantha believes she’s the best dancer of her peers, Fide didn’t dance much. He shook his head like an Agama lizard while they sang.
The pastor also likes to shouts too much when he’s talking, like him and someone is quarrelling, the other day in church one usher stepped on my feet and didn’t even notice she stepped on someone, the Pastor preaches long sermons. Me I always felt sleepy whenever he starts preaching, Mama would tap me every time I was dozing off. My second worst thing about Sunday services was that our parents would make us to start greeting people after church, and I hated people touching my hair.
Fide was much friendlier than myself, I knew he didn’t like it neither but he had no choice. Samantha always wanted to eat something sweet and Mama would indulge her.
Everything changed when Papa died. Mama said he had gone to be with the Lord. That was something I could never understand. Why would Papa go to be with the Lord when he has us? Was it that he was tired of us? Then Mama said that God took him, this made me even more confused. Why would God even do something like that?
I still remember the night papa died, as mama held his lifeless body on their bed, he felt warm and then he looked like he was still asleep. Mama cried for help that night, but no one came to her rescue. As I, Samantha and Fide stood helplessly and watched papa gasp his last breath.
When we entered their room and saw mama crying with papa in her arms, I thought, what? No! But the crazy thing was that tears were holding in my eyes which never came down. The morning came and soon our house was filled with relatives from mama’s people and that of papa’s. I thought did all these people really know our parents, how come all of them are relatives that I had never seen before now?
I particularly remember one of the people who was said to be our uncle from our father’s side came to I and my siblings, “if you ever need anything don’t hesitate to let me know” his precise words. But your guess is as good as mine, that was the first and the last time we would hear from him. When papa’s burial time came his brothers brought up an issue that he was never fully part of whatever happened in the village, so there were concerns. I remember Mama standing her ground when they demanded for some fines they felt should be paid. I have always thought Mama to be quite stubborn for a believer.
The burial came and papa was buried at his father compound. We returned home after a week, they requested mama to wait for another two weeks but she refused and left with us. You see, too stubborn for a believer. And for some unknown reason, I never cried. Not on the night when papa died or at the burial. Somehow I didn’t understand my emotions, I was well aware of what had happened to my family but I couldn’t cry. It was understandable Sam didn’t cry also because she was too young to grasp that her father was no more. She cried when she saw mama crying but she didn’t know why either.
The week we returned from the village, one evening after we finished praying with Mama, she sat me down and asked why I didn’t cry when my father died. I just sat there staring at her. “Benji! Why didn’t you cry when your father died? Is it that you don’t feel his loss yet, eh?” I said nothing, only staring at her. “I know you miss him, eh. But he is with the Lord now”. At that point I almost told her to keep quiet. But I know she raised me well. “How is it you know that he is with the Lord?” I asked. She stretched her hand to pick up the bible from the table and began to flip open. Then I said, “I have been seeing papa in my dreams”. She stopped and looked at me, like I was possessed by some evil spirit. It was almost like a confirmation of her guess about my state after papa passed on, morbidity. That’s how they described it. I showed no signs of grief all this time.
“Since when?” she asked. I said some days after he died, she kept quiet for a while, she closed the bible and asked why I haven’t told her about this before now.
I had always known my father had some presence in my life, long before he passed, especially after he passed. In my sleeping and my awakenings, I told her that I believed the people who had died tend to haunt us because we love them too little. Because with time we forget them, not like we mean too, but we do eventually. That is why they clamor for us in our dreams. By the time I was done talking, she just sat there staring at me. “Where did you hear all this?” she said.
What mama didn’t understand was I might not have cried when papa died, but that don’t mean that I didn’t feel his loss. I just didn’t give in to the construct that God took him from his family only to go be with Him. And in my little mind I didn’t want to forget him, so it felt right when I could feel his presence. This was a difficult conversation to have with mama and I understood why it was. No one takes a child seriously. Not around issues like this.
