We all have a set of memories that are particularly painful to tap into. We box them up and push them behind our closets simply because they are too painful to think of, let alone narrate. The events that occurred on February 13th 2022 are those types of memories.
At around 10 pm on February the 13th, my only sibling—my older brother, was attacked by an unknown person or people and left unconscious by the roadside. I was ignorant of this fact since I was cosying up for a calm weekend at my then boyfriend’s house where I had resorted to staying for a while. However, on February 14th before dawn (around 5 a.m.) my phone rang and I was alarmed at who would be calling at that hour. When I saw my mother’s name pop up, I knew it was an emergency of some sort, but the moment I picked up the phone, my heart shattered.
I could tell from her raspy voice and muffled sobs that it was critical, and I rushed to the hospital he’d been taken when the slightest amount of light crept in signifying the beginning of a new day. The journey to the hospital was excruciating. I kept thinking, “Please, please Lord, let him be okay.”
Immediately after my arrival, he had to be transferred from the level 4 hospital he was at to a level 5 hospital that was well-equipped to deal with his critical condition. His head had been hit by a blunt object and he was found unconscious with blood oozing from his mouth by a passerby who happened to know him and my mother, being a small village and all.
I Do Not Pity You – A Creative Non-Fiction by Arike Priscilla – Nigeria
The next few days until February 17th were a blur. We were in and out of the hospital. Commuting from home to the hospital and dealing with well-wishing inquisitive guests, all while our hospital bill spiralled. The hospital kept delaying an MRI scan which was supposed to assess the damage and which they had specifically requested we pay for. We had scavenged the funds for it. All along my brother remained unconscious. I remember the beeping machines and my very own blood looking like a hospital scene from a movie. It was agonizing. The tubes in his mouth and nose, a drip for feeding and administering medicine; this was something I never thought I would witness, especially when he was only 23.
There are only a few times you get to see your mother vulnerable, weak, frail, and defeated. My first time was on the 14th when I arrived at the hospital, the second was on February 17th when my brother gave up the fight. I wish there was a way I could summon the words to describe what losing my only sibling felt like, but there is none. Grief is a dark pit and it is only those who have ever sunk in it that can comprehend how I must have felt. Loss is a silent tortuous battle, a thief that steals your very air.
Right before my brother was beaten to death, I believe the universe had tried to warn me. I had felt a deep longing for him. I missed him and had planned to spend more time with him later, but I didn’t heed the warning. I did not, and I have always felt like if I had chosen him over staying at my boyfriend’s, maybe, just maybe, I would have changed the trajectory of that event. I was at war with myself, with the universe, with those goons who had robbed me of my childhood companion. I was at a silent war with the corrupt law system that did not care to provide justice for the poor. We couldn’t afford a lawyer, or to bribe the police to look into our case so we didn’t matter. I was at war with those doctors who had taken our money but never conducted that MRI. They had failed us. They could have done more but we were just peasants and not in the private wing of that damn hospital.
Letter Dated for when You will Need It – A Creative Non-Fiction by Herman Owuor – Kenya
We laid him to rest, and we began to grieve. Out of all the misfortunes that life can afford, I’m convinced that none is crueller than the death of the ones who keep you whole; the loss of a young promising future taken unjustly. For a whole year I battled insomnia, I was hysterical, I wanted to numb the pain. I felt like I had played a part in this cruel joke, I had failed to keep the one person I would grow old with in my life. Siblings are constants in our lives, and I had been robbed of mine. Two years from then it’s been a silent battle I’m still fighting. I am still wounded but I have learnt to hide and live with my scars, and whatever yours are, I deeply empathize with you.
