Death makes people weep and wail. By the time the helicopter crash happened on Wednesday, I was numb and couldn’t cry or grief because the last 24 hours had shown my eyes enough pepper.
When my dad died on Tuesday, August 5, I was heartbroken 💔.
I was preparing for an interview with NDC chairman, General Mosquito that morning when the phone call came through.
I broke down. The one hour or so journey to the village was one of the longest in my life.
I kept telling myself I was strong. Men don’t cry, they say. But only my wife can count the number of times I cried out loud and uncontrollably like a child.
On the journey to the village, I said I’d need to be strong. For my mother.
But when I entered the room, all the strength left me. I collapsed on the laps of my old lady and wept like a baby.
She couldn’t bear the sight of her last born crying over the death of her husband which happened just two hours earlier. She too, cried, for the umpteenth time that morning I’m sure.
When I gathered the strength to enter the room where my dad laid, I made straight for the blanket covering him and pulled it off his head as if in doubt that he had died.
His grey hair. His calm and smile-like face. His silence. Everything looked normal, as though the old man was asleep.
The silent sobs of my older siblings is the only thing in the room that showed he was indeed gone.
If my siblings who are older than me could cry, then I have the licence to. I let the tears roll down freely.
In the room, we all cried. Trying hard not to be so loud. We are the men and we were supposed not to cry.
Our first born is the Imam of this town, having taken over from our dad 2 decades ago. He’s seen all kinds of deaths. He’s led prayers for thousands to be buried. You’d think this is nothing for him. But the sight of his old man lying motionless was something else. He cried.
My big sisters took turns to arrive from their various homes. Each arriving with a crying party. In the room, we gave them the back up vocals. It was effortless. It was involuntary.
I’ve caught myself crying so many times and suddenly turn to face the wall and sob silently.
My brother. The one I come directly after. He has been a huge source of strength for me. I knew that even if everyone cried that day, and there was the need for a calm head which wouldn’t cry, he would be the one.
He was on the phone constantly communicating with people. Making burial arrangements. Talking to the grave diggers. Giving instructions.
Then suddenly, he started shaking violently and sniffing loudly. I saw his eyes. They were burning red! If he had his way, he would collapse on the floor, kicking and crying 😢. He cried well, but in silence.
Then the loudest of my sisters arrived. I knew she was the one who would turn the entire house and town into wailers at this moment.
But she didn’t wail. She didn’t throw herself on the floor and dirtied herself. She sat calmly by the old man and put her hand over his face.
Then she said: I will not cry for you. I will rejoice for you. You’ve died exactly the way I prayed for you to die. Peacefully. Beautifully.
But she uttered those words with teary eyes.
That’s when it dawned on me. We don’t have to cry. We have to celebrate the death of this old man.
My dad was 81. He’s the most peaceful and peace loving human I’ve ever known. He mended all manner of hearts. He and my mom have fixed so many broken marriages and relationships.
My father was the Imam of our village, Asutsuare Junction. He handed over to my brother- his first son.
My father has over 60 people in his household. All of them from his loin: Children. Grandchildren. Great grandchildren. In laws.
He was an elder of the town who was consulted by chiefs, young and old people on crucial matters. What more could he ask for at 81?
He was old. But he wasn’t sick. He wasn’t in a hospital bed or a morgue. Of course, he has the usual old people’s hospital visits. But his death didn’t happen due to a “sudden illness”. He was lying in his own bed when he died.
That morning, he had woken up, come out to perform the Fajr prayers. He sat outside with my mom, my brother and grandchildren. They do the usual chit chat. They serve him breakfast. No complaints about ill health.
He said he was going to take a nap. He goes and lies in his bed. A few minutes later, a granddaughter calls out with a loud cry. “Mallam is not waking up!”
And just like that, we lost our dad. Our guide. Our advisor. Our wise old man. Our role model. Our champion. Our pride. Our touchstone.
But we won’t cry. Not loudly at least. We will rejoice. Rejoice, not because we’re happy he died. But rejoice because our dad died a fulfilled man.
He raised good children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. He raised a community.
Our dad didn’t stay on admission in the hospital for days, or weeks or months. He didn’t stay bedridden for months or years until everyone tires. We didn’t have to raise him up and help him lie down. We didn’t have to bath him. He didn’t stress us.
And the prayer of every man, is to be buried by his children. Not to bury his children. And that prayer was fulfilled on Tuesday.
It is painful. It is sad. We will miss him. But he has showed us the way. He has taught us enough to help us continue the journey under the able leadership and guidance of our big brother.
My dad died around 9:30am. We buried him by 3:30pm. But within this short period, hundreds of people were sitting in our compound praying for him.
And when we did the adua (funeral) 3 days later on Friday, there were about a thousand people.
No announcement was made or special invitation cards were sent. But people came. They came to pray with us. From far and from near. To show our dad love. To show us love.
Don’t we have the right to rejoice?
Alhamdulillah.
When I die, I pray that I die in the comfort of my bed and in the presence of my children and their children so they may bath me and lay me to rest like my siblings and I did for our father.
