Last Day With Mother

Mother’s death had always been a mystery to us. Why she had to die at the age of thirty-six, some months after I turned sixteen, was a question I kept asking God. She was young and beautiful. I should have added full of life, as that usually follows when describing someone that died an untimely death. But in the her last two years on earth, life was drained out of her. Maybe it was better she left.

I remember her last words to us, Ebere (my younger sister and only sibling) and myself. She was in her room, laying weakly on her bed, her head slightly propped up with a pillow. We were by the right side of her bed, telling her all that encompassed at school that day. We did it in a bid to cheer her up. Occasionally she smiled, though a very weak smile. In my heart I longed to see her beautiful smile that brought joy every moment I was with her.

“Never marry someone who is not meant for you,” she said, looking straight at us. Her gaze was steady. Her voice was faint and cracked. “Do not let anyone decide who you should spend the rest of your life with. Do not be pressurized into marriage. Marry that one who gives you joy and peace in your heart. Otherwise your life would be like you were soaring on waves and tides. You will always be praying for calm moments, which could come once in a blue moon. It could be very rough…” She coughed dryly.

Mother beckoned on us when she regained her breath. As we came close to her she hugged us, Ebere first then me. She whispered in my ears “Obim, my beloved son”, before releasing me. She closed her eyes, smiled a weak smile, then slowly the smile faded away. We sat watching the colour drain from her body. It was when we could not see the heaves of her breathing that we knew she was gone. Just like that. Let me spare you the details of our panic and wailing.

Father’s doctor said she had died from stroke. Her doctor said it was a combination of many things. My maternal grandparents said it could have been suicide, since they believed she was eccentric. I was convinced it was the ill treatments from my father that made her decline in health and eventually die. I knew many times when Ebere and I would return from school and we would see our father pulling her up the stairs with blood all over her. She would be wailing and screaming. When he got to the first landing, he would kick her down the stairs and leave her at the bottom in whatever state she was. Ebere and I would do nothing but cry and try to help her up to her room. We learnt very early how to administer first aid and became experts in it, for Father was very brutal. It surprised me that mother never told us why he was always beating her up. Instead she endured in silence and if we asked why, she would say, “It is okay dears. One day you will understand.”

And I wondered how long it will take me to understand.