Patrick, bloodline, nine lives.

Today (July 16, 2017) at House on the Rock, Lagos.

This is common. Pastors lift people’s hands daily — especially on their birthdays, moreso when it’s thanksgiving service. I shouldn’t care.

But today was different. It was Patrick. Our Patrick. I watched Pastor Adefarasin assert those words, “that his life will not be cut short.” And then it hit me: meehn, today could have been Patrick’s funeral o. I would have watched this tragedy play out before my very eyes. And then I’d craft a beautiful eulogy, incoherent sentences only stitched together by my salty tears. I’d speak of how Patrick took me under his wings as a naïve 21-year-old Program Manager starting my first job at Microsoft. I’d recount his painstaking effort in my relocation across the US, negotiating with every possible auto dealer to buy my first car (Darlington), finding a church, learning the ropes of a software behemoth in Redmond. I’d relish memories of his impeccable taste, his fashion sense, his several “sisters in the Lord” (…boy were there many!), and how many of his clothes I’ve stolen so far with my alluring li’l bro charm ;). Most importantly, I’d reminisce on our growing brotherhood over the years, a bond held together by his loving spirit and ability to pry into my business, look me straight in the eye, and dig out my occasional stupidity. (I applaud the very few people who can do this).

I was a younger brother Patrick never had. And as a guy who’s had to figure out manhood and grow up too quickly, better men are diamonds.

*Graphic pictures included. Viewer discretion advised*.

Thank God I did not lose Patrick on April 26. If you haven’t heard, here you go (click). These are the proverbial pictures that speak a thousand words. And this is not the first time. He escaped death 10 years ago as well. If you feel like reading some more, here you go.

From getting that frantic phone call at 2:00am in Abuja, to the emergency 8-hour surgery at Reddington Hospital, to jumping on the next flight at 7:00am, to opening my blood vessels at Reddington and asking them to take as much blood as they wanted, to preparing for the evacuation to Houston, to Patrick returning to us, words fail me on the journey so far.

All thanks to God Almighty, the One who makes it abundantly clear that we just run around this Lagos, chopping free oxygen, sometimes faffing around with people and things we think matter, oblivious to our powerlessness over the next second. He holds our every moment, calms our raging seas, walks with us through fire, even while we are completely unaware.

I would like to applaud the Lagos State Emergency Service (112). Patrick thought to call that number before he passed out in a pool of his own blood. 112 showed up, with an ambulance, almost immediately, and bundled what was left of him to Reddington. That changed the story. Governor Ambode, wehdone sa!

And to my brother Patrick, you ain’t going nowhere buddy. I write what would have been that tragic eulogy on tear-soaked paper. It is now as a celebration of your remarkable life. Here’s to more living. Happy Birthday!

PS: Abeg I still want those shorts… size 30 ;).

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Uzoma Nwagba’s story.