On this day last year, I wrote about the buildup of events that led to my dad’s passing. I also said that day started the most chaotic year of my life.
I didn’t lie.
Today, on the second anniversary of his death, I thought to write to you about grief and how I have dealt with it because, in truth, grief does not leave you; it just gets better. Over the past year, across my social media platforms, I talked a lot about how his death triggered emotions in me that I didn't know existed—new descents into the deep, new levels of highs—anything to get into my emotions or consciously get out of the physically overwhelming feeling that was like a weighted blanket most days.
Because I lived quite far from home—up north, to be exact—my guardians broke the news to me at the crack of dawn that Tuesday, and I was broken, as anyone who hears bad news is. I was stumped mostly, but yeah, I was broken. The first person I called was my mom, and on answering the phone, she started to say my oriki, with both of us sobbing on either end of the phone.
I then texted my brother, asking why he didn’t tell me the truth the night before when he posted broken hearts on his Whatsapp story but quickly deleted it. He said he knew I’d scream, and didn’t want that.
From the day I arrived home until the day I left, we were surrounded by people, and that was so comforting. I’ll start with my manager at my former workplace. When I got to work the following day, which was a Wednesday, I wanted to tell him that I’d need to leave work that week to go attend the funeral, but he motioned to me to keep quiet and just hugged me. At that moment, that was just what I needed—not sympathy, long texts, or long calls. Just a hug. Inside, I shattered into a million tiny pieces and struggled to carry on with work that day. Oh, and I struggled not to cry. It was hard, but I did it. Yay, me!
For a couple of months after the burial, I would tell anyone who listened that people supported us and that the gift of people carried me. A handful of people did not get it; I was not expecting them to. I was not expecting people to show up the way they did, but they did, and to date, I’m grateful.
I particularly loved the fact that there were people around my mum. As the only daughter, there was so much to do and so many errands to run. But these people made it easier and less stressful for me.
People kept calling me from the day I got the news until I arrived in Lagos (about two days apart), mostly to console me. There were also people who would text or call and ask how I was—people I had not spoken to in a long time. Then they would say, "I'm so sorry about your dad. That’s why I was calling or texting you.” I hated that these people had to go through this. If they were anything like me, I’d feel more anxiety than the affected person. They were better than me.
Around that time, my anxiety also peaked. For the people who know me, phone calls give me so much anxiety, I try to avoid them, especially when speaking to older people. The majority of the time, I wouldn’t know what to say and I did not know how to carry on conversations with them. A handful of the people who called me during this time were in that age group. So, my anxiety feasted.
Around this time too, my tongue changed. In my house, we don’t speak English, and that was basically how I learned to speak Yoruba growing up. But I still struggle to communicate in Yoruba with older people. I would say my tongue rolls easily to modern Yoruba, but the one the older generation spoke was just out of my comprehensive scope. So for the most part, I would smile at them and just say ‘ese sir, ese ma’ or 'yes, sir' and 'yes, ma.' Mostly because the Yoruba would just not come out the way it was in my head.
The play of events from when I left Abuja to come to Lagos was nothing short of melodramatic: crying in the car behind my mask, my Uber driver stuck between asking if I was okay and risking a one-star rating or keeping quiet and just passing me his tissue box — which he eventually did — and keeping his good rating, the aircraft not departing on time because a door wouldn’t close, the crew not saying anything to us until someone screamed at them, me seated by the window exposed to the sun and heat because they turned off the air cooling system in the aircraft but wouldn’t let us out, and then getting air sick, which prior to that time had never happened before. It was unfolding.
The day I arrived in Lagos was my mum’s birthday. The day before, I had gone to buy her gifts because I knew no one would remember, and even if they did, no one would celebrate.
Sophia was the first friend I told of my dad’s passing; she thought I was joking. I get that.
She called immediately, and we cried and laughed and then cried some more. I think it was particularly painfully unbelievable for her because not only is she family, but she also could not come when we threw him a surprise birthday party in July 2020.
She was my mouthpiece to so many people, especially my friends because the shock was fresh and I could not bring myself to talk to people that day.
She was also the first familiar face I saw when I landed in Lagos, and she nursed me through my dizzy spells till we got home.
The day we buried him, I laughed and cried. I cried because it was a sad day for not just me but for everyone in my family. To this day, I still cannot wrap my head around the concept of death and the fact that I’ll never get to see this loved one again, or the ones that I have lost, at least not on this earth. But we are Christians and believe we will be together on the last day, so we have that hope.
After the Christian wake keep in my hometown, he was laid in state and I went to see him where he lay. I stared so long at him, my cousin had to lead me away. ‘You might have bad dreams,’ she said.
The last time I saw his face was July 31st, 2020.
