Dying Embers
You died today.
You’ve been dead before. Twice.
The first time you died, you were jumping in puddles with your classmate Lola. Your mother was late, as was her mother. Rain had fallen that afternoon, and in the aftermath of the downpour, you and Lola lingered, the only remnants of schoolchildren amidst deserted swings and slides. Lagos, notorious for its traffic, held your mother captive in its web of congestion.
Your mother gets to your school past 5-ish, which was way past your school closing time. This gives you and other school students time to play on the school swings and slides before your parents’ arrival. On this day, just you and Lola were the only students left in school, the slides and swings were wet because of the rain. Mrs. Nwosu, your class teacher, was getting impatient. She had called your mother whose voice trilled under the honk of cars. “Sorry, there’s too much traffic.”
As time stretched and patience waned, you found solace in the playful splashes of rainwater. You trudged out of the class and sat on the pavement outside your class, sucking on your lollipop. Lola walks out of the class and sits beside you. You saw a puddle yonder. You climbed the pavement and jumped into the puddle. Lola joined you, splashing water on the already drying ground. You saw Mrs Nwosu storming out of the class in anger, and you both made for the pavement. Your left foot glided on the cemented floor as you scampered, and you lost your balance and fell, hitting your head on a pillar. You stared at your lollipop scattered in smithereens on the floor before you slowly blacked out.
You met Azrael in the sterile confines of a hospital room, amidst beeping monitors and antiseptic scents. You forged an unlikely bond. He told you he was going to get some chocolates and asked if you could join him. You did not see your mother anywhere. Wasn’t she supposed to be by your side? Azrael’s family was not with him either. You asked if he was strong enough to leave the room. To show you that, he got out of his bed, yanked off his intravenous drip, and made for the door. He stretched his hand and reached out to you. You shook your head and told him your mother would be worried if she does not find you on the bed.
The second time you died, you were nineteen. You were in the Admissions Office in Unilag senate building. Your mother had told you to take your Jamb and WAEC result slip to Dr Andrew to help with your admission. You didn’t think it was necessary because you had a high score in both exams.
‘You think it’s only by I know book? Many people who did better than you have still not gotten admission. See Mariam, she has written Jamb so much that she has given up. Now she’s learning fashion design. That will not be your portion. Tufiakwa!’
Once you got to the building, you saw other aspirants waiting at the reception. When you mentioned Dr. Andrew’s name, the security let you in.
Dr. Andrew was on a call when you entered his office. He smiled at you; he was expecting you. He pointed at the chair opposite him. You shivered as the cold air from the AC on the wall facing your position blasted at you. You thought to yourself that you should have worn something thicker. You looked down at the goosebumps on your left arm and rubbed them off. Dr. Andrew coughed to get your attention. You sat upright and stared at the mole on his forehead. You didn’t know how to look anyone in the face, so you always looked at foreheads instead.
‘Your mummy told me you got 320 in Jamb. That’s impressive.’
‘Yes sir.’ You brought out your file from your bag and pulled out your Jamb result slip along with your WAEC result. You handed it to him, and while he studied it, your eyes strayed around his office. The left wall of his office was filled with award plaques; a small brown couch stood against the wall. On the couch were magazines, a medium-sized blanket, a small throw pillow, and a box of cigarettes peeking from a corner. One of the magazines had three women in flamboyant gowns sitting on throne-like chairs; on the extreme top of the magazine was ‘The FinTech Queens that call the shots’ boldly written.
‘Those are the women leading in the fintech space. Do you know them?’ Dr. Andrew chuckled. He was on his feet now, straddling close to your chair. He shifted his wife’s photo, faced it down, and removed a tattered file from his table before sitting on his table facing you. You grew uncomfortable and made to rise, but he gestured for you to sit back down. He picked his glasses from his table wore them and picked up your WAEC result again; this time with his hand on your thigh. You froze. You froze when his hands continued to trace the line of your skirt down to your underwear. You froze when he pushed down the couch. You froze when he took and took.
It was then you met Azrael again, this time he was as old as you. He looked at you with worry. He did not say anything to you this time. He stretched his hand to you and gestured for you to follow him. You were too weak to follow him, so you stared at him as he walked out the door.
You will die today.
This time your bones will be weak, your hair tufty and grey, and your eyes cloudy from a thousand memories it has beheld. Your body will be small from all the pieces of yours you have had to give out over the years. Around you, a tapestry of life will unfold, woven with the threads of love, loss, and resilience. You have nurtured a family tree with branches that have grown and stretched out in solitude but have gather around you in the end.
This is the sight you will last see when you hold Azrael by the hand as he finally leads you out.
