I lost my dad in an accident on the 5th of June, 2019. I was in school when I got the call to come home immediately. I lost consciousness after seeing his blood-stained body, but my mothers helped me. We had the funeral and I went back to school. It was a continuous assessment period, and I couldn’t afford to be distracted. Because of this, I didn’t devote time to mourn him like I wanted. I think this was the mistake I made.
Months following his death, something shifted in me. My friend witnessed it and called my attention to it. She told me a coursemate gave birth. In a normal Nigerian setting, it’s a thing of joy to the ears of anyone, but to me, it was a bother. I simply raised my head and said, “Oh, congratulations.”
Blank. Emotionless. Short. Rigid.
“If someone didn’t know you, they would think you’re not happy about the news,” my friend observed. I disagreed. But when I was alone later, I realised my reaction to the news could be interpreted as sadness. Of course, I was happy. I just didn’t feel anything in life was worth celebrating. I had lost interest. I felt it was even a waste of time making efforts, pushing barriers and overcoming obstacles because at the end of the day, the result is still death – the visitor that comes without notice.
My mum complained about the same thing, and I knew it was time to send it off. So when anyone shared good news, I would remind myself to bring radiance to my face and smile sweetly. Sometimes, I would dance around the room and squeal before congratulating the person. It was difficult, I tell you. It was like learning how to walk again after a terrible accident had broken your legs. It was slow at first; smiling, laughing again and assuring myself that life doesn’t end with the death of a loved one. Some days, I broke down in my room, whimpering and missing the familiar face and voice of my father.
It’s been more than six years and I can say I’m much better. I laugh easily, smile with reckless abandon, play like a child, rejoice when there’s good news, comfort those who are bereaved and most importantly, see much colour and beauty in life. So, if a friend should announce the things they would call mundane, I’m there to squeal and jump. It’s my little way of reminding myself that life is still very beautiful and it doesn’t end just because I lost someone dear to me.
I thought grief was a one-way ticket and something predictable. All I read about it before my loss didn’t happen to me; I didn’t isolate myself from people, or become aggressive, or find comfort in drugs, or have nightmares. My experience made me understand that grief, in fact, has many faces.
As narrated by: MOBOLAJI TITILOPE (OYO, NIGERIA)
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