her first birthday after you morphed

Dear Bambi

Today November 6, is your mother’s first birthday after you disappeared.

That means her first birthday in 25 years without you.

My heart breaks for her. Today, more than in the past 5 months.

You changed the dynamics of our relationship when you left. I now dance around her. Like walking on eggshells. 

Including conscientiously reminding myself not to address her as ‘Iya Bambi’ mistakenly.

And trust me, that is a very difficult thing to do after more than 20 years. The other day I called her Oke and it sounded strange to my ears.

Your mother has become this familiar stranger. That zing in her voice in addition to her carefree spirit is missing. Conversations are now stilted. Distance does not help either. There is only so much technology can do.

AI has not learnt how to sit on the floor beside you and envelope you into a bearhug while you cry together.

The other day I buzzed her with a “you don sleep?” at an odd hour when humans should be asleep. She responded right away.

“Why are you even awake at this time? I queried

“even me I no know” She responded

Bambi, I had presumed that writing this now would be easier. I could not find the words back then.

Over the months I would begin and stop. It was too traumatising to write about you.

Until the other day I saw Big-U, your dad had written a tribute. I finally summoned the courage last week & put the question to your mom

“I wrote for Bambi. Would you want to see before I put it up on my website?”

She did not want to see. She merely wanted it up on your memorial site for her birthday. Yesterday I sent her a particular memory and wanted to know if she was okay with it

“do whatever you want” her monotone came back

 

Now I am smiling at my fondest ever memory of you. It is one that over the years pops up whenever I think ‘Bambi’.

 

It was 2004 and you were 5. We were at the house for a party. And your mom was hurrying SO and I to go shower and dress up before the guests begin arriving.

Your parents love parties. I guess your mom grew up with it because I still recall her mother’s lavish 70th & 80th birthdays at that Chevron-Gbagada.

 

Parties. Your mom always found an excuse for one. And your dad turned every party to a football stadium.

That Teevee stayed tuned to a Match as all the men congregated around it.

Your mom’s powers did not extend to that.

SO and I were her Event Planners. All she had to do was make that call with a mere;

“Amara, party dey on Saturday oo” And I knew to cancel everything else. She was not calling to ask of my availability but summoning me to service. In the earliest days of our friendship, I had mistakenly asked her,

“What time is the party?”

Typical Oke the straight shooter had retorted if I thought I was being invited as a guest?

I was an organiser and should show up very early. SO never got that option – she always slept over even after marriage. And across the years our roles remained the same –

 

“Amara, you are in charge of supervising Saheed the caterer with his team downstairs. While SO is in charge of ensuring everything inside the house is set. That included supervising Agatha, the girl who lived with her.

Your mom? she always had those last minute errands to run alongside staying on the phone to monitor the small chops woman and other bits.

Nevertheless, we must be dressed and ready to attend to guests as they arrived. So that day, I was dressing up in the room and singing 2Face Idibia’s newly released Nfana Ibanga.

Happily dancing along and massacring the lyrics as it played. Only to notice you and your cousin Emiko beside the bed stifling laughter and pointing at me.

“What is it?” I glared at both of you

“You, auntie. You are spoiling the song” you both giggled

And till date, my memory locked that song to you and that gleeful scene.

So it was that all through the years, If I think Bambi I smile as that day pulls up in my headspace.

My last fond memory was of you and your brother’s graduation ceremony here in Great Britain. Your parents had come over and your mom took time out to visit me. That day was Cycle 3 of Chemotherapy. By the time I got back from the hospital, she was in my friend’s house already. She even took my son to McDonalds when he got back from school as they waited.

That night as she led me into the bathroom and washed me, I kept crying.

“Why are you crying?”

“I am trying to wrap my head around the fact that you are giving me a wash”

“is that what you should be thinking of now? At least you are alive while I am washing you” was her sassy remark.

The next day she took me for a walk along the waterfront.

Next I knew, you had gone to Nigeria for Law School.

“Bambi dey hospital” your mother’s chat message read

Eventually, she relocated by lodging into a hotel beside your hospital to keep vigil. From work through hospital to hotel. She rinsed and repeated.

“How Bambi?” I buzzed your mom on your 25th birthday

“She is getting better but still in hospital. Keep praying for her full recovery”

Then early that morning SO goes

“You don call Yvonne?”

“Yes, I bin send her message when I wake up for night” I returned

“She answer you?”

“I never check. Na you just wake me.”

“Bambi don waka oo”

That was how we always spoke to ourselves. No preambles or dragging out words.

“Ope oo, dem don go house?” my sleepy voice croaked cheerily

“I say she don waka. She don go”

“you dey kolo? wetin dey worry you?” I tutted and dropped the call.

Went back to my phone. Saw that I typed the message without sending it in my drowsy state.

Phew!

Bambi, I still feel survivor’s guilt. I have not been able to name what your mom feels.

Few days ago, I put up a picture of flowers on my status.

Merely encouraging an attitude of gratefulness.

“Give them their flowers before they go to the cemetery” I wrote

“I did not give her” your mom’s message came in

“Who?” I typed. hoping I was wrong

“Onome” she responded

I rued my thoughtlessness

“Stop doing this to yourself madam. I watched you plant, tend and give those children a garden. So what is a bouquet now?

Bambi, you left things awkward. How will people go from asking

“how are your children?” to “how is your son?”

You left a woman who has projected Omugwo in her future with an empty room.

Talking of your room, do you know your mom bought the 2 rugs in my house when I was selling off my personal effects?

The first time she took the purple one in my room since Bambi likes purple.

“Bambi is not in Nigeria why are you buying this?”

“So? Is she not my daughter. She has a room in the house and will always come to Nigeria” And go to Nigeria, you did. Finally

Yes, after I informed your mom that I was leaving, she showed up at my house. Awoyaya to Ogba.

Took me out and did a sleepover. Your dad also got on the phone with me that night.

She returned very early the following weekend. I was sleeping when she rang that she was outside my Estate!

This time with another friend of hers. They came to help me pack. Said she wanted to be sure I was packing properly. You know how fussy your mom gets. She brought stuff she figured we would require, including a scale to weigh the luggage before setting off for the airport on D-day.

Furthermore, she arranged for SO to meet us at the Airport with a clear directive;

“Meet Amara at the Airport, stay there until they check in. If there are any issues with luggage, you sort it out and then bring back my scale”

I would later discover she took the rugs off of me to help me financially. She knew I was refusing to discount them since they were only a few months old.

Bambi, I could go on writing. That church hall was packed full across generations for you and your parents.

When I saw pastor Jimi preaching, I said to my friend beside me “this is someone who has tasted the pain of death, so he can relate”

I drew strength from your father when I saw him with that signature smile, lifting up hands and dancing in church during your service of songs? How I wanted to hug Edafe as he sat in that hearse with you? He really held it together.

I cried when I saw SO with 3 of her siblings at your funeral. At least one of us was there. Your uncle Ejiro, aunt Ese all stepped up for you.

I even spoke with your dad’s sister Akpo, my ex-colleague, one of those days your mom was inaccessible.

Onome! your light shone too brightly for a 25 year old.

Big-U’s Bambino! Iya Bambi’s Baby.