Sister Sister
This pain is excruciating, and I don’t know what hurts most: the fact that I no longer picture your face without visiting my camera roll or that I’ll never get to kiss the temple of your head anymore. I carry a picture of you in my wallet; it is my most prized possession. I pull it out at intervals and try to plant a kiss on your face. It’s for good luck. It’s not only weird when people ask about you when I do it in public.
Flowers are sprouting from the side of your grave. I like to think that’s your unique way of acknowledging my tears. You cannot speak, but you can send flowers my way. With sunflowers, you can tell me how you feel. I hope the other side is as precious as they taught us to believe. I hope it wasn’t a ploy to set our moral compass north when the preacher said we would walk the streets of gold.
I went to Iya Kemi’s shop the other day. She smiled at me and gave me extra meat, four extra pieces of beef. The truth is she kept adding until I asked her to stop. She said she misses you too. Our constant arguments about you eating amala every afternoon were the highlights of her days. In her confession, she hasn’t seen anyone consume as much amala at a go as you used to.
She also didn’t let me pay for my food. I insisted, telling her it’s not what you would like, but she’s one stubborn woman, you know? She said I should pay the next time I come around. I lost you; I’m not financially handicap, but I think giving me free food makes her feel better. So I’ve decided not to go to her place for a while.
I went through your stuff, and I saw everything — all the plans you had for June. Greece was an excellent choice, you know? We always spoke about going to Greece to enjoy the view, play on the beach and eat the local cuisine. We spent the nights looking at restaurants, local history spots, and festivals we could tour during our stay, but you never told me you had plans to make our fantasies a reality. We were going to go to Greece. Wow!
The silence during the ride home on the day we discovered you had cancer was deafening. Finally, you told me not to tell anyone. “It’s not a serious one. I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” you said. You kissed my cheeks and asked me to keep our little secret.
When your hair started falling off from chemo, we told people you were trying a new look, but I don’t think they bought it. I heard some people say you had started doing drugs. “Such a beautiful girl wasting her life away. Youths of nowadays,” they said. I swear, it took everything in me not to punch them.
When the situation deteriorated and we could no longer keep our little secret, we told our close family and made them promise to keep it within the family. Every call ended with, “Sure, we won’t tell anyone.” That very night, we got calls from people we didn’t even imagine could call, asking to speak to you.
People sent their sympathy, but every call did nothing but anger you. You wanted to know who was spreading the rumours, only that they weren’t rumours. You would scream, cry, and ask me why people could not just keep their mouths to themselves. The unsolicited visits were the worst. These people never came for any of your life celebrations but were willing to hold your hands in death.
You quit your job and stayed at home all the time, which gave us another avenue to bond in your last moments. The doctor had said you had only a month to live unless a miracle happened. I still remember that day vividly. Framed behind him were the words, ”We take care, but God heals.” I wonder why they spent so long to get degrees if they were waiting on God to do their jobs for them.
I slammed the table severely and asked a million questions at once. I’m sure the poor man was scared, but you sat there, quiet. You did not whisper a word until I finished yelling. Then, you said, ”Thank you, doctor.” We left the hospital that day and never looked back. In your defence, you did not want to spend the rest of your days holed up in a hospital.
We started Friends, Modern Family, How I Met Your Mother and a thousand other shows. I wanted to watch the office, but we decided not to waste your last moments on that after the first few episodes. You kept talking about how you’d only been existing all your life, and you wanted to now ‘live’ in the last few months.
The sunrise held a different meaning to you every morning, and every night you would walk to the balcony to watch the stars, with long socks and a duvet to avoid mosquitoes. You held every hug tighter, and your smile lingered a little longer. In your eyes, we saw how you wanted to enjoy every bit of life you had left in you.
We stopped talking about what cancer had limited you to and focused more on the opportunities it opened to you. You took cooking lessons and joked about how you were going to make excellent meals for the angels. You wondered if they would like their meals spicy or bland. You were thrilled in those moments, and after our night prayers, I would go to my room and cry.
I wanted a miracle for you, and I was willing to trade my life for yours. You deserved the world and more. The night before your death, you called us all to your room, and we played ludo. Even though you struggled to roll the dice and often miscounted your seeds, you said it was the best game you’d played in your entire life. We laughed because when everyone was done, you still had seeds in your house. So much for being the best game. I came to your room the next day with breakfast, and your body was like ice. I screamed, stopped, felt your pulse, and screamed again. Everyone rushed into the room. For weeks no one touched your ludo board. We didn’t know how to react to your passing.
Your goodbye took a month, and we cried in our rooms every day of that month. We thought we had no more tears left. Then, when the undertakers lowered your body into the ground, all the tears we hid behind the shadows and the words we refused to say during the weeks leading to your burial came pouring down. Mama fainted beside your grave, and they rushed her to the hospital. She had a stroke and is now confined to a wheelchair. Papa has played with your ludo board all by himself for the past months; he says it’s the only way he feels closer to you.
Aunty Nneka and Chigozie, who said you’d started using drugs, came over to the house the other day. They spoke about how you were strong, and no one knew what you were going through till the word got out. Again, I wanted to punch them in the face, but I told them to get out this time. In their usual manner, they ignored me and talked about a whole lot of nonsense.
Your departure has left a significant dent in my heart. Every night, I listen to our favourite song, JP Cooper’s Everything I Wanted, before I go to sleep. We discovered it on one of those nights when we needed a slow song to will us to sleep as we curled in your bed. Sometimes, I wake up humming the song, you know?
I miss you, sister.
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