1
Bolaji showed me pictures of his mother the first week we started dating. We were seated side by side on a blue sofa in the living room of his flat in Surulere. The sky had been holding imminent rain and it opened and sent needles down to the earth, washing the air, cleaning up the atmosphere that had for days been coloured with smoke and dust. He brought out a large, embossed photo album with plastic flowers on the cover page and told me to go through it while he made lunch.
In one of the photos, his mother was a young girl sporting a low-cut. She’d worn a blue pinafore and had stared into the camera with daring eyes. It was the same eyes Bolaji had, bulging eyes that glowed in pictures, and held so much and spoke so much. He only needed to look at me with those eyes and the ground under my feet would turn to water. In another picture, she was a young girl and was seated on a stool, wearing iro and buba, her gele a mountain on her head, a huge bag on her lap and a bright smile stretching her face.
As I gazed at the pictures, I felt a pang of longing, a sort of longing for something you never possessed but nonetheless missed. As though sensing my thoughts, he mentioned that his mother put the album in his bag when he was moving into the flat, and told him in that melodramatic tone mothers always used, that he should show the album to any girl he wanted to get married to so she can know from the onset that he is a Mummy’s Boy.
“But there’s no girl in the picture. There’s never going to be,” he said. I smiled a sad smile on his mother’s behalf but also felt the slow budding of anxiety’s roots in me.
“So how many boys have you shown this album to?”
“None. I never felt the need to. I guess it’s because of how you talk about missing your mum and how you always seem interested whenever I talk about mine. So I wanted to share my mum with you.”
2
I finally met Bolaji’s mother a year after he showed me the pictures of her. I picked her up at MM2 airport, and after the initial inquiries about the flight and how she was doing, our lips settled on silence. I drove from the airport through busy Lagos roads. The city was alive and breathing. Cars were stuck in a bubble of stagnancy while hawkers raced in the traffic with bottles of cold water and soft drinks—lives were pouring into each other in chaotic bursts at every street corner—and I felt Bolaji’s mother’s exhaustion.
Lagos was never a city she was keen on visiting. She preferred the sanity and slowness of Ilorin to the madness that lay on the street in Lagos. Bolaji had invited her several times to come spend time with him in Lagos, but she always resisted, saying she had her school to look after and Lagos was too much for her old frame to handle. Prior to this meeting, our relationship had solely existed via telephone calls. Bolaji had introduced me to her as his friend and flatmate, and after every call they had, she would tell him to “greet that your friend”.
When we reached the intersection at Allen Avenue, three child-beggars pressed their faces to the sides of the car, and Bolaji’s mother asked me to wind down. She reached for her purse and brought out three N100 notes and handed them over to the children, one after the other.
“These children, they are everywhere,” she said.
“Yes,” I answered, not quite knowing where “everywhere” meant.
Sitting beside me as I drove, her face had such a striking resemblance to Bolaji—the same eyes that roamed around when caught in an uncomfortable situation—and it reminded me of when both of us would wear makeup, our heads covered in the many wigs we acquired over the months as we posed, in our room, before a camera, and I felt within me a thick sadness, and a prayer hummed inside me: that Bolaji be caught once more within the glittery web of pure, unbridled freedom and aliveness.
Four days ago, Bolaji and I were in the middle of playing Monopoly as was our ritual every Saturday when he began complaining of a headache. I assumed he was just trying to escape being beaten yet again, but when the complaint persisted, I placed my hand against his forehead to check his temperature and his skin felt like a burning plate against my hand. We assumed it was his yearly Malaria visit, and I rushed to the pharmacy down the street to buy antimalarials, but by evening, there was still no relief. I suggested a hospital visit, and in his typical nonchalant way, he thought I was getting worried; he would be fine in no time.
When we got to the hospital, while waiting in the reception for the doctor to attend to us, his fever intensified. The nurses rushed him into a room and placed him on a drip. His fever broke, and it seemed as if everything was alright. He fell asleep. Hours later, he was still asleep. I tried to wake him up so he could take his bath and eat, but he simply stayed there–unmoving. I remember my hands taking on a life of their own, tremors coming alive in them. Later that night, when Bolaji’s mother called like she always did, I explained what happened to her. I wanted to tell her not to worry, but the words felt untrue on my lips.
