Blog - June 1, 2014
Goodbye friend, Goodbye.
I’m almost home Mom, almost home…
How many times have we all said that to our mothers when we are on a journey back home from someplace far away and all we can picture in our minds is getting home to the comfort of family and warmth that radiates in that place called ‘home’. Yes, let me answer for you, We have done that many times .
I m sure that would have been what Olaide said to her mum the last time they spoke. After crossing all the high and lowways, bumps and potholes, smoothness and roughness that make up our roads in Nigeria from lagos all the way to Ogbomosho, she would have uttered that statement to her mum with excitement, with enthusiasm, with passion. What went wrong?
Her mum too would have gone ahead to make some preparation as regards what she would eat, drink and how she would rest after the journey. Yes, our mothers do this even if we’ve been away for just few hours. This and many more make up what we call ‘the joys of motherhood’. That smile, Those tears, the pain,the soothing feeling, the anger, the happiness, everything encountered while a child grows by the day. They make a mother happy. They make her content.
But what happens when that is cut short? How did Laide feel when the car tire went all open all of a sudden? What was on her mind when she got flung onto the road? What flooded her head when she knew it was almost over? Hope? Faith? Resignation to fate? Extreme sadness? Her mother’s face? What? Would we ever know? No, we wouldn’t. We can only play it through our minds if we have the abilities to imagine gory sights without wanting to puke.
Then, the phone call that would have shattered her mother’s heart. The phone cal that would have made her mum wish it was all a dream. That it was an April day’s prank. That it was all hallucination. No, Her Ayodeji couldn’t be gone just like that. I mean, they spoke minutes ago and she was almost home. They must be kidding her. Her baby was on her way home and she would drown in her embrace soon.
I knew Olaide in 2007 during our remedial programme in Unilorin. I used to tease her about her big bum and walking posture. . I also used to joke about how lucky she was to have such a fine face and very well proportioned body. She would laugh and laugh and say: ‘You are not serious’. After remedials, we did not see frequently but we managed our hellos well whenever she came around. And then bbm came and we rekindled our friendship. She d always tease me about how popular I am and how I know everybody in Ilorin and I would tease back by saying she knowing them too meant we were both popular.
She’d update stuff to remind us about Salat and Allah’s kindness to us, admist her social activeness. She was amazing. She was wonderful. She was beautiful. She was in love with her deen. Where did that all go? How did it all get cut? What happened? How? What? Where? Too many questions come to our heads but we cannot but swallow them and thank the Almighty. After all, He is unquestionable. He knows it all, He knows what is open and what is not. He understands why everything happens, what is our place to question what we’ll never find answers to?
What can we do? PRAY! Yes, we pray to God to forgive her sins and grant her Al jannah. To console her parents and make them undersand it’s His will. Take a minute to pray for Ayodeji, she needs our prayers more now. It’s also a reminder to us all, Death knows no class, race or appearance. It is inevitable. Anybody could be next. Let’s do good and be happy with people around us. After all, this life is but a journey and anything could happen at any time. Olaide is an example.
My hands are shaking. I don’t know what to write anymore. If I feel this way, how would her parents feel? Close family? Closer friends? The tears are flowing freely now. I want to withdraw into the shell I’ve been since yesterday when I heard the terrible news. I want to cry, I want to pray, I want to do many things all at a time. I feel sick. I need to stop now. RIP Ayodeji Olaide Adunni Olanrewaju. Rest well, darling ☹ …. BOS