My Final Respects

Tobi, my boy

I ransacked his Facebook, looking for a picture where he wasn't looking too young, but he was; he was young. He was nearly 22.

Maybe this might not be final, because I’ll always think of you when certain Nigerian songs play, and how you took the time out to explain the Yoruba language to me. I don’t think I’ll ever stop seeing the veins in your neck strain as you sang loudly with me on those mornings we woke up and drank the pain away.

Tobi, maybe this might not be final because I’m positive if I should come across that drink, our drink, the sachet Tombo (Vodka) Chocolate, again — I’ll break down. Thank God it hasn’t been in circulation for some years.

Maybe this might not be final, because the guilt of not seeing your mother after your death still pricks at me. But it’s too late now. I waited too long, and now it’s too late. I don’t know where they are or if she’ll recognize me. I guess I’m still scared. Of what, I’m no longer sure.

It may not be final, because I'll remember you whenever I enter a new year. I’ll remember your joy.

“Happy new year!!! Happy new year!” you called, screaming these words.

Too bad I couldn’t match your energy.

Too bad I held a worthless scorn.

But you didn’t mind, you didn’t notice. You stayed screaming blessings my way.