“Should I take you to the house first or the hospital?” I asked.
“The hospital, please.”
“Alright, ma,” I said, as I passed the women selling food in large coolers at the junction, and then edged the car onto the street leading to the hospital.
“How is he?” she asked.
“The doctors have not said anything definite yet. They said it’s bacterial meningitis. He has been unconscious for 3 days now.” I knew she had been waiting for me to lead the conversation into the terrain we both were unwilling to venture into, but I had been too wary of her presence and everything it held, and this filled my mouth with silence.
I drove the car into the hospital, and my face held a smile for the security man, who had been warm and cordial during all our hospital visits. His warm nature always earned him monetary compensation from Bolaji and for the past three days I have been in the hospital, I could sense in his earnest gaze and fatty greetings a pecuniary expectation. I had always thought it mercenary, the expectation of benevolence people like him had of those caught in the embrace of pain, grief, and uncertainty but Bolaji thought it to be rather humane. “No one chooses to shed their dignity by begging unless the situation demands it,” he would say.
After parking the car, I moved away from Bolaji’s mother to the security man, eager to breathe air different from her. I took out a thousand naira from my pocket and handed it over to him, and his entire being bent into a shape of gratitude.
The hospital was a towering white mass, and I walked into it with a lethargy that was becoming of me. The inside was cold. In my movement was the visceral contemplation of where to place myself in relation to Bolaji’s mother. Should I be in front, or should I walk behind her? Despite the frequent greetings we exchanged over phone calls, there was still a pang of uncertainty, and movement, unsure with her. I had been a feature of her son’s life for the past two years, inhabiting a space that should be inhabited only by a wife. But what was I to her son?
The nurses at the reception smiled at me, especially the one with the light skin and a voice that was soft like the wind on your skin, who had shown a peculiar interest in me or in Bolaji rather. Agnes was her name. She looked like the kind of girl every mother would want for their son. She was beautiful and had a calm face. She always came into the room to see how I was and to check up on Bolaji and would ask if I was served lunch even though I always told her I was fine and had already eaten something. The nurse curtsied to greet Bolaji’s mother and I imagined Bolaji falling in love with her and his mother blessing their union. I imagined the joy that would line his mother’s face at their wedding. How she —dressed in the most expensive lace—would move around from table to table as the guests called her “Iya Oko.” (Mother of the groom).
A few months ago, she had begun talking about marriage to Bolaji. Always starting the story with yet another tale of a cousin, a nephew or a family friend who had recently married or given birth. Once, she asked me to talk to Bolaji: “He needs to remove his head from work. It’s not every time ‘work, work’. He is not getting younger; ‘thirty years’ is no longer a child. Neither am I getting younger. Beg him for me o. If he does not want a Lagos girl, I can get one for him here in Ilorin. ”
I remember asking Bolaji about it one cool evening. We were together in the bedroom. He was tending the potted plants he had dutifully acquired over the years while the sun splashed orange rays on them.
“She is my mother, and we are close. She thinks we are just good friends,” he said as he examined the plants and sprayed their leaves with water.
“So, you don’t think she knows?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She may have her suspicions. Remember I told you she caught me kissing a boy when I was 7? And there was this time when she took me from church to church to pray the gayness away. If she doesn’t realise the truth, then she is lying to herself. Mothers always know this,” Bolaji replied.
“Do you think you will ever tell her about us?” I asked.
“When we get to that bridge, we will cross it.” and he returned to spraying his plants.
I knew his ignoring this conversation was a way of not upsetting his relationship with his mother. In his silence, there was a maintenance of whatever character of denial in which his mother was. Bolaji’s relationship with his mother was one I found admirable and made me aware of an emptiness in my life. Even though he had brought me into the hallowed circle consisting of only him and his mother, there was still the thick air of fear that surrounded the both of us.
Bolaji was someone I considered wholesome, with enough roots in him. His job involved photographing queer bodies in different poses of defiance. His most recent exhibitions had been described by Ade Coker, the popular art critic, as bold and daring, pushing the boundaries of freedom for queer bodies. But he had struggled with fully actualizing this freedom for himself.
