Is it a year already?

It was a year ago, precisely on August 12, 2014, when, with the break of dawn, came that unfortunate news we were so afraid to hear. On that day, you breathed your last and left us with an emptiness never to be filled. As I later sat beside your lifeless body and said my prayer […]

It was a year ago, precisely on August 12, 2014, when, with the break of dawn, came that unfortunate news we were so afraid to hear. On that day, you breathed your last and left us with an emptiness never to be filled.
As I later sat beside your lifeless body and said my prayer over it, I recalled your first cry that announced your safe delivery into the world. I remembered how I cuddled you then, with a deep feeling of relief and satisfaction and how you calmed down as I wrapped my arms around you.
At your demise, I juxtaposed the irony of life and death. All of a sudden, your short life flashed before my eyes. Watching your still body in front of me, I felt a pain indescribable. I wished we could exchange positions. Loss of a child is an experience no mother wishes to witness, especially if that child grows to be your breadwinner.
Yet, it is a fate some mothers must accept. I am delighted that you are resting in the best abode with the Almighty because, as your mother, I cannot ask for a better son. You have made me proud in every sense of the word. In fact, I still find it hard to believe that it was my training that produced such a fine young man.
The amount of goodwill that has continued to reach me from your friends and colleagues is a testimony to the positive impact you have had in their lives and confirms that you were, indeed, a good man.
Your good friends keep trying to fill the vacuum you left in my life – they treat me like their own mother – in many ways possible. Yes, their efforts gladden my heart. But they also remind me that you are gone forever. 
To many of your friends, the bond that binds them with your family has become stronger. To a point, I now can say that I have lost a son and gained 10 others, who are eager to fill the void you left in our family. In fact, your friends make me to consider myself among the world’s few lucky ones, who have around them people that relate to them with sincerity of purpose, and do not expect from me anything in return.
But your death has left me with a huge burden. When your father left us, you assumed the dual role of a son to me and a father to your siblings. Today, you have left me to bear that burden. Yet, it’s a big a burden, especially for an old shoulder like mine.
I wish I could hear your voice again uttering those sweet words to your callers: ‘I dey mama place’ or ‘I am with my mother, I will call you later.’
True, the greatest wealth anyone can leave behind is integrity and good reputation. Little else matters after death. I am glad you left behind a legacy which continues to be of benefit to us.
Probably, because of your humility and simplicity, we underestimated your social standing and influence. But we all know that better. Soon after your demise, we were visited by members of the royalty, top military echelon and some influential personalities that we only see on television, who took turns to speak so glowingly about you while holding my hands.
Truthfully, as those gestures pleased my heart, I felt the pain of losing you. Similarly, some of them could not hold back their emotions and sat without saying a word and left almost abruptly, fighting back their tears.
One of your childhood friends sat on my bedside with his back to me and I called out his name. He replied: “Mama.” I called him again, he replied: “Mama!” The third time I called his name, he said: “Ina zuwa” (I’m coming). But he couldn’t come and left my room.
Ever since, he has remained a source of my strength. I thank God for this beautiful gift, and I thank you for being a good friend and brother to him. 
Though it is a year already, I’ve not stopped feeling the pain of your death. Why is it so? Have I refused to accept God’s decree or am I only being human? Even in my old age and dwindling memory, I still see the events of that dark day replaying in my mind vividly. I still cannot talk about you without a tear threatening to roll down my cheeks or, at least, a heavy lump choking me in my throat.
​Regardless of the time, your presence is still very strong around our home. We feel your presence in our home on weekends or during family reunions and other joyous occasions. 
I happily believe that it is your good deeds that showed-up and announce your presence whenever we gather as a family! Thank God for your well-fulfilled life. 
My son, may your rest be eternal in Jannatul firdaus. May your rest be more rewarding and fulfilling than your lifetime, my dear late Major-General B. S. Usara (rtd).
Hajiya Usara writes from ZZ6, Sauda Close, Kawo, Kaduna