On this day, seven years ago, the earth opened up and swallowed my mother, since then, it has been years of excruciating loneliness filed with biting void. She left and since then, it’s been days without warmth- she left with the greater part of me. Of all the years she was gone, she had consistently visited me in my sleep- of all these nocturnal visits, only once I saw her angry. In that vexed visit, she scolded me for my excessive mourning, my gloom, and my overwhelming grief. I could feel the searing intensity of her anger. From that moment on, I ceased to drown in sorrow, and with each subsequent visit, my mother appeared in her finest attire, radiating smiles of sheer joy. In my most recent encounter, just a few days ago, I saw her attending the mosque in my dream. In my slumber, I cried out in confusion, questioning how someone who was proclaimed deceased could be alive in my dreams, devoutly observing Salat. Yet, no answer came forth to alleviate my bewilderment.
My mother was beautifully tall, with a ravishing sense of fashion-gifted with a breathtaking elegance and impeccable dress sense, and her presence illuminated every room she entered. There was never a dull moment during her time on this earth; she was the epitome of vitality. Then one evening in 2016, with no trace of ill-health, she ceased to be and before you say what, she was buried beneath the earth but one thing they failed to do, was to bury her memory!
Nothing wreck a man than the loss of a loved one, it breaks you beyond limit and leave you vulnerably helpless. The death of my mother was a wreck, it killed me, just when I was to be buried, I woke up to the reality that what took my mum was the decree by the Almighty. She was my mother but she was God’s creation. He didn’t seek my permission to create her, so, I have no right to be sad that he has taken his creation. When the owner of the Hen sends her on errand, the hen cannot say she is covering her unhatched eggs. My mother answered Allah’s call and her minutes on earth stopped counting. Such is the unappealable verdict of Allah. His verdict is never appealed but definite. So, it was this undeniable reality that became my consoling dose.
Mama Jenebu, it’s been seven years you left us , a lot has happened- your husband, our father has lost his gait, his shoulders are perpetually low, he walks now with no swag – he has lost the machismo that you fell for- he is a living vegetable – you left with his manliness. . He has been stripped of his vitality, now burdened by melancholy and a faltering gait. Two of your girls are now mothers- sadly, you aren’t here to do your cherished ‘Omugwu’, your last child Musa is all man now – he has memorized the Holy Quran.
Your granddaughter, Umaymah, the one you named Ugbede – a mirror image of you, exudes femininity and serves as a poignant reminder of your own girlish days. Recently, she, too, accomplished the remarkable feat of memorizing the Quran. In tribute to your beautiful soul, they dedicated this achievement as Sadaqatul Jariyah, an ongoing charity in your memory.
My dearest Mama, you didn’t die in vain, your toils are now fruits- you are living forever because you recreated yourself in your children. Every day we pray, we pray for your soul because that is the only potent food we have for you in your memory. Mama, it is seven years since we became motherless. We miss you and will continue to Mayt we are comforted that you lived a beautiful and impactful life. May Aljanatul Firdausi be your permanent abode.
Memorably musing
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