Encountering grief: Different pathways (Part 1)

It has been a whole year since I lost my younger sister Maryanne  Asuku. It is almost unreal. The fact that I will never run into her again in this sphere of mortal beings is difficult to believe, but as many philosophers and faith bearers as well as the good books put it, let me specifically quote the Bible, “it is given to man to die and after that judgement”. The Hausas put it this way, death is the pathway of mortal man.

As a young girl, my first encounter of grief was when my grandmother on my maternal side passed. My Mama Okene, as we called her, loved to beat me. She was as I still remember a warm smile and the calming voice. Maria MO lower one of the wives of my iconic grandfather I’ll hug you lower none famously as Alhaji Lani BoyI, was the mother of my mom the late Mrs Josephine Awawu. My grandmother was a great cook and we all benefited from her “epebautu” eggplant soup or “epeza” cooked in the typical Ebira way. My dad, a full-fledged Igala man, was very much at home with the Ebira as he had taken his lovely wife from among them.

When my grandmother died I was in form 3 and was certain that nothing would console me. I had locked myself in the bathroom refusing to come out until an uncle had persuaded me that I needed to come out to console my mother, after all it was her mother that had died. In that bathroom lay my first bite of grief, my constricted throat, my thrashing about, the Hot uninvited tears, my tightening chest and my sweating soles. I was in a different world. I was struggling to come up for air. I still needed my grandmother. I was one of her favourite grandchildren and I was only 12 years old. Arriving at our home was always a big deal for me. My eyes would light up and the hug would be warm and mushy, her veil between us.

I lived for those days when she arrived bearing salted Ben aside, round cakes, and sugared ground nut pudding. I sat at her feet, her eyes always beckoning to me for her sign for more food or more protein. When she passed my world collapsed and for at least one month I was constantly reminded by my mum to focus and not walk in a daze. Grief can be hard. And truly one cannot even begin to fathom how painful it can be except you have been through it and you work on your resilience and faith.  You have to practise coming up for air. You have to work towards returning to community, returning to the world from where grief  took you.

As a 12 year old I was sure I could not survive a year without my grandmother, that I could do nothing without her. But as the years passed I healed. I found my rhythm and returned to the granular of daily life first up but Mama Okene’s memories remain in my heart. Her picture is a constant reminder of her warmth and swaddling hug. Her soups remain on my family’s menu. A constant reminder of our cultural influence on my life.

As I remember my sister Maryanne today, it has been a year but truly  encountering grief at any age is hard. But as you grow older you hold on to faith and calling memories to help you bye. At every age and with every person, you heal differently. Adieu Maryanne  Asuku (née Amodu) Until we meet to part no more. It has been one year but I still see  your car in my mind’s eye arriving at your wedding, your reverse, epic, raising dust until the car is settled in the parking lot. You, stepping out in your signature sunglasses, a sight for sore eyes.

Second part of this column next week.