SOME DAYS AFTER FATHER'S DAY

I would have written this piece on Father's Day but I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to turn a happy occasion to a sad one.

So I'll write it today, some days after Father's Day.

I don't think I was ever told what death was. Not even now. No one ever sat with me to have that "talk", the one that tries to soften the tough blow reality has dealt you. I just… knew. And i knew pretty young too. Like they say, experience is the best teacher. Unfortunately, this was a lesson it handed me too early, in my honest opinion.

Over the years, I’ve tried to understand death—sometimes with anger, sometimes with sympathy. I’ve written letters to it and gotten no answers. 

It’s been 15 years since November 22nd, 2009. I was four years, eleven months, two weeks, and a day old. My first real encounter with death.

Too young to understand. 

Too old to ever forget.

I wrote my first tribute at six. Now that I think about it, that was probably my earliest published piece. It was a tribute to my grandma. My mum told me to write my "final" words to her. I didn’t know how to write a tribute, but I knew it was only polite to greet. I began: “Ojogwu, Oboli…” Then I told her how much I would miss her. I asked her to greet him for me.

I thought I understood death back then. The crying, the wailing, the silence that followed. What I didn't understand at that age was how "final" it was. The finality dawned on me years later. I’d find myself praying that maybe he’d just moved to Kafanchan and started a new life. Anything but death.

If you asked me about tattoos, I’d tell you they’re beautiful and meaningful. Some people wear them so well. But if you asked me on a deeper level, I’d say I could never get one. They’re too permanent. And I don’t like permanence. The idea that something will always be a certain way for the rest of your life unsettles me.

Because isn’t that what death is ? Permanence you never signed up for.

Losing someone to death—knowing you’ll never see them again—is something I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around.

Tobe once wrote, "You cannot soft launch grief." I agree.

There’s never a time it becomes easier or less painful. We just learn to carry it better.

Where I’m from, when someone dies, people say “Nnayi awuzia” or “Nne awuzia”—depending on who died. It literally means “may this person not die again.”

Basically saying may you not feel this type of pain again.

A wish wrapped in sorrow.

But I don't really think that's ever possible.

They say grief comes in waves. But I think it comes in echoes. Some days, it’s just a whisper—a shadow passing through my thoughts. Other days, it’s loud again, like it was the very first time.

Like I am still four years, eleven months, two weeks, and a day old.

We never fully mourn the ones we lose. Some days we carry them gently, like a quiet song in the background. Other days, they press against our chest, heavy and unrelenting. But they’re always there. Just like that moment is always with me.

Grief is one of death’s permanent gifts. It doesn’t go away. It just changes form. Some days it’s quiet. Other days, it clogs your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Breathing feels like trying not to drown. Your eyes go red from crying tears that could flood a room. And the worst part? No one can ever fully understand. No one can feel your pain exactly the way you do.

And so, I write this. Not because I’ve figured it out. But because I still feel it. I always will. And today is one of those days grief came with an echoe.

I know it's been a while, Happy Father's Day daddy, I miss you and  love you a whole lot ❤️.

Lots of love,

BUNMA💕.