Death pangs

Time inhaled and exhaled and let you out in one breath. But that breath was toxic, it was acidic, it was heavy. There were times when I wanted to look at you, when I really wanted to see you, but there was a fog clouding my eyes. It pressed heavily on me and I couldn't get it out. I tried, tried, I honestly did try my best but it was all in vain. I just couldn't see you, I just couldn't hear your name. You had lost your eyes, your ears, your mouth; you had lost yourself. Your soul died on a sunny day. The air was so hot that it became even painful to breathe. Each breath I took seemed to scorch my nostrils. I kept rubbing them with a handkerchief, expecting to see blood each time I took it out. It was September. The rains were supposed to have arrived. But they were vacant; probably stolen by the skies, thus leaving the sun with no choice but to do the work of the rains. And this it did so viciously and so ferociously that everyday in that month was filled with mirages. Of water, of coolness, of life, of death. But not all were mirages, for you abandoned yourself and truly became empty and dead. It was a dream to me, it was not real. It happened so suddenly that it could not have been real. Time most certainly froze that day. That Sunday you tore the buckle of your heels apart just so you could not go to church. But Mama made you wear the orange shoes that did not match your yellow dress. You lied that you have a stomach ache, twisting your face in a contortion and making muffled sounds loud enough to reach Papa. But he prayed and said " every devil in this stomach be gone in the stupendous name of Jesus". You are out of excuses and have no choice but to go to church with the rest of us. You however remain seated throughout the praise and worship service, the sermon and the offering session. You ask me to help you put your offering in the basket and I want to refuse. You stop me from saying a word by looking away after pushing the money in my hands. Just as the Pastor says "let the living jump up and shout hallelujah", they troop in. They warn us first, with a bullet. The bullet moves across the room and dives into the body of the young boy beside you. His blood splatters and you get some in your mouth as you scream. You later on write to me that his blood tasted like the wine you drank during the last holy communion service. It is hot and burns your tongue, that is why you can no longer speak, you say. Although I am also present that day, I barely remember the events that occurred.

They say time does not freeze. It moves on regardless of the event, person or place. It doesn't wait for one to absorb the happenings around him. But time froze for me that day. The doctor said it was post traumatic stress disorder. Mama said that it was the Lord's doing. Papa said "shabrabrabra" during consequent prayers, laying his hands on me and you. I wash my face immediately after this to avoid getting an itch or ringworm. You do same and in your eyes I see you mimicking his attempt to speak in tongues.

The next few days come to me as a blur, making it even more difficult to see you. I have nightmares; in the morning, in the afternoon and in the night. They are all nightmares to me because the places are filled with darkness, darkness so thick that it is almost tangible. When I wake up from them, I can remember nothing but the darkness. "I am forgetting the light". I write this to you and see laughter in your eyes. I know you are not mocking me but only laughing at my choice of words because to you they seem too poetic and too untrue. But I choose to believe that your laughter is a jibe. I want to believe that I could have been more affected by the massacre when I remembered nothing than you who had witnessed it all from the blood to the dust to the ashes. And that you had no right to question my brokenness. I wanted to be a real victim so if people asked "o gini mere ya?", Mama would cross her legs and her arms, draw out a long sigh and tell those who cared to know that her little girl was traumatised by the incidents of that day so much so that she couldn't recall at all what happened. October came and the rains were uncovered. It came carelessly, spitting uncontrolled droplets of precipitation on houses, farms and trees. News soon came in that there were cases of flood disasters all over Ondo. We waited for the flood to reach us. We thought it inevitable. But we waited and waited till we eventually cancelled our plans of temporarily moving to Mama's hometown in Enugu. The rains however disrupted our school session. We did not resume school till January. You were pleased with this. You believed that time would heal you and make you normal again before school resumed. I hoped so too. I tried to tap into your faith in time and avoided bringing up topics or songs that involved God. He angered you. "He just sat there and watched all those people bleed into death". I wrote back "bleed to death", to correct you. You shook your head and wrote "death was already in their bloods but he let them gush out and flow and eventually manifest." I didn't understand what you meant by that. I thought your words odd and poetic too. But I didn't laugh. Mama had told me to be careful what I did in your presence as you had become really sensitive. So I didn't talk when we were together neither did I make any phone calls where you would have to watch me hear voices over the phone while you couldn't. I was afraid for you. I was afraid of you. I was afraid of what Mama had said. "One of the girls in church that day that also witnessed the massacre has killed herself. She was found in her room lifeless with an empty bottle of dettol beside her. She was Nonye's age mate." Mama's words were clear and easy to deduce. She was warning me to be careful for your sake, lest you suddenly felt tired of your body and also gave it up, as you did with your soul on that day. I didn't want to lose your body. It was the only visible part of you and it made me hope that one day you would return. Secretly, I pray. I pray to God to release your soul from the heart of the boy who died beside you that day. I believed that your soul was there because you kept talking about him. No day passed without you making reference to him, even it was minor. I don't know if he hears me, but I keep praying. I sometimes even fast. It is so convenient for me to do so because I have lost my appetite. Mama would ask me why I wasn't eating and I would tell her that I was fasting.  This made her incredibly happy. She was pleased to know that I was walking the paths of righteousness. This suited me. I knew she would not be so proud if she found out that I was fasting because my body didn't want to accept food. She would give me scriptures to read to make my soul hunger for God and I would feel my stomach rumble. At some point, this made me wonder if my soul was in my stomach.

October 12 came. Your birthday. That day, the rains withheld itself to its barest minimum, coming only in drizzles. Papa baked a cake. It was a mixture of chocolate and vanilla, your favorite. The cake tasted sweet. This was the best cake Papa had made so far. The YouTube coking lessons were paying off. But when you looked in my eyes and asked "is it good?" I lied. "It is bitter". You put a spoonful in your mouth and chewed slowly, your eyes fixed on the plate. I wondered if you knew that I lied. I couldn't read your expression as you finished the piece on your plate. It was during moments like this that I hated you for having the power of silence. There were some answers that needed to come from the eyes, and there were some that needed to be heard. This was one of them. I wanted to hear you say "Stupid girl, onye nzuzu. So you want to have the cake all to yourself? Tufiakwa." But after we are done praying for you and presenting our gifts to you, you and I play a game of whot and I lose all the rounds to you. I take this a punishment for lying to you about the cake and happily accept defeat, something i ordinarily wouldn't have done.

Something changed after that day. It took me a month to realise that. The date is coming to me but has not yet come, so I can't recall exactly. I still remember it was a Sunday and that Sundays were important to us. It was a day we got to put on our nice but decent dresses, fancy scarves and high heels or sandals to church and afterwards head for Aunty Ifeoma's restaurant.