8:11PM | Ubee

When I stood by her, looking down at her unconscious body, watching oxygen bubbles burst within the humidifying cup attached to the cylinder next to her bed, rhythmic beeps from machines inside the room tensing the air, I knew for sure that grief was on its way. This woman here is going to die, and I would have to prepare for it. I would have to convince myself that I can be prepared enough. But the truth remains—nothing prepares a person for grief. Nothing, and that includes even the realization that this grief will surely come. 

It’s been months since she breathed her last. I still haven’t stopped asking myself questions. Can I stop, really, even if I wanted to? I don’t know. I sit to eat, and it is an interview between me and some memory of her, or something I planned to weave into a memory. A bird flies past and it’s a question and answer session. Ubong, why did you not tell her you love her? Ten more I ask myself, can I survive this without a scar? She isn’t even buried yet and I’m covered in wounds. Can I clamber my way through this terrain unscathed? Honestly, like I answer to almost every question I am asked these days, I do not know. Lord knows. Ask him. He’d tell you. I loved that woman. I hate to admit, but I think I loved more than I loved my father on some days.  Her death feels like a chisel hammered into my core. I might break. I just might shatter; oh, I would for sure. If not now, then soon. And if not soon, then later. 

Five years. I lived with her for five years. Mama. Fat. Light-skinned. Expressive facial features.  Bulging brown eyes that followed every object, that saw through every feeling. 

She’d look up at my face and then down at my feet, raising her eyes to meet mine, then go. “Ubong, you have Malaria. See it there in your eyes. Go and buy drugs.”

Do you know that mama never once abused me? Not once in her life. She never raised her voice at me and did not apologize afterwards.  Her apologies were seldom oral though. But I always knew them for what they were. Apologies. Whenever mama yelled at me, she would shrink back, recoiling at her own outburst. And minutes later, she’d be the one to ask if I have eaten. 

“Give my grandchildren food o!” she’d yell at the cooks. “Cook the rice well. Ubong likes rice with pepper.”

She always knew I’d smile, that the frown on my face would clear out at the mention of food.

When I last looked at her, she could not look at my face. She could not examine my features as if she had a doctor lodged in her eyes. I cried. And today, I have cried all over. What hurts the most is this last memory I have of her. It was supposed to be better. I remember talking about taking a picture with grandma soon. I told my brothers I would do so when I got a phone with a better camera. But it never happened. It would never happen. I imagined that she’d at least call my name once whilst on that bed. Or that she’d blink at me, turning her face the other way. I imagined that she’d send me to ‘the ATM,’ squeezing old N100 notes into my hands for transport. “Take. Transport!” 

The last thing Mama said to me was: “Ubong mama.”

She said it through a mouth that had swallowed enough pain, that had voiced too many gasps and wheezes. The last thing I watched her do was lean towards me. She wanted a hug. She wanted me to help her stand. This is the one that is almost having me dead. This memory. Whenever the image flashes, I break all over. Into tears. Into screaming. Into fits of fisting the air. 

I loved that woman. 

I wanted to be her doctor. I know she wanted that too. Just why she always asked when I was going to finish school.

“2025, mama. By then, I’d be a doctor.” I’d say, and she’d nod. “Okay. I’d be alive then.”

I don’t know who to blame. Myself, or whatever well life springs from? 

Mama died suffering, and I watched. She deserved more. I deserve more. I’m not supposed to be cursed with these memories of her. I loved her. I loved my grandma. Sincerely. I have written almost a hundred stories about her. That’s enough proof. But I know for sure that my love for her is nowhere near her love for me. She loved me more than anything she had. I was the stubborn one. The one who never played by the rules. The one who made her shake her head whenever I brought girls home. Whenever I did something out of line. But she loved me. 

She loved me.

I don’t know what to say anymore. But. Wherever she is, I need her to know I’d do anything in this world to have fifteen minutes with her. Anything at all. I want her to wake and talk and then go back to her new bed.

4 thoughts on “8:11PM | Ubee

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *