The Antithesis of Grief.

The sail that never ends.

Candles by Jessica Delp via unsplash

They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite - Cassandra Clare

Every young man dreams of seeing their parents grow old and happy. If the love they had for each other reaches that paramount, the stage where the wrinkles on their faces become a fulfilment, smiles become wholesome; and they feel the pride of being old enough to see you become something.

I remember walking side by side with my mum at the market. I wore a frown look because I never liked going to a crowded market. I hated the idea of prolonged price bargaining as a kid. The act of rubbing bodies and getting hit by unconcerned strangers angered me.

However, my mum, on the contrary, wore a precious smile. She believed you look more inviting if you are happy and show it to the world through your smile. I never understood this till I got a bit older.

The stroll around the market was casual. Nothing short of what I've seen before. But something strange happened. Since my regular visits to the market, this never happened. I saw my mum fight. I never saw her fight; Even in a worse situation.

A regular Nigerian market has traders and merchants coercing you to buy something from them. This act can go from mild to the point of complete harassment. It was an unlucky day because I was the victim of harassment.

An unfulfilled trader threw several grains of beans straight at my left eye. He wasn't satisfied with the "we don't need anything" message. So he needed to quench his anger by throwing stuff at me. Unluckily, my eyes were the target.

My mum charged at him. She held his shirt and confronted him. I saw the anger in her eyes, the rage, much more than I have ever seen before. The innocent smiling woman turned to a fiery lioness. All because of me.

Throughout my life, I've never seen my mum confront anyone that way. She always believed in solving things amicably. She could let the worst things slide, even if she is the victim. However, she was there making sure the trader paid for hurting me. Going against everything she believed.

That's love.

On May 8, 2021, on the eve of mother's day, I lost her. I wasn't ready. Nobody ever is. No matter how certain it looks. It just happened. The news broke me, and a part of me died. My motivation collapsed, and I withered mentally.

My body went into full self-destruction. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. My thinking was messed up. I couldn't handle the grief. I still can't get over it till now.

The saddest part was that I couldn't show it. I could stay in the room and cry my eyes out, but my younger ones are holding on to me for strength. As much as I was dying inside, I had to be strong enough for others to handle their grief.

Grief and recovery

I remember a quote from A man called Òve, a novel written by Fredrik Backman. One of the best books I've ever read.

Death is a strange thing. People live their whole lives as if it does not exist, and yet it's often one of the great motivations for living. Some of us, in time, become so conscious of it that we live harder, more obstinately, with more fury. Some need its constant presence to even be aware of its antithesis. Others become so preoccupied with it that they go into the waiting room long before it has announced its arrival. We fear it, yet most of us fear more than anything that it may take someone other than ourselves. For the greatest fear of death is always that it will pass us by. And leave us there alone.

You never get used to people dying.  Especially when they are close to home. Death is an event that completely shatters the heart of whoever is involved. No matter the circumstances, you can never get used to it.

Each day passes, and I can't seem to get my mum out of my head. I don't think I ever will.

The scars will remain.

These scars are still fresh.  It's a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for, and with her. And if the scar is deep enough to stay with me forever, so was the love. So be it. 

Scars are a testament to life.

Scars are a testament. It shows I can love deeply and live deeply. It shows I can be cut, gouged and heal. It shows I can continue to live, laugh and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. 

Scars are a testament to life. They are only ugly to people who can't see.

Sea by Pierre Bamin via Unsplash

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship first wrecked, you might seem to be drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was and is no more. And all you can do is float aimlessly.

You find some piece of the wreckage, and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. You stay alive. Why? because you have to.

Waves by Matt Hardy via Unsplash

In the beginning, the waves may be 100 metres tall. It can crash over you without mercy. They may come ten seconds apart and don't give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 metres tall; but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But, in between, you can breathe, you can function. You can laugh like you didn't witness it; like nothing happened.

Sometimes, you never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, someone familiar, the smell of food. It can be just about anything...and again this wave comes crashing. 

But this time, in between these waves, there is life. There's hope, and you have your surfing board. Although it doesn't make the wave less bumpy, it makes sailing it easier.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 metres tall. Or 50 metres tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. It could be an anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, a remembrance or a mother's day. 

You can see it coming, for the most part, and you prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, tingling from the sea salts, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out. You will come out alive. You will come out laughing.

But mind you, these waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of love. And lots of shipwrecks. And lots to always smile about.

It won't be the first or the last, but you will always have a story to tell. The people you lost will smile, admiring your strength; until someone else tells their own story on your behalf. 

This time, the wave will be 5 metres tall; and they will able to bear.

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