Dear Comrades, Had I Known

I’m sitting in my newly thrifted camping chair from Kringloop, which I’ve repurposed for my balcony, and I’ve just finished the first chapter of the “Dear Comrade” section of A Little Life. The chapter details the aftermath of Willem’s death, and Jude pondering everything he would have done differently had he known Willem would die before him, which mostly involved stockpiling more pictures and recordings of him.

Between hanging up photos of my family in my apartment today, reading that chapter, and staring out into the quiet beauty of the night sky, I couldn’t help but ask myself the same question.

What would I have done differently had I known my mother and brother would die, and that there was nothing I could do to stop it?

Everything. A whole lot of everything.

Before you proceed, cue up Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens.

Let’s start with my mother. No child walks around expecting a parent to die young, but unfortunately, I was met with that tragedy almost 17 years ago. Can you imagine? This October marks 17 years since my dearest Florence left this world.

She died just as mobile phones were making their debut in Nigeria, so digital footprints were almost impossible. Thankfully, she left behind loads of physical photos, which have been wonderful to look back on. But over time, I realized her voice had started to fade from my mind.

I remember resting after a class in university when my phone rang with a strange number. The voice on the other end made my blood run cold as it sounded exactly like her. It was her cousin.

One of the things I love most about my mother’s family is how much they all look and sound alike, but it also means getting sudden, breath-stealing reactions like that. I was scared then, but years have passed, and that voice doesn’t startle me quite the same way anymore.

Recently, my sister and I asked my brother to take pictures of the old physical photos at home and send them to us. In the batch, I saw a picture I had never seen before: my mother, laughing. I realized it had been forever since I’d heard that sound, or even seen her in that state of pure joy. I felt radical sadness like never before because not only will I never get to see that again, but I also cannot remember how her laughter sounds. I know she had a great laugh; I know what her teeth looked like; I know how her voice sounded when she was angry, happy, or excited. But I don’t know how her laughter sounds.

So, what would I have done differently the day she left the house, never to return alive? Held her longer? I did hug her that day, though mostly because I was sad she wasn’t taking me with her, and worried she’d forget to buy my new school sandals (which she did buy before she died or asked someone to buy. All I remember is getting new sandals, which I wore for 5years).

Would I have taken more pictures with her? Asked her to come to my open days or primary school graduation instead of my aunt? Tried to be a better child? I don’t know. I try not to dwell on it too much; after all, I wasn’t even a teenager when she passed.

But my dearest brother, Poopoola. What would I have done differently? Every fucking damn thing in the world. Starting with not letting him die, if I could have.

While hanging the pictures today, I realized he rarely took any, just like my other brother. I wish I had forced him to take more. He at least lived in the age where we had smartphones. I wish I had more videos, besides the embarrassing ones I have saved in my gallery of him dancing, or pleading with me to let him use my computer, memories I now cherish deeply.

I would have listened to him more as he talked to me about his latest fixations. I would have moved the world for him. I still have recordings of us going back and forth over stupid stuff, and his voice always shocks me, hearing the transition from his soft tone to the thicker voice he developed as he entered adulthood. I would have taken the trip to see him, one last time. I’d say I was a fantastic sister, but I could have been better. A better friend.

We all know we will die at some point, but we never expect it to happen when we are so young and I guess, I never expected my brother to die as a teenager. If I were to write WASSCE English examination today, my “Had I Known” essay is already set, because it would be entirely about him.

As Jude said, he would give everyone else away to bargain with Hades; I would give half of the world (don’t ask me why half!) just to have my brother around. He embodied brilliance. It’s been 17 years and 4 years, respectively, since my mother’s and brother’s demise, and I’ve realized I will never comprehend how they could have been taken so young.

As I look out at the beautiful night and watch life move on from my balcony, as if right now someone else isn’t taking their last breaths, as if people like me aren’t being left behind to deal with the heartache, I ask myself: what would I do differently if I knew the life of someone so close to me was coming to an end?

Would I tell them I love them and make sure they understood the depth and ferocity of it without needing words? So that, should there be another life after this one, they would remember that I loved them for exactly who they were, and for whom they strove to be but never got the chance to become because their time was cut short.

Would I put a camera in their face and tell them to speak, to laugh, to dance, to walk, to do everything, just so I could pretend a little longer that they aren’t gone? Just so I could experience them one more time?

Would I do everything in my power to be a better friend? A better sibling, family member, lover?

Would I hug them tighter? Spend more time just being near them?

What would I do, and what would I refuse to do? Or would I do exactly what I am doing right now, just sitting here, writing in the dark, thinking about all the things I would do. Just sitting, wrapped in the ghost of all the things I ought to have done.