Living Without Her

The moment I stepped into the house that evening, her presence seemed to engulf everywhere — from the small kitchen that could only contain my gas cylinder and foodstuff, to the fairly spacious corridor where she'd sit on the wooden bench, rubbing her hands on her protruding belly and whispering words which no one could hear but I could feel in my heart.

If only a real foetus was in there, and not a disease.

As I trundled my box to the wall, bringing myself to the fact that I would be staying here for my studies, my mind flashed back to the exact gesture two years ago. I'd just left Delta State for Kogi hoping to stay with her while seeking admission in the state's Federal University. Auntie Mary was my mother's younger sister, although I'd always addressed her as my second mom because of the bond we shared.

She was terribly sick. At that point, she could barely do anything by herself. She was a nurse, taking care of many pregnant women at the hospital, despite her condition (a disease that had led to a protruding stomach for two years).

I arrived at her place when her belly had grown to the size of a nine-month pregnancy. Yes, she was married (got married when I was in Basic Six), but no children. And when I was seeking admission into the higher institution, my prayer (and that of my family) wasn't even for a child anymore — it was for her healing.

Three days later, I felt I didn't want to stay there anymore. You can call me inconsiderate, but I couldn't stand watching my second mom in pain all the time. I told her I wanted to travel back home and process my admission from there. Her husband and my cousin were there, so it was safe to travel. I remember her words before I travelled to Kaduna State.

“I will do anything within my power to make sure you gain admission this year.” she had said that night, the full moon revealing the weak and uncertain smile that crawled onto her cheeks.

My cousin, Angel and I played some music and danced for the rest of the night before we all retired for the night.

The next day, I travelled back to my parents. If only I knew that my second mom would not be able to fulfil her promise of ensuring I got admitted to school. Her painful demise a few months later broke something in me. I didn't travel for the burial. I didn't want to accept the reality that was gone.

A year later, I found myself in Kogi State. I had been admitted and had just finished my first semester exams. There was no place to stay. The only option was an empty self-contained apartment in her house — the one I put my bags in when I arrived at her place for the first time.

So stepping into the house that day felt like I was walking back into the past, only that she wasn't there to welcome me physically. The bench where she'd sit, rubbing her protruding belly, was still there, bearing the weight of her absence. But somewhere in my head, I could see her, not just in her sick state, but full of life — like the Auntie Mary that would plan a surprise birthday party for me at age twelve.

I smiled dryly, staring at the house. I left my things inside and took a walk through the compound. I stopped at her corridor — it was quiet, but loud with memories of a year ago when I had come in to meet her seated, ready to receive me.

I returned to the present. Her husband wasn't there, and Angel had returned to her family.

I turned around to go, and there was her husband walking through the gate. My gaze fixed on him, a tear escaping my tear gland. He had changed in just one year. If he wasn't frail, his weak eyes summarised how the lonely months had been for him.

He called out first as he approached.

“My daughter, you are welcome. How was your journey?” He said weakly, a feigned smile on his lips.

The smile brought back memories of the same smile my aunt had that night before I departed. But his wasn't laced with uncertainty; it had a trace of hope that, regardless of what life took from him, he would be fine.

I bent slightly and greeted. “Good evening, Daddy. My journey was good. I've put my things in the other room.”

“Good,” he replied. “Let me get something inside, wait for me.”

I watched him walk past, wondering how he had been coping without my aunt. Well, the same way I would learn to cope for as long as I stayed in that house.

It's been three years, I'm done with school, and I only have to tidy up some things before returning home. I wouldn't say it was easy to accept the reality that Auntie Mary is no more, but I'd say I had to learn to cope. To smile when memories pop up. To force myself to bed on the nights her thoughts overwhelmed me. To push back memories when I had to study.

By all means, I had to learn to live.

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