THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU PROMISED
Your name, Adeniyi George, has rung in my head for the past six years. I think about the things that could have been if fate wasn’t so cruel and life’s ever-evolving chaos of dissatisfaction, hopelessness and grief stayed away from us a little longer. I have come to accept that to live is to be in a constant state of worry, of despair and an insatiable need to hold on to things that are long gone.
I look at Anjola-she reminds me of you; her laugh comes from her belly and ricochets through the walls of our room. She stands at 5’5; she’s only 10, and I sometimes think Anjola would be as tall as you when she comes of age. Her lips are laced with endless questions of when she can see you again, and I’m left with the burden of telling her in another life, we would be a family happy in love and not bound by the pain of not having you by our side. She soon forgets that she asked a question and is whisked away by her latest distraction, but she leaves me with a series of what-ifs.
On the other hand, Adesuwa is unrepentant in her belief that I do not love her. I look at her, and I see you again. Adeniyi, you left a piece of you in our children; how do you expect me ever to be free from your memories? I told her I loved her the other day, and she looked at me frightened and dazed. I expected her to say something, anything, to let me know that she is aware of how deeply my love for her runs. But Adesuwa welcomed my affection with silence, and the days that followed were nothing but echoes of my words. I have failed in the one task all mothers should be good at, loving their children.
You were here long enough to watch me deliver our boy. The nurse placed him in your arms, and you looked at me and said, “Nwa, I don’t think we should name him Timothy. I want something that makes us look at him and remember God’s faithfulness in our lives during this period.” I said Chidozie, and you said it was perfect because we believed God would fix you and make everything beautiful. Three weeks later, your heart stopped beating. Was that heaven’s way of punishing me? What happened to Jesus’ blood washes our sins away?
I have mourned you, I still do, and would continue too as long as I draw breath. Your demise cuts a little more when the kids tell me they are hungry. My salary is not enough to keep a roof over our heads, and our children’s appetite increases with every passing day. I’ve tried my best, and yet it is not good enough. For a while, the goodwill you had with the landlord helped smooth things when I didn’t pay our rent on time, but his patience dwindles every year, and I’m wary of his wrath.
The church has done its best to help in the little way it can, and it is because of them we’ve held on this long. I’m in debt, Adeniyi. I come home to people telling the kids to call them when I return from work. I do not mean to owe anybody; you know I hate to borrow, it’s physically painful, and I lose a bit of myself when I do so, but I can’t let these children starve. Yesterday I wrote a note to Mrs Yetunde, asking for some money; I owe her the least. I gave the letter to Adesuwa to deliver in hopes that she would look at our child and have pity. It worked, but is this the life I want to subject our kids to?
This life is not what you promised me when you came to my parents’ house to seek my hand in marriage. You said you would stand by me, and I would not have to worry about anything in my life. You said you would be there in the morning when I open my eyes, and You’d be the last thing I see before I close them at night. You said you love me and would do everything to make me smile. Ade ori mi, why then did you let cancer eat at you? Why did you allow the earth to swallow you six feet below? Why did you let my tears kiss the ground until they formed puddles of water where I see my reflection, and I cannot recognise myself anymore?
My life has become a spectacle of shame and pity. Our neighbours no longer look at me the same. The first question they ask our kids before anything else when they go to play is if they would like anything to eat. My clothes are no longer my size, and I can’t afford new ones. My sister helps me adjust them to my size and refuses to collect any form of payment. My parents want me to move home, but they have just enough to get by. And I know the kids would hate it there. Your brothers have disappeared from the surface of the earth, and I’d like to inform you that non of them attended your burial.
All in all, I am tired. Sometimes you come to me in my dream and tell me to hold on. I search for you other times, but I wake up drenched in sweat calling your name. It’s been six years; I want to see you again. Was it painful when you left? Did you find peace? Can I come and stay?
