This is not a tribute. To wite a tribute would be too hard for me at this point. It would mean writing about all that you embodied in your short stay in this world: Goodness. So no, this is just the ramblings of a person in pain. A person who has lost someone she loves. A human going the process of grief. Understanding the loss, processing it, and accepting it.
There are five stages of grief as we are often taught: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I would be lying to myself if I told you that I had not reached the last stage of acceptance a long time ago. Two weeks prior, when I saw you in the hospital on your way to the ICU, I accepted that the end had indeed come. The Ummi, I knew and loved was gone and its place was a frail, watered down version of you, hanging onto the thread of life. True to your nature and fighting spirit, when you saw all of us, your sisters, brothers, and cousins by your bedside you asked us outrightly: ‘What are you all doing here? Were you told I am going to die?’ and then preoccupied yourself with the fact that you hadn’t prayed Asr, and it was almost Maghrib.
Last night, after I received the call of your passing, I sat downs gingerly on my bed, processing what your loss meant to us all, your children, your husband, your mother, your siblings and to all of us who loved you. The memory of your son crying in the hospital room was what tilted my emotions to unleash the wave of tears stinging the back of my eyes. I howled and snorted so much, my children who were engrossed in watching TV rushed into the room to find out why I was making such ruckus.
Nobody tells you about grief. Nobody teaches you how to contain it. Nobody tells you that the world will not stop while you are in pain. Amidst tears, I was overcome by an overwhelming urge to see you one last time and say goodbye. In a haze, I grabbed my computer and started looking for ticket for the following day. Most airlines were fully booked for the easter break. I managed to book a max air ticket.
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The scary thing about grief as an adult is that we are not allowed to process it fully, when and how we like. I would have wanted nothing more than to lie down on my bed and have a good hard cry, but that was not an option. With pain gnawing at my heart, I had to wipe away my tears, make several phone calls to arrange logistics of airport pick-up, who to take care of the kids, what to cook while I was away and keep the house running smoothly.
Nobody teaches you that while grieving, you still must pack. What would I wear to the airport? Was my hand luggage sufficient? How many days would I spend? Would an abaya do? Or should I opt for a long hijab instead?
Nobody prepares you the selfishness or rather indifference of people close to you- while I cried, my kids called me to settle a squabble over whose turn it was to hold the remote control. I did not have the energy to be angry and the mental clarity to judge, so instead I just shut the damn TV and asked everyone to go to bed. Afterall, It was 10:30pm.
Of course, I could not sleep.
As someone who had anticipated her death, it surprised me the level of my pain. My cousin had battled breast cancer for five years. I still recall the day she called in 2018 to tell me that the lump she felt in her armpit had turned out to be cancerous. I wanted to cry then, but she was the one who pacified me and told that we would fight this disease.
And fight she did. She travelled all over the world, and stayed for months, for different treatments. She had surgeries, countless chemotherapy sessions and radiations to burn those damned cancer cells. Her hair fell out and her hand and feet blackened from the medication, but she persisted. Even when she was told that her cancer had come back after a year’s hiatus, it did not dampen her spirit. She would call me after her chemotherapy cheerful, discussing mundane everyday issues, as if everything was ok. In Cairo, where she started her treatment, she would go straight from chemotherapy sessions to the market to buy hijabs, veils and long dresses for her business.
She quit her job in NYSC, she told me after some time that, she could no longer cope with the demands of her job and her frequent and prolonged leaves and absences from the offices were causing raised eyebrows. She concentrated instead on building her business and being strong for her husband and children. From Ummi, my cousin, I learnt the beauty of In-laws. I witnessed, first-hand how her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law supported her emotionally, physically and financially. May Allah SWT, reward them.
During the night, I tried to console myself. Ummi had passed away in the holy month of Ramadan and on a Friday night. For my non-muslim readers, this is a sign of good things to come in the hereafter. Moreover, my cousin was quite religious. And yet, these rationalisations did nothing to numb my pain as I tossed and turned throughout the night.
This morning, I did not need an alarm to wake me up for Sahur. I could feel the beginning of a headache as I made through the motions of waking my children to eat something prior to fasting. I managed to swallow a few pieces of bread as I anticipated my early morning flight.
Two weeks ago, I had seen Ummi alive and on the way to the ICU. Now I am travelling to say goodbye to her corpse. The fight is over for her. For her, there is no more pain, only bliss we pray.
Sadly, for us, the pain has just begun. The vaccum she created cannot be eliminated. It sits there like a scar, reminding us of her goodness, her suffering and her strength. I like to believe that she would have all wanted us to be strong for her; but as I gaze upon her now silent, beautiful face, I lack the courage to say to her all the things I want her to know. How much she was an inspiration to us, how much we envied her, and how much we loved her.
They say goodbyes are never easy.
May Allah SWT ease our pain and grant you the highest level of Jannah.
Sai munzo, Salamatu ‘ummi’ Dikko. Sai munzo.
