It all started as every other Sunday evening, my uncle, Jide, sat in the parlour, listening to some old high life music he always loved. His dry gin in one hand and the old cranky radio in the other. Then I heard a deep throaty cough. The kind that comes from your chest.
"Uncle, are you okay? I was concerned.
"I am alright, it is the weather, don't mind me." He brushed it off.
I went back to peeling my orange in the kitchen. A few seconds later, Uncle Jide toppled down on the floor holding his chest. I screamed
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“Mummy,' I called frantically.
His dry gin was spilled on the floor.
“Uncle Jide? My mum tried calling him, but he couldn't speak. He kept on holding his chest, struggling in pain. We were both confused and afraid. Quickly, we called for help, putting him in the back seat of our neighbour's car. My mum sat at the back with him. While I sat at the front seat staring at him through the rearview mirror. I tried to calm my already racing heart.
“Calm down," I told myself.
“Everything is going to be fine I kept on reassuring myself.
At the back seat, Uncle Jide lay on my mother's lap. My mother, Miriam, couldn't help crying and whispering prayers upon prayers. I held the tears that threatened to fall off. I needed to hold on.
We finally landed in the hospital. The nurse came out quickly, carrying a stretcher to move in into he emergency ward. We followed behind them.
However, they blocked the door of the emergency room.
“Please, you must wait here," one of the nurses told us, while stopping us from entering inside.
"What? Why?” I asked.
No one is allowed in the there.
They started attending to him immediately. We stood at the window watching through the glass as they put an oxygen mask on his face and inserted an IV drip on him. Beside me, my Mum could not stop crying endlessly. In no time, my Aunt Ifeoma rushed in, panting like a dog. I arrived immediately I heard the news she said as she approached us.
"What happened?"
“Uncle Jide slumped….. Can't breathe.” My mother said in between sobs.
I relaxed on the wall, and lowered myself to the floor in exhaustion.
"It would be alright," Aunt Ifeoma said trying to offer words of encouragement.
We waited there for so long it felt like enternity. I watched as mothers with their children come and go. Families going back with no hope left and couples smiling with something to look forward to. To my right, I watched as my mother paced endlessly to no end, refusing to sit down.
The doctors came out after a while, his face a mask.We looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak .
"We are still doing our best," he said in a straight face.
"Doctor, what happened to him?
"Well, his lungs are damaged so bad. For now, it's fifty-fifty." He said, going back inside with some other nurses.
We continued monitoring them through the small see-through window at the side of the door. I watched as they began applying pressure on his chest with some electrical iron of some sort. The nurses rushed around, handing the doctors some injections and all, trying to stabilise him. I choked on my sobs as I watched Uncle Jide struggle for his life.
Soon The machine went quiet, the beeping sound stopped. The doctor came out, but no words needed to be said. His countenance said it all.
"He didn't make it," he still managed to say.
I stood frozen. Hearing those words made it real. It was as if I could no longer breath, all the air was being pulled from my lungs . Next to me Mum was screaming rolling to the floor whilst Aunty Ijeoma was holding her tight to calm her down.
I found it difficult processing it all. Uncle Jide was gone like that.
"No, no, no," I kept on saying, tears flowed through my eyes.
They let us inside to see him.
My uncle laid on the small white bed, peacefully, all life gone.
I shut my eyes in agony, and unable to look at his sleeping frame. There was silence on the entire ride back to the house. Everyone absorbed within their thoughts, mourning in their own way. The days that followed was difficult. Uncle jide was felt throughout the house.
His old radio was placed on on the table-top. His towel hung neatly on the dryer. His shoes were scattered outside like he was still around. it was difficult. My mum sat still staring at nothing in particular. Sometimes she would space during dinner or discussions. My aunt Ijeoma cleaned non-stop. Everytime she would find something to eat or arrange in the house even though everything was tidy. I guess we all grieved differently.
One Sunday evening, I walked into his room and stumbled on his journal. After Picking it up, I read the the first page.
"You never know tomorrow. Leave positive impact where ever you go"
A tear escaped from my eyes.
The months that came by, things shifted. We began remembering him more in the little things. we were still sad, but this time, we remembered him in fondness having the mindset that he was now in a better place. We recited the same jokes he would constantly repeat, listened to his songs and laughed over it.
Then I finally recognised that it was not goodbye but just the beginning of a new chapter, when Uncle Jide was no longer with us, he would still be with us through our memories. The memories he left with us will last forever - not in a physical but in a mental sense.