Mothers always know, I have heard several times. But my mother died while I was still a baby and I as such was not privy to this communion between mother and son. My father and brothers had turned their backs on me after I came out to them in my final year at the university. Sometimes, I wondered if my mother would have stood by and watched my brothers send me out into the night if she had been alive.
When we got to Bolaji’s ward, where he lay on his back as though in a peaceful sleep, I felt myself fold at the sight. His mother moved closer to the bed, gently touched his forehead, and suddenly turned toward me, asking to see the doctor.
“Bacterial meningitis,” the doctor repeated to Bolaji’s mother. “I’m sorry but we didn’t catch it on time.” We were seated in the doctor’s office, with its white walls covered with pictures of the human respiratory system and the cold smell of chemicals and something else. Fear.
“Is there anything that can be done?” she asked.
“We have administered some antibiotics and now we can only watch and wait.”
From the moment the words that rang empty of hope dropped from his lips, I saw the silence come for Bolaji’s mother, engulfing her; her once bright eyes turned grey; her every movement paid obeisance to silence..
After we returned to Bolaji’s room, his mother sat by his bed, her eyes fixed on him as he slept. Like a child caught in a beautiful dream, he looked beautiful asleep. He looked so beautiful that my heart ached.
His mother rummaged through the bag and brought out a bottle of Goya olive oil.
“The Bible says where two or three are gathered, he is there in their midst.” She looked at me. “And we are three here.” She said, pointing to Bolaji.
“Do you believe?” she asked.
My eyes were that of a child’s searching for its mother. She took my hands in hers and held tightly onto them. They were rough and I wanted to escape from the grip. She shook our hands in forceful motion and let prayer descend from her lips. She prayed with a deep earnest supplication, her faith driving the movement of her body and I felt obliged to imbue my amen with a faith larger than a mustard seed.
When the prayer ended, she dipped her finger in the oil and drew the cross on Bolaji’s forehead. Then, she asked me to come closer and she lined my head with the oil while muttering God bless you. After we finished, I looked at Bolaji, at how quiet his face was and hoped for a fluttering, the movement of fingers that indicated he was returning to us.
Bolaji was not a believer. He had left the church years ago and never turned back. I, on the other hand–even though I had left the church, too–tend to have dark moments that would have my head turning, yearning to feel once more the sense of safety being in the church brought and I would stroll to the church down our street and join in their service. Bolaji never understood why I still had a soft spot for religion. I didn’t understand either. All I knew was that on some days, being in church was the only thing my soul craved. On every call he had with his mother, her pleading voice came at him, begging him to go to church “for the days are filled with evil.” Once, she asked me if I frequented church and I lied and said yes.
“Please make sure Bolaji goes with you. He can’t be going through life as if he owns his life. He needs to acknowledge God in his life.”
As I said, there are moments when I feel overwhelmed by a profound sense of the supernatural—a recognition of the potential for the divine. So, when Bolaji’s eyes fluttered to life the next morning, I firmly believed that the prayers had worked and that miracles do happen. His mother’s praises to God filled the air, and the nurses gazed in wonder. But the testimony was short-lived. When he opened his eyes and I looked into them, I could not see Bolaji in them. And when his mother called his name and said, “My son, it is me, your mother,” he looked at her with the gaze of one wondering what words meant.
At first, the doctor said he needed time to return fully to himself, but I knew something was wrong. There was a light within me that wasn’t coming on, and there was a light in him that wasn’t coming on. The white in his eyes was gone.
I convinced Bolaji’s mother to go to the house to sleep while I remained with Bolaji in the hospital. I promised to keep her updated on everything that happened. I offered to drive her but she suggested a taxi. Before she left, she held onto Bolaji’s hands and squeezed them.
“Let me know if anything happens,” she said as she hugged me.
That night was filled with turmoil. It was as though Bolaji’s body had forgotten how to be a body again and his mind had melted inside him as it came to in a pool of vomit and shit. He looked at me but did not see me and I struggled to reconcile the fragile body I held in my hands to the body that shared thick passion with me for the past three years. I held on tightly onto him, cleaning everything that poured out of him while trying to hold back my fear. As each moment ticked by, I could feel Bolaji disappear into the icy darkness of death. I held his hands tightly, weaving prayers into a web to bind the two of us together but even that had not been enough.
