12 years after, you still shine mum

“Time flies fast. Life goes on at its own pace. But some memories can never be forgotten or erased from the mind of dearest ones. You will always remain in our thoughts. You are the perfect role model of how all mothers should be to their children. I still remember the last time I saw […]

“Time flies fast. Life goes on at its own pace. But some memories can never be forgotten or erased from the mind of dearest ones.

You will always remain in our thoughts. You are the perfect role model of how all mothers should be to their children. I still remember the last time I saw you. Memories of you will always have a special place in my heart. People like you should be around us for our entire lifetime. There are just too many things to learn from you. You will always be respected and remembered. Continue to rest on mum. We love you.”

October 15, when Kikelomo Subuola Ashabi, the baby of the house, posted the above paragraph on Facebook, made it 12 years she had been motherless. She was less than 15 when our mum, Mrs Modupeola Funsho Adeniyi, departed this world. There are several things one could prepare for in life including adulthood. But who prepares for life without his mother at a very young age? Who hopes to spend his days looking at photographs as the only physical image of someone that is your irreplaceable first love, someone dear and fondly in your heart, someone you love so unexplainably? How does one prepare to rely on loving memories as an avenue to recollecting the affections of a mother?

I was in Maiduguri undergoing the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) programme when the dreaded messenger visited our home in Idiroko, Ogun State. Who expects to return to a deserted home after partaking in the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC)?

I had visited a fellow corps member serving at the zoo and left for the Cherubim and Seraphim Movement Church around the Post Office area in Maiduguri when it dawned on me that several phone calls to her went unanswered on October 15, 2008. The ‘mummy has turned handset to landline’ joke stopped being funny. When nobody picked their calls, I got uncomfortable. I decided to leave my place of primary assignment, Borno Radio Television to Bolori Kasua where I was residing, when an uncle called and requested I joined the first flight from Maiduguri to Lagos the next day. I knew something had happened but couldn’t have imagined you had slumped while talking never to rise up again.

My fear was heightened when I travelled to Idiroko, Ogun State, from Maiduguri by road without receiving a phone call from my mum. When I got to Lagos at about 3am, I took a taxi to Sango Ota where I was to join another vehicle to Idiroko but I stood at the motor park for several hours processing the thoughts. I knew something had happened to my friend and mother but I was fighting the thought knowing she was a fighter. If she could fight paralysis to full recovery, then she would fight everything, I kept repeating to myself. But who fights death when her time has come? Who can be spared from the dagger of the dreaded unwanted guest?

It was 12 years ago but just like yesterday. I remembered walking from the gate to the two-bedroom flat where our bond was solidified. It was the longest walk of my life, longer than the over 24 hours spent travelling from Maiduguri. Thereafter, I needed no soothsayer to say what had happened. She was not at the gate to welcome me neither was she in the room.

It was about 6am and everybody was surprised to see me. Those crying cleaned their faces while my dad had to comport himself, nobody wanted to break the news to me as the conversation centred around my long trip, followed by a deafening silence.

Then my dad, who was struggling to hide his emotion broke down in tears as he muttered, “We have lost your mother.” It was a moment, no one prepared for. I had seen several scenes in home videos, of people reacting to such news but I just sat and could only look as wails turned whispers before fading away. I was shattered beyond tears and shouts. Several minutes later, the tears came and it had never stopped since then. Not just from me, but your children and people you’ve impacted.

Tears flow whenever we think of your labour in ensuring we succeed. The tears flow whenever we consider all those things you denied yourself but gave us in abundance. The tears flow even more at night on knowing that there could only be one Iya Ibeji, as fondly called. The pains we feel are much more than the tears that people see. The pains of living without a mother, a confidant, and one’s first love are beyond what words could describe.

It was painful, more painful that though I spent my entire childhood with her, I had only known her for just six years from 2002 to 2008.

Childhood wasn’t a pleasant experience due to my (including my siblings) stubbornness which was met with several lashes of the cane being a disciplinarian, and secondary school days were spent in the hostels. The only time we truly started the son-mother bonding was when I was offered admission to study Mass Communication at the Osun State Polytechnic Iree. She treated me as a baby. She visited several times in four years than the six years spent in secondary school.

It was within this period that I truly understood her love, care, and concern. It was when I was happy having a mother as the bond was strengthened having understood and appreciated why she never spared the rod on the younger me.

But we have all drawn strength from your ‘short life’. Your death denied me the conversation I had planned to have with you about not pursuing a university degree as you had always wanted. It fuels my determination to succeed knowing that you died the same year you completed your university degree at 52 years old. It was really painful thinking of some of your retirement plans. But it brings joy and comfort that your life is what every one of us is trying to make alive by not forgetting your passion for being the best version of yourself. You were dedicated to ensuring no one around you slept with hunger or without shelter and would not mind denying us our full ration, if necessary, to feed the poor.

You set a high standard within the short time you spent with us that we only looked up to God to empower us to keep your legacy alive; your legacy of hard work, and commitment to God. That is why the tears of losing you are accompanied with smiles of knowing you are a better place. We are grateful that God has been lighting the way you’ve pointed us to follow.

We know you’ve done your part in our lives. You left your marks in the lives of those that crossed your path as a teacher, social worker, and most importantly a mother and a wife. Our lives have never been the same without you but we always draw solace in knowing that you had always wanted the best for us and for your dear husband who still clings to your photographs, taking it with him all the way. “I love my wife,” he always says, showing us strength and running with the baton of care you left in his possession.

Mrs Modupeola Funsho Adeniyi, thank you for still shinning even in death. Continue to rest in the bosom of our Lord till we meet to part no more.

Aduuni Okin,

omo olomu aperan,

Omo oloro alagogo ide,

Asingba lona t’ Omu.

Bi ewure ba sonu l’omu

Aperan,

Moni e ma fi lo mi,

Baba tani ise egbe gberan

gberan?

Bi aguntan bolojo ba sonu l’

Omu Aperan,

Moni e ma fi lomi rara,

Baba tani ise egbe gberan

gberan?

Ani bi adie okoko ba sonu

l’omu mosi,

Moni ki e mafilomi rara se,

Baba tani ise egbe gbeye

gbeye?

B’ omobinrin rogbodo,

Yo tadi reke reke,

Ba sonu l’ Omu Aperan,

Moni e mase ran elese waa,

Eni to gun esin ni ki eran si

mi,

Omo naa ko sonu,

O nbe ni ile wa.

Enito gbe arewa obinrin ko

fewo,

Enito gbe eran lo digara,

Sebi agbe ewure lodi ikan,

Aji agutan gbe lojale l’Omu.

Ibosi agbadie ni lagara nke,

Omo Olohun titiungiri.