So when his body was lowered into the grave, I stared longingly at the white casket that was now home to his mortal body. I think my mum fainted.
That day, too, I laughed. People made me laugh.
While the burial service was going on, one of my friends, Mayowa, sent me the sweetest message I had received during that period. I smiled so much that I showed my mom. I wanted to cry, but Mayowa specifically told me not to, so I obeyed. She begged me to at least drink water if I did not feel hungry, and be strong for my mum and my brother.
Tolani went the extra mile to speak to Sophia to get my account details so he could send me money. When Sophia told me, I was more shocked than surprised. It was a gesture I was totally not expecting. The alert came in while we were dancing in church, and I just froze. I was actually in shock. I texted Tolani to thank him. He said I should focus on pulling through the service. That was some reassurance, and at that time, that was all I needed.
Chioma called me every day, even up until the day I got to her house in Lagos, to fly back to Abuja the next day. She would ask if I had eaten and just be on the phone with me, listening to me. She did it every night. She also comforted me when my relationship at the time broke up on the day I got to Lagos.
The list is endless.
A few days after the burial, my classmates from the University came together and sent me money. I remember crying in the car when Roosevelt told me on the Zoom call that evening how sorry they were for my loss and how much they cared about me. How everyone was able to come together on such short notice and pull their funds was an absolute surprise to me. Mevi told me she, Tomi, and Patrick coordinated it. Sarah and Chioma also pulled their weight. The way they came through for me? I was in awe.
Roughly three weeks after the burial, I started to break out. Acne was not new to me, but this episode was brutal. So brutal that I did not recover from it until early 2022. It was like I was going through secondary puberty or something.
At the height of my grief, I cut my hair. I remember waking up that Saturday morning and just starting to snip at it. When I was done, it felt like all the heaviness I felt was literally lifted off of me. It remains one of the best decisions I made in 2021.
Since last year, I have tweeted about how cruel grief can be. Most of my followers must be tired of seeing me tweet about my dad already. And for people that could relate, understood, and sent me comforting messages, thank you. Your messages helped me. Especially Yinka, and Temi.
Grief can bend and break your spirit if you allow it. It took some external strength to get me to go to work. Grief really is cruel, I can never stress that enough.
During the same year, I started to live alone for the very first time in my life. It was not the newness itself that made this phase difficult; it was the grief. What's worse about grief is that you can't always express how you feel.
Some days were good and others were bad; there was no in-between. There were days I would suddenly start to cry at my desk at work, and I worked as a front desk officer, so picture the mess. I’d sob for two seconds and quickly wipe my face while the residual tears burned in my head. Nobody would want to walk into an office where the first person they see has tears in their eyes. My colleagues would probably know about this for the first time, so hi.
And there were days that I would be happy, bubbly, and full of life.
On one of my trips back home from work one day, I zoned out so badly, I had to pinch myself to come back.
On one of the days when I was sad and literally two seconds away from crying, my department head, texted me on Instagram, asking how I was doing and how I was grieving. I told her how I felt, and she comforted me with the word of God and told me to grieve however I felt like, that it was different for everyone, and that I should not let anyone dictate how to grieve for me.
I got off the phone and still cried.
I realized that crying made me feel better, so I did. I cried as often as I felt. And slowly, my tears reduced, but my grief did not.
It is still there.
I wished people were not so insensitive while I grieved. I'd had my fair share of insensitivity. I wished it did not happen.
I wished Dana had not delayed my flight to Lagos that day, because they made my mother worry when she could not reach me two hours after I texted her that we were about to take off.
I wished someone had hugged me.
If you are mourning the loss of someone, I'm not the best therapist or adviser, but I can promise you one thing. Tomorrow will be better than today, and today will definitely be better than yesterday.
Pardon me if this letter was all over the place, it just truly describes my year. And just like grief, you can be pretty uncoordinated too.
Yours,
Tobi. (or to some Tobs, or to my dad Oloyinbo)
This is so touching! you have succeeded in making me cry today. I will never forget Daddy Ojenike, I knew him when I was a little girl. My father has few friends and he was about the best and most consistent of them. They grew up together and were friends till their old age. He was always present to celebrate with my family. I remember when I got admission, he took me in to live with the family, helped me get an accommodation and even got me a desk and chair. I remember all his words of advice and his occasional visits to my hostel. I also remember how he turned up for my wedding and how he was the first person to come dance with the couple when it was time..He was such a good person, very funny too. May his soul rest in eternal peace, amen
ReplyDeleteI pray for you and the family that God will comfort you all. May all he left behind be preserved in Jesus name, amen
Time they say heal all wounds. This is so not true about grieving. Stay true and keep making him proud. You’re loved ❤️
ReplyDelete