When the Doctor told me that Bolaji had not made it. I went blank, descending into a black hole, and tumbling into a disorienting spiral. I felt as though I was being exorcised from myself. My mind flashed to the blue notebook we wrote our plans for the coming months. Death wasn’t something we had factored into the plans for our lives. We had planned to see the House of Slaves museum in Senegal in a few weeks.
Bolaji was planning a photography and film exhibition in Lagos. It was supposed to be a documentation of queer bodies in different slavery sites from Badagry to Senegal to Sierra Leone as a way of engaging the dehumanisation queer people faced across Africa. We had plans to go to South Africa to get married since we couldn’t get married in the country. Him dying was not something we bargained for. What will happen to all our dreams and hopes now? I thought. Bolaji had gone into the darkness and left me alone in the rain, with a loud pain echoing in my ribs.
The first person I called was Japheth. He rushed down to the hospital with the rest of my friends and when I met them at the reception, I wanted to lob myself into them, to bend into them so they could steady me but I held my body in an unbending shape. Even though I was grieving, I still was worried about how my grief would be perceived by onlookers in the hospital.
3
In Bolaji’s tradition, it was taboo for a parent to set eyes on the corpse of their child, so Bolaji’s mother remained within the walls of the guest bedroom in our flat. I had to tuck my grief away to find the strength to handle the intricacies of the burial. The candle night was filled with my friends and friends of Bolaji, and a few of his extended relatives.
As I stood there amidst the crowd in Japheth’s flat, with the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the faces of those around me, emphasising the gravity of the moment, I felt my heart shatter into a thousand pieces. His friends and my friends shared stories of Bolaji, recalling different tidbits about his life. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of loss—an emptiness that seemed impossible to fill. For many of them here, Bolaji’s death was an interruption to their lives, but for me, it was an overhaul, a complete destruction of every ounce of certainty I had had. I was standing above a ground that could sooner or later be pulled from underneath me, and there would be nothing I would be able to offer up in the form of resistance.
The burial procession was a sombre affair, marked by the slow, deliberate steps of friends and family as we made our way to his final resting place. As the white coffin descended into the ground, a dam broke inside me and I felt myself breaking with it. My body no longer became my body but rather a site of pain, filled with cracks. My pain was thick in my chest, burning and I held myself to prevent myself from pouring away. Japheth came and placed his hands on my shoulder as though comforting a crying child and my arms were wrapped around myself because I was all I had now. My grief was mine and the only person I always shared my pain with was the person for whom this pain burned.
Back in the house, I was left with my silence and Bolaji’s mother’s silence. She stayed in her room, and I stayed in mine, surrounded by trappings that reminded me of Bolaji. The first day after the funeral, I remained in bed, unmoving. The bed felt empty without him even though the pillows still carried his scent. Even the plants in their vases seemed sad and lonely, waiting for his hands and face to shower them with attention. But that wouldn’t happen ever again, and in no time, they too would die.
To come close to what I thought death would feel like, I set the air conditioner to the lowest and wrapped myself with a duvet. I stared at the ceiling, listening to the sounds from outside. The rankling voices of children echoed from the nearby school, chanting the alphabet, numbers and multiplication tables in a unison of childlike cacophonies. I remembered whenever Bolaji would hear those voices, he would shout from our bedroom, “You better enjoy this moment. You will spend your adulthood wishing you could return to it.” Do children, in their wish to become adults, ever realise that they were inadvertently praying to die? That, as we lean closer to adulthood, every year we mark brings us closer to death?
In my bed, I strained to catch the teacher’s voice, but it arrived as a feeble gust. The grating sounds of generators and moving vehicles filtered into the room, and I attempted to count the seconds between each horn, finding a sense of comfort in the rhythm. When this endeavour wearied me, I rose from the bed and fixed my gaze upon the world outside my window. The sky resembled a clean blue glass, adorned with feathery clouds. Children darted around the neighbouring compound in their yellow uniforms, trying to catch the wind. Hawkers bustled through the streets, balancing their wares atop their heads. The world had not stopped. I wished it had.
