It was a Thursday afternoon. 

I had just finished writing an exam and as I stepped out of the classroom, I saw Udy. She was leaning against the wall, waiting patiently for me. She walked up to me and said, 

“Your Dad said you shouldn’t come home for the traditional wedding anymore since you have exams.”

I wasn’t happy. It was my elder sister’s wedding and I didn’t want to miss it. 

“Haaaaa! My next paper is after the wedding naaaa! I can work around it!”

“Sorry o, I’m just a messenger! Your father said don’t come!” 

My Dad isn’t someone you disobey without a strong, valid reason so I advised myself and grudgingly cancelled the trip. 

A few days later, after my last paper, Udy stopped by again with another message but this time, it was from her father; not mine. 

“My Dad said you should come over to our house later.” 

Udy’s father was a Professor in my school. I called him Uncle. He was (and still is) Daddy’s friend; more like a brother; and just like Daddy, he is one you cannot disobey. 

I showed up at Uncle’s house and all he said to me was,

“Your father wants you to come home tomorrow. Pack your bags. I have already planned a ride for you. I will pick you up from your hostel in the morning.”

Why was Uncle planning this trip for me? Why would he offer to pick me up from my hostel on a Saturday morning? I had questions but I could not think of an answer. Then I thought to myself, 

“Mommy must have spoken to her husband. There’s no way she would travel all the way from Abuja to the east and go back without seeing me.”

I smiled. 

I went back to my hostel, packed my bags and just as Uncle had promised, he picked me up, dropped me off at another Professor’s house and in a few hours, I was on my way to my village. 

There was no one to talk to in the car. Prof had company. His friend was in the car and so they were both engrossed in their conversation. Me?  I was not bored. Over the years, I had learnt to love and enjoy my own company. 

So, I sat there, at the back seat of the car. Quiet. Deep in my thoughts but there was nothing in those thoughts to prepare me for the news that was waiting for me. 

Prof interrupted. 

“We are getting close to Ama Alim. Your uncle mentioned you would be getting off there, right? You should be able to find your way home.”

“Yes sir.”

Honestly, I didn’t know the way to my father’s house from that intersection and in my village, a  home is identified using the family name. Thankfully, I knew my family name so I got on a motorcycle, popularly known as ‘Okada’ – it was a means of transportation at that time -, mentioned my father’s name and in a few minutes, I was home!

I got in and my sister came out to meet me. I wasn’t expecting to see her because the wedding date had passed. I started asking questions, but she won’t answer. She took me into the room and sitting on the bed was my brother with a cast on his leg. 

I screamed!

“What happened to your leg?”

He didn’t say anything. That was when my sister let out the most devastating news I have ever heard in my life. 

“They had an accident. He broke his leg.”

“What about Daddy?”

“He’s fine.”

“And Mommy?”

“She didn’t make it.”

Suddenly, my head became heavy. I felt like I heard a million gunshots or bombs at the same time and even though no one said a word, the room became too loud for me.  I walked out. 

How? How was this even possible?

Mommy was larger than life; a strong woman; agile; always on the move! How could death take her out in seconds? How?! 

I had questions but never got the answers. So, I have stopped asking. 

This year, I decided to reflect on the few years I spent with her. I was 21 when she passed on. She was in her late 50s. I tried to remember if there was anything I did, in my only little way, to make her feel loved and appreciated. Thankfully, my memory didn’t fail me. 

I remember the dark brown mug I bought for her on Mother’s Day because she loved to drink tea. It cost me about 20 naira (less than 10cents). I was a student at that time. That was what I could afford. 

I remember washing her hollandaise wrappers. If you are Nigerian, especially from the Eastern part, you know how our mothers loved and treasured their hollandaise! I will wash, starch, iron, fold and arrange them neatly in her closet. 

I remember making and serving her meals on her sewing table. She made uniforms for some schools within the city and on some days, she will sit behind that machine, without food or drink, just to meet the deadlines. I would fix the buttons on the shirts she already made, write out the invoices for the different schools and prepare the uniforms for delivery. 

I remember our trips to the market on Friday mornings. Mommy could bargain for Africa! She would walk around the stores with me tagging along while she selected and bargained until she got the best deal.

I remember acting as her temporary hairstylist. Mommy had the most beautiful grey hair; not one black strand! I would wash it, put some oil on it and comb it out until she was ready for a proper visit to the salon. 

I remember just sitting and chatting with her. In those conversations, she would rebuke, warn, encourage, tease and teach and whenever I stared in disbelief at some of the stories she shared with me, she would say,

“hapu nwa m, I gaghi aghota” (don’t worry my child. You won’t understand).

I can go on and on! I have a long list of memories recorded in my ‘Book of Remembrance’! 

As I reflected, I smiled. I wasn’t the perfect daughter but looking back, I’m happy with the little I did for her and with her. 

You know, 

our loved ones won’t always be here forever;

their times are not in our hands. 

Let us love and appreciate them while we can. 

If we wait until all is perfect, our wait may be in vain. 

Eka nmi! Madam! Ish-Mama! Dee Eudorah! 

20 years after, your memory still lives. 

#11Oct2000

#20yearsgone

#MommyStillLives