The past couple of weeks, the poetic giant in me rose up. To put it more succinctly, I returned back to my first love-POETRY. Poetry is the language of a deep mind. It creates harmony, resonance which reverberates into the inner core […]
The past couple of weeks, the poetic giant in me rose up. To put it more succinctly, I returned back to my first love-POETRY. Poetry is the language of a deep mind. It creates harmony, resonance which reverberates into the inner core of a being, calling those things which be not, as though they were.
I wrote about Ibadan and Ogbomoso. This was borne out of my ‘travelogue’ to the two great cities that shaped me by birth and education. Ibadan remains a very dear city to me.
I had cleverly written it backwards in my last post
that I would sneak into the city. Even though, I didn’t mean this, I ended up sneaking in the day after my birthday around 10pm in the night. I achieved this feat by also getting the whole house worried about my whereabout as there had been an armed robbery attack somewhere on the way. We were saved by a hair’s breath.
After burying my mum in December, I had practically ran off without looking back. I didn’t plan visiting in a long time most especially when deardad also said, “please bury me beside my wife”. This scared me.
So I found myself in the city on good Friday. And when dad said ‘go and sleep in your mother’s room’. I looked at him as if he just grew horns on his head. Nevertheless, I slept in my brother’s room, with a large window overlooking the place where she was buried. Every night was difficult. The light had to be on(the generator worked mostly).
I looked at her favourite chair in the sitting room and avoided it. I didn’t even open her room. The pain was raw and deep. I wasn’t scared of seeing her ghost, in fact, I still wish she would appear. I just didn’t feel good about seeing the graveside or entering her room. I didn’t want to break down.
I summoned courage and looked at the grave yard one evening. I took a good look. Somehow, the entire trip healed a part of my heart but not the ache. I had wondered how my two brothers coped alone in that house with her memories.
I read my brother’s post on tomiwaolasiyan.wordpress.com and the feelings all came rushing back. I had written ‘the burden of silence’ from a very heavy heart on new year eve.
I looked at her pictures on the wall, remembered our usual discussions and what she would have done if she was around when I visited-reminiscing on that enough was torture. Our last discussion was for me to visit her. I never knew she would not wait for me to come. She didn’t live till xmas.
So I went on my annual pilgrimage to the house just like I used to, but she wasn’t there to welcome me. It was a deep regret. My thoughts accurately chronicles tomiwa olasiyan’s write-up about valuing your parents when you still have them. We would give everything to have her back. May 15th, she would have been 56.