Later that evening, Bolaji’s mother came to knock on my door. She was wearing a nightgown and over it, she tied a wrapper around her chest and her head was bare. The patches of grey hair on her head stood like a halo. Warm air from the corridor splashed on my face.
“Won’t you come out and eat something? You have been inside all day.”
“I am not hungry,” I answered.
She sighed and returned to the kitchen. A few minutes later, she knocked on the door again.
“You need to eat my son,” she said this time around. “I cooked. Do you want me to eat all alone?”
I was suddenly aware of how dishevelled I looked. I had been wearing the same pink shirt and shorts for two days and was sure I was smelling like a pile of unwashed clothes and my hair looked like dirty whorls. I had not stepped out of the room since the funeral. I had a lot of pending work from clients who were waiting for their brand design but I could not bring myself to get out of bed. The only thing I knew intimately was my grief and sometimes I wondered if Bolaji’s mother thought I was overdoing it. It should be the other way around. I should be the one waiting on her, making lunch and ensuring everything is alright. She was the one who had lost a son, and I had just lost a friend.
“Alright,” I said. “I will join you soon”
I quickly took a cold shower before joining her in the living room.On the dining table were two trays of Amala and Ewedu placed side by side, in the exact spot Bolaji and I always sat. I realised she must have gone to the market. Bolaji and I were supposed to go to the market the previous weekend to stock up the house with foodstuffs but that was the day he fell sick. She took a seat at the head of the table and I sat beside her. Her skin looked tired and she suddenly looked small, unsure, and I struggled to reconcile her unwavering voice I had heard several times over the phone to the image in front of me.
“The kitchen was empty so I had to quickly go to the market to get things,” she said as she washed her hands in the bowl of water on the table.
“You people’s Lagos is a very crazy place. Some boys tried to rob me at the market. One of them took my phone but I don’t know what they saw that made them return it. They came back and prostrated on the ground, begging me to please forgive them.”
“Ma, I am so sorry that happened to you. You should have come to call me and I would have gone to the market myself.”
“It is fine. They did not succeed. The Lord is keeping watch over me. And I wanted to go to the market myself. Sending a man to the market is like sending a child to battle. Why are you looking at the food like that? Abi, you don’t eat Amala and Ewedu ni?”
“I do,” I said. But I did not move to eat the food. Instead, I gazed at it and wondered about the length it took her to tuck in her grief, to maintain the calmness she was exuding, to even think about food.
“Bolaji always wanted to eat Amala. At one point, he wanted to eat it every day. I told him if he wanted to, he would have to cook it himself,” she said.
This statement punctured a hole inside me because it meant Bolaji would never return.
“The food is really nice,” I managed to say.
“We thank God,” she said.
We continued eating in silence, the only sound between us was the sucking sounds she made as she ate. When we finished eating, I gathered the plates to take to the kitchen.
She followed me to the kitchen and stood beside me as I washed the plates. The water was cold on my hands and the Ewedu made slime gather in the sink. I searched my head for what to say but my head was filled with bubbles of silence. Bolaji’s mother didn’t say a word either. Instead, she stood with her arms folded around her chest and I could tell she had journeyed elsewhere in her mind. We said our goodnight and retired to our bedrooms.
The next morning, she came to knock on my door again. “I made breakfast,” she said. There was a bonnet on her head and her face seemed brighter.
I joined her in the living room and sat beside her in the same spot as the previous day. Breakfast was Akamu with Akara.
“Pray for us,” she said. Her demeanour was mild, calm and gracious.
We began eating after my breezy prayer.
“You people have an industrial blender in the house,” she said. “I saw it last night and it occurred to me to make Akara. I soaked the beans last night and blended them this morning. So fast and easy.”
I nodded my head and ate in silence. When we finished eating, I packed up the plates and Bolaji’s mother followed me to the kitchen and again stood in silence a few feet away from the sink.
