Issue 14: Now That You Are Gone

Tribute to a sleeping friend

Photo by Angel Luciano on Unsplash

I’d always thought I’d be the first one to go, you know these little jokes we used to make back then. Back when you were the healthier version of me. Back when we used to meet once every month in the baptist hospital. Back when the fragments of colonialism still littered the brick corridors of the green building. Back when life was fragile but sweet. Back when we would run and chase butterflies because there were no butterflies outside the hospital. The irony of it all: damaged beings chasing butterflies. We were never supposed to run. We were supposed to walk, to take one step after the other, slowly and intentionally. So why have you run away from me, my friend? Why have you run to death?

Your life has always been so beautiful. It has always been a source of inspiration for me, your life. Seeing you every month for years meant something to me. I did not understand most of the things we were taught back then. You know, looking back now, I don’t think those hospital sessions were ever for us. I think they were for our parents. I think we just went there to mark attendance because come to think of it, how would they ever explain the inner workings of our lungs to us and we would understand? There was no how. There was no way. We were kids. We did not know what those things meant. We just held up to the cardinal truths they put up on the wall: Do Not Run. Do Not Smoke. Stay Away From Dust. Know Your Allergies. 

I’ll admit that it took me a much longer time to know my allergies. You, on the other hand, knew yours right from childhood. No running. No smoking. No sweeping. And of course, no cats, for you. This is why it was even more interesting that of all these, the only thing I cannot relate to is the cats. My body does not deny me the joy of loving and owning such lovely creatures. My body said yes to cats. Yours said no. And because of that, it became a sort of joke between us; me rubbing it in your face that you can’t own a cat and you rubbing it in my face that I’ll never get to see you in my house because, well, cats. I should tell you now that the cat is not with me at the moment. I dropped her off with her aunty for a week or two, in hopes that for once, you’d be able to come around, after I return from my travels. So why have you gone ahead to leave me in this world? Why have you chosen this path?

Photo by Jan Huber on Unsplash

My mother always says she saw yours, anytime I go home. She is always asking if we still talk and if we are still friends. I tell her yes, always. I always tell her yes. Because you and I never stopped being friends. Our friendship has been the most dynamic there is. I don’t send you long emails because you don’t read anything long. I remember telling you back then that I was reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and you had replied, “A book with 600 pages? God forbid.” You never liked reading long stories, poems, or essays. You would read the short novels from the Pacesetters series, those novels by Agbo Areo and others. You would read them and we would laugh at the silly characters falling in love. And you would tell me about the love of your life and how gentle they are, how blissful, how quiet, how much they understand you. I remember the day you put me on a video call with them and when they ask “Who is this?” I heard you say, “My friend from when we were in the hospital.” What an accurate description. Do you know I have never seen you outside the walls of a hospital? All of the times I’ve seen you, we were both seated with about a hundred other unfortunate children like us, listening to everyone’s favorite doctor talk about how to keep ourselves safe and stay alive. I often wonder, how many of us are still alive? Right now, off the top of my head, I can count about ten of us who are now dead. 

You would probably know many more, not just because you are with them now but because you are better at keeping in touch with people. I always disappear into the dark and remerge every market day to cause a ruckus before I go again. This has always been the way but somehow, we have made this friendship work. We have talked on the phone, chatted on WhatsApp, and sent TikToks to each other on Telegram. Our media is filled with three things: hospital pictures, pharmacy receipts, and TikToks. We have always found a way to make this friendship work. So why is it now that you will choose to leave? How can I carry on without you? How do I look into the mirror and feel whole again knowing that the very same ailment that brought us together has now torn us apart? How can I ever be confident in life when you are no longer here with me? I haven’t seen you in years but I always see you anytime I’m trying desperately to cling to life. I always see you in light, running along with me to catch butterflies, reading the cardinal truths printed on the wall, watching others play football while we sit still and wait because our bodies would not allow us the fun of chasing anything. 

You taught me the courage of stars before you left
How light carries on endlessly, even after death
With shortness of breath
You explained the infinite
And how rare and beautiful it is to even exist

I couldn't help but ask for you to say it all again
I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen
I'd give anything to hear you say it one more time
That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes

I couldn't help but ask for you to say it all again
I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen
I'd give anything to hear you say it one more time
That the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes

With shortness of breath
I'll try to explain the infinite
And how rare and beautiful it is to even exist

With shortness of breath
I'll try to explain the infinite
And how rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist - Saturn, Sleeping at Last

Photo by Ron Szalata on Unsplash

It is strange, coming to terms with your death. Life will forever be strange from now on. If my mother ever sees your mother in that little town after now, it will be with an air of awkwardness. It will be with a tinge of grief, a reminder of what has been lost to death, a reminder of you. You have made my life so beautiful in ways I cannot even begin to say because if I do, this would be very long and you do not read long things. You have carried me on your wings and told me multiple times: Ini, you will be fine. Shebi we are still here after all these years? And I have held onto those words like gospel truths until now. Now, they seem untrue. Now that you’re not here. 

Now that you are gone, I am more conscious of life, of my own frailty, and of the ticking of the clock. Now that you are gone, I remember that this is another name off the list of children who used to gather every month at the hospital to learn how to stay alive. Now that you are gone, I hold life dear, close to my heart. You will forever be alive to me. 

In Langston Hughes’ To a Dead Friend , I discover how to honor you. In the poem, Langston talks about how life carries on endlessly even after death, how it continues like nothing has happened, like our souls have not been ripped apart by the news of your departure. In the poem, the sun still shines on and the moon sends it mellow light. 

And to honor you, we will keep on breathing. We will keep on owning cats. We will keep on chasing butterflies. We will keep doing the very things you could not do while you were here. You have dropped your torch but your light has not gone out just yet. So we will carry it on. For you.

For a sleeping friend. 

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Read the poem To a Dead Friend by Langston Hughes, check here

This is an unusual issue and it’s dedicated to a dead friend who did not like reading long things. To the 106 new subscribers who joined us in the past one month, welcome. This is not what a regular issue looks like. To see what a regular issue looks like, read this or this. If you have friends who read and would love to join us, feel free to share this newsletter with them. 

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See you next week - promise. Keep breathing. ❤️