Letter to a gentle giant just resting

I remember when we first met. I was a teenager and you just started courting my immediate elder sister. You, tall, huge and intimidating, with a legendary shoe size I later learnt was something of a herculean task for you to get your fit. Anyway, I am not writing this because you are gone forever. […]

I remember when we first met. I was a teenager and you just started courting my immediate elder sister. You, tall, huge and intimidating, with a legendary shoe size I later learnt was something of a herculean task for you to get your fit.

Anyway, I am not writing this because you are gone forever. We know you are resting. I can almost imagine us, all of us, wife, family and friends, with new bodies, hugging on the last day.

Talking about your wife, she did not expect you to go to rest this early. Well, she’s right you know. You gave us no notice. You and she, Pat plus Sammy, remember? The guys are even saying “if big Sam went, just like that, then what are we?” Okay, this is just me letting you in on what transpired when you left. Here’s more.

I was in the kitchen August 12 trying to make dinner when the phone call came. My wife Winnie was in the living room with little Chechaat, and the voice on the phone sounded unusually excited. It was big sis Asham, and she said we should pray because you had been rushed to the hospital after slumping. The information was sketchy and I and Winnie got praying. Minutes ticked by, about an hour even, during which Asham called again explaining that big bro Ben was as Saint Gerard’s Hospital and seemed not to be revealing all.

To cut a long story short I decided to go out for some fresh air and a haircut. When I returned Winnie told me you had gone to sleep and I just sat there saying nothing. At that moment I was asking God several questions all at once. 

To continue the story, it was from big brother Abel the next morning that I got the details of how you went to sleep, that August 13. You and that game of squash! He narrated to me how you told your wife you were going to play a game of squash. It was there that you slumped. Slumped! You make me hate that sport, squash big brother. It made many of us wonder why you had not listened to your wife’s urge to rest at home. But I guess we are beginning to see a bit clearly now.

It had nothing to do with squash or you not resting. Instead, it had everything to do with God’s power over this temporary life we live on earth. On the day I wrote this, the very next day after you went into that long, long sleep, we looked up an interesting scripture in church. It talked about TIME. There’s a time to be born and a time to die. How did the reverend know I and Winnie needed those words? 

I have personally come to understand death as simply sleep or coma. The Bible has made it clear that those in this kind of sleep are resting. We will all awake on the Day of the Lord to a new heaven and a new earth. How I wish you would just whisper into Pae’s ears that everything will be okay. You know how women are; all she wants is her Sammy. And, well, you can’t really blame her, you know. Many of us know you both as Patsammy. We have never seen those two names as separate. Not even now when you rest. 

The hardest part of this letter is narrating how I met Pae a day before your earthly body was buried. I dreaded that meeting at Mama Chat’s house, where she was taken care of like a queen. But I had to face her and I did. She had stories to tell about you, stories that touched one deeply and challenged us. She told us how you taught her how to take care of the car. How you taught her to load up the recharge units for electricity. All those things you always handled yourself. Perhaps the best way is to include a summary of her words, written by her own hand, right here:

Honey, you said there’s going to be a shift this month. You said the Holy Spirit told you that there’s going to be a shift this month of August and I always say “amen”. You said you don’t know how, when and where. 

Honey, you said I should not worry that you will not stay long at the squash game because you don’t want to stress yourself. I told you I was going to make vegetable soup for you and I did. I was waiting for you to come back from the games before we eat.

Honey, you know you were not coming back and you never told me.

Honey, you loved me in such a way that I always ask myself why you love me that much. Despite the challenges and the odds, we stood strong.

Honey, I always tell you that I want to be like you because I cannot explain the kind of person you are to me and everyone that comes close to you. You always think of others before yourself. I can write a book about you. I appreciate God that you did not suffer in death and I believe you did not die but rest in the bosom of the Lord. You love God so much and God knows. I love you so much.

Many people came to condole with your wife and family, dear Samaila John. So many people. It was hard. Your wife was well taken care of by friends and family. See how much your love has shined on your wife. She never ceases talking about you and how she is going to continue in your footsteps.

We made a convoy to the village, Zonkwa, to bury your earthly body. First we gathered at Saint Gerard Hospital. There, again, I saw many faces I hadn’t seen in years. So many it became an odd reunion. But that’s what love does. Love brings people together. And you, Sam, Sammy, Samaila, was the centre of this love.

At Zonkwa there were testimonies about you in church. It brought tears to many eyes. People love you, dear brother. Your colleagues from work, they were there. Your squash club people, they were there too. It was beautiful knowing how much people love you.

This concluding part of my story would interest you. Do you know that many of us did some foodstuff shopping while driving back to Kaduna? Can you imagine that? The yam was so good and so cheap. In fact, we were given pieces of cooked yam to eat, right there. Can you imagine? But you people in heaven have no need for all this now. This business of working hard and using hard earned money to buy foodstuff. I know you are smiling now, that quiet smile you share without a word.  

So, I’m not going to say goodbye. Why should I say such a thing when we are meeting, give or take, in less than a hundred years? But I must be honest; you have always been a role model for me. You have always been focused, hardworking, generous, forgiving and so, so kind and gentle. So this means for some decades we would not see your six feet, five inches tall self, walk into the living room at the family house in High Cost. We will miss you like crazy because we love you so much.