In the afternoon, I got into my car and drove through the familiar roads that Bolaji and I used to frequent, each curve and intersection laden with memories of our shared adventures. Eventually, my aimless drive led me to Japheth’s house. As I pulled up to the familiar curb that Bolaji and I had reached together on several occasions, the curb that began our story together, the tears, which had been held back for so long, welled up within me. When my father and brothers kicked me out of the house, I moved in with Japheth and it was at Japheth’s place that I met Bolaji. With no one to judge or console me, I allowed myself to cry loudly, releasing the pent-up emotions that had been building inside. I remained there in the car, the sun casting its warm embrace overhead. The inside of the car felt like a cocoon, a sanctuary from the world outside.
“How has it been?” Japheth asked when I finally entered his apartment.
“I don’t know. I still have moments where I expect Bolaji to walk through that door. I still turn in bed expecting to find him beside me,” I said.
“How are you putting up with having his mother in the house?”
“It has been strange. We don’t talk much.”
“For how long do you think she is going to be at the house?”
“I don’t know. I can’t wait for her to leave though. But I can’t do anything if she decides to stay for longer.”
“Are you sure you will not come and stay here with me for a while?”
“I will be fine. Thank you. The house is where I need to be.”
I didn’t know when sleep overtook me. By the time I woke up, it was evening already. By the time I got back to the house, Bolaji’s mother was asleep. And on the table was a covered plate of jollof rice gone cold.
The next morning, Bolaji’s mother came knocking on the door once again. It was a serene Sunday morning, enveloped in the absence of children’s chants echoing from the school next door. In its stead were the harmonious voices of the nearby church, which sometimes meandered softly and at times resounded with a forceful presence. I had readied myself for breakfast, yet this time, there was no mention of a prepared meal. Instead, she inquired if she could enter. Stepping aside, I granted her passage into the room. She gracefully positioned herself at the room’s centre, her gaze gently exploring the corners as if seeking some hidden truth.
I saw her eyes fall on the portrait of Bolaji and me, and this realisation drew me back into reality. I had not remembered to hide the portrait. My mind flashed back to when the portrait was taken —it was a cold, rainy day. Bolaji had set the camera on a tripod, and both of us were in bed, caught in a tender embrace. We were both naked; the white bed sheet, the only thing covering our lower bodies.
“Whose room is this?” she asked.
“It is Bolaji’s room.”
“And where is your own room?”
“The guest bedroom. That’s where you are.”
“But it was empty.”
“Yes. I moved my things here before you came.”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I have some things I need to attend to in Ilorin.”
Relief petals opened up in me. She walked towards the wardrobe, and I could see in her movements questions and a pallid uncertainty.
“Bolaji turned his room into a bush,” she said, gesturing to the plants around the room. “I need to take care of his things. I believe there are a few things I could give out to family members in Ilorin.”
I walked to the wardrobe in a hazy bubble. I opened it and began staring at the clothes on the hanger. The blue corduroy shirt I got him because I thought they would look good on him, the Maroon kaftan I made for his 30th birthday photoshoot last year. The peach shirt I got for him just so he could own something in a colour that I loved. As I looked at each piece of clothing, wondering which one to pick out, the memories held within their seams—memories of passion, love, joy, laughter— jumped at me with a lucid potency and I began feeling tremors take over my hands and my knees.
“No,” I said, my voice quiet, scared. “I don’t think Bolaji would want us to get rid of his things so quickly.”
“Oko mi, What happened?” She asked.
“I’m sorry but I just feel it’s too early and it feels as if you are eager to get rid of his memory.”
“But he was my son.”
“And he was my boyfriend,” I blurted out. “We were together.” I breathed.
“No! Don’t say that,” she exclaimed, firmly. “Don’t say that rubbish,” she continued. Her words struck me more profoundly than my own declaration had. Placing her finger over her lips, she gestured for me to be quiet. I noticed tremors in her hands, and I saw it for what it was: fear. But fear of what? Does a child cease to be yours the moment you realise their divergence from your expectations? What does parenthood encompass if not an unwavering embrace of your child? To bring a child into the world is an act of faith, as it involves nurturing an individual who will eventually carve their unique path, and to anticipate anything less is to undermine that very faith.
