I sighed deeply before opening the door. I tried ignoring the persistent knocks, thinking that if I said all the right words like, “God knows best,” grief would realise I didn’t want to entertain him this time and go away. I realised I had no choice when I woke up from my troubled sleep the next day to dark silence. I couldn’t hear the sound of the TV set with whatever Nollywood drama she decided was her entertainment for the evening, or her snore next to me. That’s when the dam of tears finally burst open, and so did the door, allowing grief to enter.
He strode in confidently. This wasn’t his first timeand although the colour of the painting on our wall had changed, he proceeded to occupy the familiar blue chair she always sat on, so that every time I looked at it, I could see that grief had brought sadness and loneliness as companions. We looked each other in the eye, and my battle with grief continued because loss re-echoes already existing heartbreaks. I realised the fight was uneven—2-1; I think it’s unfair, just like death.
I feel overpowered in my own body. It’s the way I feel when people whisper behind my back. I know they feel pity for me; they are avoiding me because of the stench of death that oozes from me. I see it from the corner of my eye, in the way the usually cantankerous woman who sells fruits on my street is finally polite to me, the way my neighbours struggle to find the right words to say they’re sorry she’s not here. Even the coconut tree looks defeated, with its unkempt surroundings.
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I know they want to be there for me, but they don’t know how to fight grief for me. They have their own battles going on, but they are determined I won’t be oppressed alone, so they come armed with weapons of love packed into food coolers. They aggressively visit for the first few weeks and continue to restock the armoury in my freezer, but then they’re exhausted by their own life, battling the rising level of inflation, fighting loneliness as their children leave in the wake of Jakpa, and struggling to keep their joy even as their own faith is fleeting in the face of everyday challenges.
Of course, I forgive them; they are present, which is more than you can say for the two humans who decided they didn’t want to live without each other. They had had enough dreary days of watching a government kill its own citizens and launched me into this battle with grief in the first place.
I thought everyone wanted to help, like my kind neighbour with her party jollof rice. Two years later, I can still remember the smell of the food when I opened the plate her daughter had brought for us. The pepper soup going down my throat from the other neighbour reminded me that food is a love language. I could still taste goodness in the world, and maybe I should fight to live another day so I could get an opportunity to eat the well-fried chicken again. But people aren’t always kind to me. They soon remind me to grow a spine; it’s in how they tell me, “You’re an adult, I lost my mum at 16,” as if I need to outgrow grief, erase memories, or rewrite my childhood fantasy of a dream wedding to exclude a father-daughter dance. I had the perfect song picked out – “I Loved Her First” by Heartland was supposed to be our song. I was sure my father would get a kick out of it, given his love for country music.
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So, I try to toughen up, learning to perform instead of worship and survive instead of thrive. I acknowledge God but refuse to sit with Him, even when I receive His invitation for a conversation. I tear it up and continue chatting away on my phone; I don’t want to hear anything He has to say. Grief is an adversary I have misjudged in the ring, thinking all I needed to overcome him was ignoring the first jabs of pain from when the look in the doctor’s eyes announced that she was dead. The news knocked me down; I didn’t know that the fall would cause me to bleed internally, that my heart would be broken, and faith bruised as well.
The fight may have been over when the casket was laid in the ground, but I had begun a battle against depression, constantly warring not to lose my mind, my will to live, to not tear up every time a stranger said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Those meaningless words seemed to empower my rage, another feeling I had to keep contained, even as I smiled in church and muttered “Amen” loudly. I didn’t want to lose my mind every time I heard my brother chuckle. I could have sworn I heard my father chuckle like he used to every day, eating his evening meal with the remote control perched precariously close to him as he tried to keep abreast with the evening news, flipping news channels. It’s been years since I heard the radio in the early hours of the morning, as my father tried to catch the day’s headlines.
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I am a tough girl; I’m defiant, I will not succumb to grief, I tell myself. I fought a good fight initially, but this time it’s overpowering; grief is everywhere I look. Six months later, I give in, staring at the methylated spirit on my window, thinking it would be easy to reach for it and drink the entire bottle. I consider downing its entire content. Nobody is home, the silence crushes me, and loneliness hurts me deeply. This seems like the right moment to give up, but then my phone rings and an acquaintance checks on me. I feel relief and postpone my suicide.
I’m not sure if I can claim victory. It’s been six years since grief first arrived, and all I can say is grief is no longer just an opponent but a sparring partner teaching me to stand up when career lows threaten to make me tremble in fear. He whispers, “How many mortuaries have you visited, Ireju? You’ve seen dead bodies.” I confront grief when another relationship ends and say, “My heart didn’t stop beating with death. Surely, Ireju, you can learn to cope with heartbreak.” When my friend loses her loved one and wails loudly, I don’t tell her to stop crying. I listen to her, and when she asks with tears in her eyes, “Why would God let this happen to me?” I hug her, offering her tissues with the same hands that nearly grabbed that methylated spirit; it’s my response to her, the miracle isn’t the resurrection of the dead she craves but the scars she will bear from her battle with grief.
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Jessica Ireju is a multifaceted storyteller who shares her thoughts, invites conversations, and challenges narratives through her words. Her essays have been featured on BellaNaija, and her writings have found homes on various blogs. She is also a producer of multiple podcasts and the author of two books: “The Green Room Diaries” and “Beautifully Flawed”. By day, she helps brands craft their unique stories; at night, she illuminates the stories of women at Her Green Room. Jessica is constantly seeking opportunities to tell new stories to others. Connect with her on social media @jessicaireju or visit her website jessicaireju.com
