Our Deepest Condolences

This essay, and title, is inspired by Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀'s New York Times essay on grief. My thoughts are scattered but it's something I've been meaning to write for a while. I hope it makes sense.

I first read Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀'s New York Times essay on grief in 2020 and it has been a direction for me when handling grief. The essay has become a roadmap anytime grief overwhelms. I console myself with the fact that even if I share my feelings, people can't totally relate to them. They'd try to offer sympathetic words but the words are never enough. So instead of sharing, I bottle it or share with my bed with tears or with myself, with anger. There, any little act becomes a trigger. This is one of the factors that end my relationships. Even though I move on, I can't help but reflect on the situations that lead to them. It is like losing someone precious to death; you don't forget them, you just try and take comfort in other happenings.

I read Ayọ̀bámi’s essay again this morning as I journey down to Abeokuta for my monthly clearance and, for the first time since I've been reading the essay, I decided to read the comments. The comments are as profound as the essay. About 72 comments and I found myself reading them carefully as I read the essay. A comment from one George reads: “There is a story by Chekhov, titled "Heartache". It's about a nineteenth-century taxi driver (horse and carriage), whose son has died recently. He tries to tell his passengers about his son's death, but no one is willing to listen. At the end of the day he goes to the horse's stable and tells his grief to his horse.”

I relate somehow to the taxi driver's story. Sometimes, I find myself holding a mirror myM gave me when we were together to my face, telling myself how things would have been if some things did not happen. Like how my life would have been perfect if my father existed in it. I also tell myself how profound my life has been despite his absence. I never had the chance to mourn him – you can only mourn whom you share memories with – but I sometimes become envious when people share notes to their fathers on father's day. I wish he was here. I also wish he was not because I don't think I would have jumped earlier as I did. Every circumstance has a reason.

You can only mourn whom you share memories with.

Another comment from one Alex reads: “Seneca also offered advice on how to live. Never take anyone important to you for granted, because there are no guarantees they will live yet another day. Pay attention to them now, instead of planning to do so at some future time - this way you will have enjoyed their company while you could, and you will not be filled with remorse at your neglect. Everyone dies.”

I lost my sister a year or two ago and, since the day the news came to me, she only comes to my heart anytime death is mentioned around me. I have four sisters, or three now, and I share different connections with each of them. What makes her death crushing was because I didn't share anything deep with her. I can say we have no connection except that the same genes of blood flow in our veins. Which is why her death, as it should, does not strike me often as the death of my mother that has never even arrived. I hate this feeling. I wish I had spent more time with her. I don't know what her face looked like anymore because the last time we saw before her passing was about 12 years ago. She came home with an Ankara dress she sewed by herself for me. She had the eyes for the littlest details, so much that she guessed my height and size from my voice. I still count my sisters as four. And I can't remember what year she died because I still don't believe it, as though she's still in Ondo, sewing clothes.

It took a moment for me to process this comment from one JFR because it relates to the core of my feelings: “It's human to grieve and everyone feels empathy toward others who are grieving - for some it can be too difficult to say anything though. If you find yourself grieving a loss and are shocked that some of your friends aren't saying what you want (or feel you need) them to say, trust that they are thinking it. They're paralyzed by not knowing what to say or do for their friend. Believe in their silent support and take care of yourself.”

When the news about my brother, AbdulHafeez, whom I can't call my brother in the order of things, came, I was performing ablution for Subhi. As I was wiping my head back and forth, the wail thundered inside the room behind the window behind me. And one of my elder brothers trickled it out. He was crying, “aiye mi ti baje.” The night before, his daughter was down with an illness and I dreamt that it took her. When he mentioned it was Dr. AbdulHafeez, the feelings in my body can't be described. I was blaming myself for dreaming of death for a child. And I was relieved. But I became sadder because Dr. AbdulHafeez was not supposed to die. He doesn't deserve to die. Till this day, I don't have the words to console myself or his family. Every time Quayyim and I speak, I want to ask him how he's holding up, but I resist because I wish not to open up a part he's trying to shield. Some deaths are not meant to happen but I can't blame God.

Ayọ̀bámi mentioned in the essay that “In some ways the beloved is also the bereaved-in-waiting, and just as in the course of our lives we wish people well as they graduate, marry or reach some other milestone, eventually we will find ourselves struggling to find the appropriate way to commiserate with loved ones when a member of our community achieves that final, inescapable one.”

As we send “take heart” messages to people, ours is also unconsciously prepared because we all are “bereaved-in-waiting” and as we struggle to find words to console people when they lose their loved ones, so would people struggle with words when sympathizing with our family when we leave.