YES, ALL MEN WILL DIE
YES, ALL MEN WILL DIE
(In memory of my late ‘sweet’ mum)
When my mother died, people said, ‘…your mother has gone to fight for
you…’ I heard much of this amid tears. Today, I still hear the voices reverberating.
I believe!
While the remains of my mother
was being lowered into the grave and everybody (family members) had moved closer
to the tomb, I remained on my seat right
at the front where they made for the family members. I was not still shouting
down heaven and asking God “why?” I was just there, like a doll placed on that
plastic chair. I did not move or speak, until two people held my hands and said
something almost in a whisper, “bia ka iwunyere mama aja.” Reality had dawned. Mama
was already in the grave. It was time to pay my last respect. It is
traditional. A man scooped deep-brown sand with the shovel and handed to me. “Ngwa…,”
he said. With my hands shaky, I let the sand drop on mama’s coffin three times
before tears clouded my face, and again those two hands led me away back to my
seat. “Ozugo! Ozugo!! eh, it’s ok,” I heard their voices almost uniformly, echoing
in my head.
So while mama was being covered,
I considered what could have killed my strong, ‘sweet’ mother. Then, I
remembered an article my friend, Izuchukwu Okeke wrote about Chinua Achebe when
the world literary icon died. I remembered particularly the title – “Like
Achebe, All Things Will Die.” This is not in any way to compare my late mother
with the late literary ace. It just reminds me that death awaits all men. Even
though the death of my mother was like a kick in the teeth, I never had the
presumption that some person was responsible. But people have made several
suggestive statements in that line. If truly someone killed my mother, let it
be. What can I say, but to borrow from my friend and say that like my mother,
all men will die.
When I was still a kid, I use to
hear my father say that one does not have preference among his children. He said
children were equal in the eyes of their parents. But all that, I found as I
grew, were lies. Somehow parents get to love one child more that the other(s).
It is not an unconscious disposition. It is a disposition attracted by the
child. But the parent is wise and tries not to show, yet it shows anyway. I saw
all these from my mother. I do cannot say she had more affection to me than my
other siblings, but I know she was explicitly particular about me. And that is
why I can say I miss her more. I see my brother offer a cheap smile. He doesn’t
believe me. See? Everyone thinks he’s the one who’s loved most. Yet I know mama
had something particular about me.
It is no longer news. My mother is dead, a
melancholic reality it is. The shock of my mother’s passing has remained with
me. You do not understand, I know. Perhaps because you still have your mother
alive, and for that I can pardon your naivety. Or as a Christian you would say
“weep not like them that have no hope…” But my spirituality and Christianity has
not taken away my human nature, and that is why I still cry. Of truth, just as the
love of a mother is incomparable, so is the pain of her death. No death is as
painful as a mother’s. If perchance yours is gone too and you do not feel the same
way I do, it may be that you did not have my type of mother.
My mother was a gift to us. She gave us
everything she ever could, and more. I do not come from the kind of family you
may call well-to-do. But mama made us to understand that life itself is
transient; that we could become anything we want in spite of original
background. The weight of her struggle to make our lives better was increasingly
much on her. And the consequences did not hesitate: first it was the knee joint
problem - arthritis, then the eye and… Mama was a strong woman. So while we struggled
medically to ensure she was not brought down by any of these ailments, she
showed a lot of will and doggedness. It was almost her middle name. And that is
why I couldn’t believe it when they told me it was two days cough that killed
my ‘sweet’ mother. I didn’t think anything could kill mama, until God calls
her. But mama, like all men was a pawn of fate. How cruel could death be! How
spiteful! How vindictive! But just then as I cried, a friend reminded me of one
of Job’s encounter with God in the Bible where God asked him – “…do you have
any right to be angry…?” Truly, like Job, I do not have any right to be angry.
As it is said, God giveth and He taketh. Blessed be His name forever.
I am not yet immune from tears
and anguish from mama’s passing since the news stormed me like a thunderbolt.
Like everyone, I know that death doesn’t need our permission when it comes
neither does it knock on our door to announce its coming. But I didn’t think
that mama would die without seeing my face again, without telling some things -
those things the dying whisper the ‘beloved’ – or without even saying
“goodbye.” But that was it. Mama was transferred to a better world without a
word to her ‘beloved’. December 21st, 2013. It was to be a
remarkable day. I was travelling home to celebrate Christmas with mama. It had
always been joyful and fun. But all that did not happen again. The hope and joy
of seeing mama was cruelly punctured while I was still on my way. I was still
at Lokoja when the news came: “…Ik, as I speak to you now, mama is dead…” That
was it. Mama was gone. My sweet mother is no more. Rest in peace mama! (subs).
My mother died a pure sacrifice,
confirming more of her love for us. And like I wrote in the funeral oration “…She
Died for Us.” This is what I know, and I believe it. I returned to Abuja today
with the voices still echoing – “onwu mama ga ewetere unu iheoma, mama g’anuru
unu ogu, she will fight for you.” I still here them and I believe it – mama has
paid the price. Thank you mama, Adieu!
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