Why Death, Not Dying, Scares Me
The phenomenon of death is one which intrigues and scares me at the same time. I think about death, not all the time per se, but the ponderance is amplified whenever I lose someone close to me.
Death had a head start on me, with the demise of my dad and I spent my growing years trying to wrap my head round its implications.
My father’s friends would always lament, especially when I visit my hometown, about how his death sealed their penury.
Of course, considering what the family went through, the thoughts of ‘what if’ would not be ridden.
Even with everything, the blow of death that really hit me hard was that of Gbenga Olokun. What a beautiful soul. Writing this triggered tears. I think about him every day. I lost myself when I heard. I cried uncontrollably for a whole day. I never knew I had such a fountain. My eyes were perpetually red. Bola bailed me out that day. I cried upon her shoulders still.
Two days before the incident, he called me about installing the Need for Speed game. I messaged him a day before to ask if it worked but I noticed he was not online. The day after, he was gone. So fast? How I had 57B in the exam I wrote a day after his death confounds me. His thoughts were the only thing in my head.
I am always shocked, when I see how people move on as if such a person never existed. I am tempted to shout, scream and shake everybody into the consciousness that how can you be normal, how can you smile, how can you behave as if the deceased has been scraped from your memory???
Everytime we gather at my youth fellowship, I remember Gbenga, his smiles, frequent checkup calls, gentleness, commitment and refined character. I was already seeing a future president in him. In terms of calmness and composure, he was in a league of his own.
But will I tell people not to eat, will I tell them not to move on, will the world cease to exist because he passed away? Not necessarily. Even after my internal conflict and madness, I still found a way to eat too, even if it was with a terrible mood.
How things seem to return to normal flabbergasts me. Like they were never there. People go on with business, replacement is employed, by-election is conducted, your deputy replaces you and even your spouse may remarry.
A woman built a house not far from the edifice Ìyá Kọ́lá constructed. Even though the woman was not always around, the pride was there. A house owner. Even though her car was rickety, the way she drove the car home was in a way saying that even if my car is bad, my house is terrific. Unfortunately, she died after a period of illness. I didn’t know anybody with the woman except a maid and her younger brother, a pastor. She was buried in the enclosed space, veranda you can call it, just by the window of the living room.
A heap was initially made and it didn’t feel so nice from afar. The next time I was home to admire my mum’s face, I noticed the house had changed, and the floors were either tiled or interlocked. Long story short, the house had been sold and the original owner sealed up. No epitaph, no sign. Just tiles and vibes. A shrill was sent down my spine. If it were a tale told on an ìrírí ayé programme, I may not have believed it. But here, I saw it with my eyes. As if she never existed. Unless you knew the history of the house, you would never have an inkling that a corpse was buried under.
And I think again, all these girls and friends who adore me with sweet words, pretend as if it is difficult for them to go for days without hearing from me. Everyone will move on. The reality scares me and sets my mind aright. I don’t take things to heart, not even a girl jilting me and I won’t kill myself over any work. If I cross the divide today, everyone will move on. The person who told me that I’m the best man for a job will find another ‘best’. Kí wá ni?
Ìyá Ibrahim, the wife of a much older cousin of my dad, recently passed away. The woman amassed much wealth to the detriment of her health. She barely even spent a minute to take a pause and appraise her business progress. Always what’s the next thing. She died and it is certain that her business empire will be sucked. The husband, my relation, will definitely weep but will still have a swell time. He might even find another small wife from the dead wife’s treasure.
So, I’m carefree because you will move on after I’m gone, I’m sensible but occasionally reckless. Life is what you live. After that, pfffft.
Legacies are good and doing good may immortalise you but they hardly matter. Many scandalous politicians use Obafemi Awolowo’s name. They know he’s gone. No regard for the dead. Ajimobi’s death became a political tool because the sharp-tongued fellow had become but a lifeless heap.
So, why put too much premium on life? Live life, live Love and live fulfilled.
To Gbenga, to our loved ones who have transited, rest in power. It is difficult to move on.
