On: Grief.

I started writing this on a train to work at 6:55am and it is taking everything within me to focus and not miss my stop. Whilst physically present, my mind is simply no longer here. It feels like my head is stuffed with cotton wool and my mouth has a bitter dryness to it that I don’t think even water could drench. All I can hear is my own broken voice repeating tearfully on a call ‘She’s gone – she’s gone. I’m so sorry – she’s gone’.

In all my twenty nine years of life, I have not experienced grief in this way. Like most, I have been saddened by the passing of grandparents whom have lived long fulfilling lives and those losses felt like someone had picked up a sharp heavy stone and aimed it directly at my heart, but this – this unexpected tragedy. This desperately scrambling on the floor breathlessly demanding why type of loss…This is not something I have ever had to work through and whilst still fairly fresh, it has been a process.

It feels like the world is moving even faster than it was before and i am stuck in the same spot half burning with a deep fury that cannot be put out and and half tired, wanting to simply sleep the present away. Grief can turn you into the worst version of yourself and I found myself deeply angry at everything. Hearing someone else laugh made my stomach lurch because it wasn’t fair that I would not hear her laugh again on this earth. Seeing others celebrating over the Easter holiday left a pang in my chest because our family was gathered under a dark cloud of sadness. Tasting an iced cold coke under the blazing Lagos sun and feeling blue because she would always always always without fail request a ‘sip’ and by sip she would take the drink and go.

Some days I’m able to compartmentalise and tick off my to do list with fervour, and other days I just stare into space overwhelmed with questions – the biggest one? Why? Why her? Why us? I found myself shrilly yelling at my creator, asking why, demanding answers, asking him why he couldn’t save her and the children. Why she had to leave. If he understood the magnitude of the pain that has rocked through the heart of our wider family and the empty space her loss has left. The family glue, the Aunty that I would cuddle up and gossip with, the one I wish I had spoken to more about my boyfriend, I wish I had told her all the juicy silly bits. And now she’s gone.

I am so blessed to be surrounded by friends and loved ones alike who quite literally swooped in to help when we were at our most defenceless. From bringing over food to ease the thought of cooking and cleaning to simply listening to the anger, the fear, the deafening sadness. To sending over the most thoughtful flowers and homemade cookies. Community is everything and grief has shown me that no man is an island and we truly need each other in this long and winding road called life. I wanted to recoil from everyone and hide under my duvet when people asked because grief felt so desperately intimate, the raw vulnerability almost feels shameful but I found peace in sharing with my family and friends. I suppose we all found a little island of peace amongst each other, and that is the one beautiful part of loss, it’s ability to bring people together in the darkest of times.

You find grief pooled in the corners of WhatsApp – messages that you won’t be able to continue anymore because they won’t reply. You find grief in old photos of them dotted around, and those photos almost make you believe that they’re still around, that they’ll come back. You find grief in the conversations about them – their signature gravelly laugh, polo shirts and long million braided hair

Honestly – I’m not quite sure how to process this one. I feel like my brain and body are stuck in limbo, half being propelled into wanting to do everything and see everything because life is so short and nothing is promised but also wanting the world to completely stop because it seems deeply unfair that the world is still spinning whilst she is no longer here but for now I keep her memory alive by forging forwards, loving on our family a little more than usual, holding people desperately close God forbid we experience an unexpected death again. Catharsis via writing once again, oh how I have missed it.