On 2 November 2024, a friend posted about her dad in celebration of All Souls’ Day. I commented on her status update, ‘May his soul rest in peace.’ I packed my bags that morning, I had told mummy I was coming home the previous day. I finished with a second class upper like I promised, my certificate and statement of result were in my bag ready to be shown to you. 

When I got home everyone kept telling me, ‘Congratulations!’ I replied to them half-heartedly, ‘Thank you’, mummy was outside with them. I headed straight for your room as it’s my tradition when I get home. I did not find you there, I only found your body. Everyone is calling me, ‘Sorry’, ‘Be strong’, ‘May his soul rest in peace’. They kept muttering these words like they were capable of shrinking my pain, of filling this void. 

In the last decade, every time someone spoke about you, there was a discernible concern in their expression. In a matter of days, it shifted from, ‘How is your father?’ to ‘Sorry about your father.’  The concern had shifted from you to us—how we are coping with your loss. Chenemi’s call came in, ‘Hello, Chiboy, how are you? Sorry, sorry,’ she had tucked her grief aside to comfort her younger brother. I was speechless about my new reality. Sobs broke the brief silence on the call, sobs dissolved into tears—it was not her, it was me. 

I went to the man in charge of your obituary, he asked me, ‘what is your father’s name?’ 

‘Mr…’ 

‘Late Mr’ He interjected. 

I am startled but I do not flinch at this reminder, it is a necessary detail. 

‘How old was he?’ 

‘Was’, our English teacher once told us in class this verb was only used to describe dead people. It does not feel right that you are being described in the past tense. 

‘Sixty-eight,’ I replied to his question. 

‘Do you have his photographs?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

I bring out three pictures. Only one captured your smile, I could sense the genuineness of it. You almost never smiled in your pictures. 

What is the proper way of mourning? I haven’t lost a loved one before. 

Your room is inanimate. None of these surviving articles can fill the void of bodily presence. Five years ago, this room was filled with newspapers—The Sun, The Nigerian Tribune, The Guardian, none of those have existed in this room in the last two years. I guess the Nigerian economy has a way of putting an end to a tradition. Only your books survived the years. Some of the books you didn’t read, you bought them to support your friends who became authors. Only last month, I stood in this same space, sharing the news of my final year result. 

The generator mechanic came to the house, he eulogized you: you once paid his daughter’s tuition. He says he cannot forget you in this life. He did forget though, when he was charging you exorbitant fees for his services, even when his repairs never lasted. I did not tell him that I find him annoying. I want to be left alone, to find meaning in this loss, to be amnesic to grief. His persistent presence was soothing; mourning is too perplexing to be experienced alone. I only enjoyed his company after he left, but while he was here, I feel like shouting: ‘Leave me alone!’ But he meant well—this time. 

Your barber asked after you, ‘How is daddy’s health?’ I chuckled, dumbfounded at his ignorance, lost for an answer. He repeats the question, this time there is an intensity in the question, it is evident he now knew, this question was only a confirmation of his recent realization, ‘He is dead.’ It felt like I was an actor reading a script, it didn’t feel real announcing your demise. A bikeman saw your obituary, he said your picture was an old picture, you have aged beyond the picture. If only he knew it wasn’t time that shrunk your vigour. 

You are at peace now, a peace that was scarcely found in your eyes and voice in these past years. You chose a good day to rest. We are at your grave. One by one, we dip the trowel into the loamy soil—as it descends on your coffin. Everyone is crying, everyone is wishing you goodbye. All I have are paralyzed emotions depicted by a numb countenance. When the saints go marching in their immaculate number, I hope you are among them⎈