“My son was not that kind of person,” she said. “Bolaji was a good son”
“But he was. He was gay. And being gay did not make him a bad son. And rubbish is you pretending as if you didn’t know and pestering him to get married knowing fully well what he was. Rubbish is what we have been doing these past few days—pretending to be cordial when we both know that you can’t stand to see my face because I remind you of what your son was. Rubbish is Bolaji dying and leaving me here all alone.” I rushed in one staggering breath.
I could not stop the words from coming out. The tremors in my hands increased and I felt my chest tighten in pain and I wanted to run away. Bolaji’s mother stood there dazed, her eyes wide in shock.
“Did Bolaji ever tell you about his father?” She asked after a long silence. She had moved away from me and was at the work table, staring at the portrait of Bolaji and me.
“No, ” I said.
“The stupid man died before Bolaji was born. He just died. Just like that and left me all alone with a heavy pregnancy. The night before he was to travel for that work meeting, I had a bad dream and I was screaming. He was the one who woke me up even. And I told him. I told him to not travel but he refused to listen to me. He refused. He said it’s my pregnancy that’s causing it. See, I was angry at him for not listening. Ah, I was very angry at him, I could not even allow myself to cry.”
“So in my anger and my grief, I took everything he owned and gave it away. The ones I could not give, I burnt. I thought it would make the pain easier but it didn’t. I gave birth to Bolaji and every time I looked at him, it was Ajibola I saw. So I could not say pim about his father because grief sewed my lips with thread.”
She took a deep breath and sat on the bed. “I spent a better part of his teenage years praying this thing away. I took him to one church after the other so this thing could go away from him but it never did. And now he is dead. What is the lesson here? That is what I have been asking myself. What is the lesson? Why did God allow this to happen?”
My tremors suddenly stopped and in their place were clarity and a serene ease. I opened the other side of the wardrobe and pulled out two photo albums and walked to where she was.
“He showed me this album the first week we started dating,” I said.
She didn’t need to open the album to know what was inside.
“And we started keeping something similar, too.”
I opened the second album and placed it before her. The first image was of Bolaji and me standing on a rock on the beach. Our fingers were glued together. The picture had been taken on a cool evening at Landmark Beach where the breeze was a cool towel on your face and the ocean a soft, rippling blue sheet. Bolaji had chosen the picture to be the first picture that welcomed anyone looking through the album. “I feel this picture says everything that needs to be said about us,” he had said. I waited for her to flip through the pages, to enter into a world inhabited by just Bolaji and me. There was joy in those pages and I wanted her to see it. To let her know that Bolaji was happy, that we were happy. She began flipping through the pages. She stared at each picture intently, at the life Bolaji and I had carefully cultivated.
“Where was this?” She asked, pointing to a picture.
“This was the slave port at Badagry.”
“He reminds me of his father here. His father too loved the sea.”
I wanted to tell her Bolaji didn’t love the sea. He was scared of it. When she came across a picture of Bolaji kissing me on the cheeks, I noticed her face tense up.
“He looks so happy here,” she said, pointing to a picture of Bolaji on our third anniversary.
“We still had so much to do together,” I said.
“Death,” she screamed out. “You have dealt with me twice. Ah. My son is gone. My son is gone! What will I do with myself now? What will become of me? No husband. No son. Nobody!”
I felt the urge to apologise for everything, for Bolaji dying. For him dying without leaving her a family by which she could remember him.
“I am your son,” I said, holding her hands. I knew Bolaji would have wanted me to say this.
“Oko mi,” she said. She dropped the album, turned towards me, and pulled me into a deep hug. I felt the heaving of her chest and the thickness of her grief. She smelled of Shea butter and coconut. She smelled of pain and hurt. I stayed there, bent into her while the horns of vehicles from outside rent the air and the cold air from the air conditioner poured over us like confetti. She pulled away and continued looking through the pictures. She flipped through the album, wading deeper and deeper into my world with Bolaji. I watched as she watched us and I knew that if Bolaji was here, he would have brought out his camera to take a picture of this moment.
Theophilus Mshelia Sokuma is a Nigerian writer whose work has been featured in publications such as The Republic, Lolwe, Isele Magazine and others. He is an alumnus of the Purple Hibiscus Writing Workshop and an MFA candidate in Fiction at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.
