Heaven – A Short Story by Agboni Christiana, Nigeria

I look at the rail-thin woman lying on the narrow hospital bed. I do not want to look, but I do, again and again. My mother has literally become a shadow of herself. She smiles, and I start to cry. I want to lay a hand over her mouth, so I won’t see the smile. Despite the haggardness of her face, her smile is still potent.

“Uyomi, don’t cry, come here,” she whispers, and I draw closer to her.

“Its okay to be sad for a while, but think of where I am going. Where I will be waiting to see you again, after you’ve lived for a long time, of course.” She chuckles lightly, and her body is racked by dry coughs immediately. I dash towards the mini hospital fridge wedged between the bed and door to give her water. She sips slowly, then she sighs and lies back down.

*         *       *

Mother has been telling me stories of God and eternity since I could walk. She says eternity is life after life. I tell her I do not understand, why there should be life after life; we have not finished living the one we have on earth.

“It is to be with God. God wants all who believe in Him to spend eternity with Him in heaven, away from this wicked world,” she says, in answer to my question.

She talks about mansions, in different categories, crowns that shine as brightly as stars and streets paved with gold. This fascinated me; I walked about dreaming about wearing crowns, being addressed as princess Uyomi.

She would always go on, and on about how we will not suffer lack or want in Heaven. Suffering will cease. No pain, no tears, and no death. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that we will not lack anything in Heaven. The more mother talked about Heaven, the more questions I had to ask.

“Uyomi, the ways of God are not the ways of man. Be careful, lest you be tempted to go astray,” mother delivers this gentle rebuke with a smile. When we are told in church to imitate Christ, I think of mother. Her smile, her demeanor. If she were born during Jesus’ time on earth, I have no doubt that she would have been among the women who ministered to Him. A combination of Mary and Martha. I think mother’s name, Margaret, is a good fit for her.

In Sunday school, our teacher, Mr. Oche Samson, tells us about heaven. He talks like he has been there, his passion is contagious. He tells us about the different angels; Michael for war, Gabriel for peace, and the rest of them. He even knows the exact number of gates you have to pass through before you reach the throne of God.

“And my dear children, we’re going to sing in heaven. How beautiful!” He proclaims as sweat trails down his face.

“And what else?” I ask.

“What do you mean, what else. Don’t you like singing?” He asks with steel in his voice. I decide not to pursue it further with him.

“So, who wants to go to heaven?” He asks.

We all raise our hands.

Read – Smiling in the Drought – A Short Story by Thatho Katiso, Lesotho

“Then, you must give your life to Christ. Romans 6:23 says, for the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord.” He reads from the Bible. We all stand and make the confession. We are Heaven-bound.

Later, we discuss amongst ourselves what we like about heaven.

“To eat all I want. There is hardly food at home,” Olamide, a short, plump girl says.

“To sleep all day. I’m tired of working, and working.” Yohanna moaned. He is lazy. His mother says so.

“To escape this pain in my leg. To not suffer or feel pain ever again? I do not mind going to heaven today,” Ifunanya says. She was involved in an accident when she was a baby and had broken her leg. It had healed badly. She walks with crutches now.

“What about you, Uyo?” Idoko asks me.

“Me?” I feign ignorance and clear my throat. They nod and draw close to me as I bend my head slightly.

“I want to ask God some questions,” I say.

They open their eyes in shock.

“God! Do you know who He is?” Olamide asks.

“He’s God, silly.” Idoko interjects.

“I want to ask Him why there’s only singing in heaven. I don’t want to get bored,” I tell them.

“You should have asked teacher Oche.” Ifunanya says.

“He is not God. Mama says God has all the answers,” I say to them, with self importance.

“I do not think we will sing all the time. Besides, seeing Jesus alone is enough for me. What more do I want?” Ele, a quiet girl says. We do not say anything again. I still have my reservations about Heaven.

*            *             *

As I sit by Mama’s bedside in the hospital, I think about Heaven. I do not have the reservations I had when I was a child in Sunday school years ago. I do not think of asking God any questions. Mama’s absolute faith has made me a believer. That, no matter what, Heaven is a place to be. I see her cheerfulness through the terrible pain she endures, and it gives me comfort. Her faith is a warm blanket.

“Just imagine! I will see your father again.” Mama says suddenly. I look at the wistful smile on her face, and my heart feels all over the place. I try to picture my father. He died when I was five. His picture rests on our living room wall at home. A brown-skinned man with piercing dark eyes, I look like him. He was Mama’s second love. God is her first.

“And all your grandparents,” Mama continues. I take her dry, translucent hand in mine. Mama, before her sickness, was an ebony beauty. Her skin glittered and her voice was like a bell.

“I can’t wait to tell them about you. You, a law student, and an adult too.” She smiles. I want to tell her that I do not feel like much of an adult, that I feel nine instead of my nineteen years. But I cannot form the words. I sit holding her hand, trying to prolong the moment; I know I will cherish it forever.

I believe in God and Heaven. I see them reflected in mama’s life. She loves life, a vibrant personality. Mama is a butterfly with the prettiest of colours. There is no way her leaving this Earth will be the end of her life. She is too precious, her energy too beautiful, to be blackened out forever.

I see Heaven in her smile, warm and golden. I see God in her speech; how she is quick to offer a kind word, a helping hand, to tell others about Christ. Mama is the poster child for the saying that, you cannot offer what you do not have.

“God that is calling me home will take care of you. You do not need to worry one bit. You do not need to think about the why, remember that His ways are not…”

“Our ways.” We complete it together. We’re crying and smiling now.

“Keep an eye on my mansion, and crown mama,” I tell her. She nods with all seriousness. Then she closes her eyes and begins to snore quietly.

I know the journey has started. Five years of lung cancer, of pain, and tears, while mama turned unrecognizable before my eyes. Five years of mama never giving up hope, even when pain turned her eyes to slits and her mouth to a bloodied mess as she bit on it. She knew from the first day she would not survive it. Yet, she never wavered in her abiding devotion to God, she took it all with good grace. Mama’s faith is like a spring. Refreshing and continuous.

As she snores, I watch her face, she looks so peaceful; almost young again, before cancer aged her prematurely. Then I remember her telling me once, that there will be no age in heaven. I want that for mama. I know I will not see her eyes open again. Not in this world.

Mama is finally going to meet the God she has loved all her life. To the home where she had always longed for. Two feelings merge inside of me. I am sad and happy at the same time. I finally know how something can be bittersweet. I sit by my mother’s bed and watch as she transitions into the afterlife.