Mummy,
We planned your funeral before you died. I was supposed to wash your body, oil it and dress it. I told you I would confiscate your little yellow skirt and as it was any time I mentioned that skirt, you roared in laughter. I said "I'm going to put you in a boubou."
Mummy, this is nothing like we planned.
First of, how cold this tribute seems, coming from thousands of miles away. Secondly, how soon it all is. Too soon. Horribly soon. Nothing happened as we expected it to. It was me Akunne told the news to, me screaming and crying and your grandchildren so shocked, Eli weeping because I was, because they had never heard such ungodly sounds ripping out of my soul, Anyika trying to protect me from whatever was hurting, trying to force his sister to leave me, she clinging and shouting, he stressed and shouting. It was me, trying to lock them away, gasping for breath, trying not to scream, screaming anyway, calling Nkem to come, "Come back," I said "Your daughter needs you." The kind of lie that would move him to immediate action.
It was me that had to break the news to Nkemakonam that you had left us.
This was not at all like we planned.
Mummy, I'm sorry I fed the children late that day. I know you would not approve. I could hear you in my head as I wept "My friend, feed these children now!" and I looked up and it was 9pm. Time flew. It has been two weeks as I denied the truth, accepted it, shied away from it, hated it, grew angry at everyone and everything, the planning, this tribute page. Time is still flying and you are not here.
Mummy, what about us? I used to send my sister to you with her brood to keep you company, a placeholder until you could be surrounded by us. The magnificent house of my dreams, with a granny unit safely away from stairs. What is going to happen to the rocking chair? You're meant to sit in it and read stories to the children, watch Liverpool and the God channel. What are we supposed to do now? You left me the task of calling people, of sending out Nkemakonam's number to many, many people all so he could hear 'Ndo, sorry, pele.' Why?
What about all the gisting? You said often "Chiko, you sabi tori." Have we finished? You said I was your daughter, not you daughter-in-law, so why are you not here for the mothering? For the prayers? The afang? The snails? Who is going to mock my Maltese rabbit stew or tapenade, who will say 'Obrigado' to me for everything?
I cannot get Anyikamba to even look at this page, do you know? "I'll be too sad," he said.
Thank God for Christmas 2019. Thank God you grew closer to the children in the past year, despite all its hardships and the work, work, work on my end, thank you for seeing me, for praying for me, for laughing with me. Thank you for being my Mummy B. I can only pray that when it is my turn, I can be as loving, as generous and kind a mother-in-law as you, active in my love, never forgetting birthdays, events, or people. I never hid my mind from you, no matter how unpalatable and that is because you made of yourself a safe space.
You taught me that one should always make time for the people one loves and I will always be grateful for that.
For now, I shall practice mourning like one who has hope because I do. Mummy, you ran your race and have reached your destination. Rejoice and rest in peace.
