Death is a cycle of life.

"It was real when they stopped saying your name but rather referred to you as" the body".

It was a cold Tuesday morning and I remember clutching my chest and blaming the cold for being this fierce. Nothing out of the ordinary .All was well. I had spoken to Tee the night before and asked her to put you in her prayers. There was an uneasiness we both shared but I reassured Tee mother said you were getting better and I had promised her I will update her whatever new information comes up when our parents come visit you at the hospital today . I saw my father in jeans and a Tee- shirt instead of his usual starched shirt and tie. He said he got a call at the hospital and he will be going with mother. Something urgent came up and they had to be there. I bade them goodbye and sent Tee a message but I put it off and convinced myself everything was under control. Mother had prayed. The day went on normally and I even entertained a few of S' friends. But I slept off at some point. The medications were making me woozy.

I'm sorry" often carries so much sincerity, but when it comes from a doctor, you can't help but wonder what exactly they want your forgiveness for.

I heard the thunderous roar of fathers car and I rushed out to meet them. I hoped they had good news and I was glad to see them back. When I ran out to see my mother, I met S instead, who said you had passed. My smile froze as I tried to process what that meant. I wanted to squeeze his mouth and ask him not to say negative things like that. I saw mother behind him and I wondered why she didn't caution him. She wore a tired smile as though resigned to her fate. I wanted to hug my mother and offer condolences, but I stared at my mother instead with shock, willing my mouth to utter a word.

The next few minutes passed in a blur, and I remember my mother’s mouth moving, urging us to pack our things from the car. I wanted to tell her I was scared. I feared your belongings would carry the aggressive smell of antibiotics from the hospital, a reminder of the pain I witnessed during my last visit. You were in so much agony, and I was terrified to sit, breathe, or even utter a word around you, afraid I might taint the air that surrounded you. I couldn't bear to look at you; your face seemed to shift, morphing into the visage of someone we had lost. The painful breaths they took, punctuated by the occasional yell of pain, echoed in my mind. I wanted to run away. But I stayed, watching everyone around you speak, clinging to my mother as she administered communion before we uttered our goodbyes, promising to return the next day.

Instead, I raced up the stairs, carrying everything you owned from your time in the hospital. I set the items down before my mother. I want to tell her to hide this pain in the safe of my mind, where I bury all the things I couldn't bear to confront and pretend this never happened. But my mother is not like me; she wouldn’t cower in the face of what her mind couldn’t process. I stood by, watching as she sorted through your medications, bills, and clothes. She paused often, lost in the memories you both shared as children, recounting stories that you both shared as children even amidst the pain.

I faulted myself for cowering, for not being brave enough to make those visits. Each day, I convinced myself I would go when I got better. I didn't know it was the last I'll see you alive.

I write this as heavy rains pour outside, and I find myself wondering if you would have loved the rhythmic sound of the raindrops tapping against the rooftop, or the earthy smell that lingers in the air after rainfall. Days pass, and mother receives phone calls and messages, each hoping to offer comfort to her aching soul. They say “You're in heaven rejoicing with the angels in the presence of your Creator”, but I wish you were still here with us, offering your praises to God. I want to ask my mother why God takes all the good people first. I want to ask how she still gets up to pray. But I hesitate, not wanting to provoke her grief. Instead, I write these thoughts down. I don't want to look at your medications on the dinning table or the bag that contains things dear to you . It's a painful reminder you're not here and my brain can not reconcile that fact . To it you're still here on a Sunday afternoon after church calling my mother “Sister” and making plans to go the beach this year.

I often hear the stifled cries of my mother in the silence or catch her staring into blank space, lost in her thoughts. In those moments, I find myself wishing you could come back, wrap your arms around her, and whisper that she tried her best. Today, I hug Mother and run my hands over her back, uttering “sorry mummy” like a prayer, and I make her my sweet potato pepper soup, hoping the spicy broth will warm my insides like it does when we hear her voice after a bad day in school away from home.

I think of the day we would send you back to mother earth, and I think to wear blue because you loved the beach just as much as I did. I want to immortalize the memory of you holding my hands as we approached the wild, unrestrained waves at Elegushi Beach. The sound of laughter filled the air as I yelled in excitement, feeling the rush of the ocean around us. You told me to relax and float, and as the waves crashed against us, I could feel your warmth and encouragement wrapping around me like a comforting embrace.
Rest in Peace, uncle. Until we part no more.