On The 20th Anniversary Of My Mother’s Demise, And Why I Don’t Care So Much For Christmas…
By: Jerry Chiemeke
Tags: Christmas, Motherhood, Family, Prose, Death

On The 20th Anniversary Of My Mother’s Demise, And Why I Don’t Care So Much For Christmas Decorations

(A few notes in memory of my mother, who died on December 25, 2000.)

(Photos of my mother have either been misplaced, or succumbed to water and other destructive agents over the years. This is the last surviving picture.)

Dear Mom,

It’s been 240 months of absence, of a void, of what-would-have-beens. Success & an adventurous life do not cancel out the emptiness. Every win comes with an "I wish you were here", every loss with an "if only you were around to guide". My life amounts to little other than mementos of you.

On some mornings I feel like I have it all figured out, and on some evenings I feel like a ship with neither anchor nor rudder. Would certain mistakes have been avoided if you were here? Would my life have turned out differently? I guess we will never know.

I have spent one-thirds of the time since you left blaming you for not fighting to live, then spent a third making a life for myself, & a final third summoning the courage to process your absence. Will my elder brother ever recover? Will things ever be the same with your sisters? Honest to God, I can’t tell. Your siblings didn’t particularly crown themselves in glory in the weeks building up to your interment, but I don’t plan to discuss it this year.

I still don’t look forward to decorations on Christmas day, mom, and I still don’t try to eat jollof rice either; I have no idea what become of the pot you cooked two hours before you closed your eyes for the last time. I still have a dislike for kids who throw crackers; you may have still been alive if those loud things didn’t exist...

But I have stopped looking for you in the women that loved me, so I guess that is progress.

Dad found love again six years after you left. The union produced a child. She turns seven next month. You’d have loved her: she’s so adorable. Her mother is not perfect, but she’s alright. Who knows, both of you would have even made great friends...but we will never find out.

Mom, do you remember the small notebooks I used to scribble "novels" in? Ah well, they say I’m a successful author these days. A Google search of my name points to some awesome stuff I have done. Yea, there’s this thing called Google. You’d have figured it out, you were a schoolteacher, a good one at that. You might remember how we used to bond over your students’ CRK exam scripts, you always said you could go to sleep and leave me to mark so long as it was CRK.

I'm sure you'd be surprised why a lot of people joined you over there this year.

Ah well, there’s this thing called COVID-19 that just sort of took over the world & started affecting everybody. It’s in the air we breathe, so it’s hard to contain. It’s a wicked world, mom. You’d have been tired.

I know I read the Bible from back to front while you were here, but these days I’m not inclined to opening it, I’m not even so sure about believing what’s in there now. I feel He doesn’t listen, I feel he’s stopped thinking of me, just like you stopped coming to see me in dreams years ago. If it makes you feel better, the nightmares on Sunday nights are less frequent, compared to four years ago.

I’d have loved to mark this year’s anniversary in a big way, but all I’ve got is a bottle of brandy, an empty heart, and memories of Daddy screaming "my wife is dying" on that black Monday morning while you jerked on the floor, gasping for breath as your heart caved in. I hope the boy who threw those crackers is an astronaut now.

Would you have approved of today’s feminism? You were pretty kickass & independent yourself, so I’m guessing maybe. Would you hassle me for still being unmarried? You probably would; I have heard that I’m notorious for being kind and warm, but emotionally unavailable.

On days like this, I’m torn between “f*** you for not fighting harder to live” and “I miss you, and I hope we can talk soon”. Lagos nights are hardly silent, & far from holy, but I hope you stay sleeping in heavenly peace.

See you around, Nne.