In Loving Memory of Pappy

 

I finally want to talk about it.
I miss you. Always.

If you asked me how I felt the morning it happened, I’d probably say “worried,” but if you asked me deeper, I’d say my soul disconnected from my body halfway through a journey I wish I never took.

It was a Sunday. I had gone to church—dressed, focused, minding my business—when I got a call from home: “Come home.” That was it. No panic, no drama, but something in me stirred. Days before, daddy hadn’t been feeling too strong, so I assumed maybe it was that. I packed up and started the journey back. About an hour and a half.

Halfway through, boredom made me scroll through Facebook—and that’s where my world started to tilt.

His photo.
A classmate’s post.
“RIP.”

At first, I was just pissed. Like, seriously? I called him immediately, ready to drag him for not telling his friends to chill with that kind of joke. He didn’t pick up. I remember thinking, maybe UNIOSUN’s light is out again, because he always had his phone. Always.

But more posts came in. More “RIP”s.
And suddenly it wasn’t a joke anymore.
Not when I had just spoken to him the night before. Not when we’d gisted for hours, teasing each other and throwing jabs like always. Not when he made me promise to sort out my issues with certain people. Not when we ended the call with insults and laughter like we always did.

I called mum.
“Have you been able to reach him?” I asked.
All she said was:
“Just come home.”

I held myself together. Until I got home.
And saw the crowd.

Nothing prepares you for that moment. The way the air changes. The way silence starts to scream. I remember pinching myself—literally—thinking maybe I was dreaming. But no, I was awake. Fully.

Still, I didn’t cry. I was the firstborn. I had to be strong, right? That’s what everyone assumes. I remember going to the market that same day. Bought ingredients. Made egusi and fufu. Not because I was hungry, but because I knew my parents hadn’t eaten. That was their only son. Their baby boy. I couldn’t let them break.

But I was breaking.
I was shattering.

The days after were unbearable. I had to hold my parents. Hold the whole family. Be the strong one while I was crumbling inside. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t rest. I was grieving and still trying to be everyone’s anchor.

At some point, I desperately wished I was a boy. Just so maybe… maybe my parents wouldn’t feel like they lost everything. I wanted to fill the space he left. Be what he was to them. But I couldn’t. Because no one could.

He was my only brother.
He was the healthiest one of us. Never sick. Strong like nothing could ever shake him. A year before, he had a terrible accident. Driving. The car was messed up, but him? Not even a scratch. It felt like God had placed an armor around him. He walked out like nothing happened. We joked about him being bulletproof. Untouchable.

That’s why this didn’t make sense.
It still doesn’t.

He wasn’t just my brother—he was my childhood. Every photo, every birthday, every random memory, he’s there. We were barely a year apart—though I’m sure he’s somewhere laughing at me finally admitting that. He was my twin in chaos. We fought like cats and dogs when we were under the same roof. But once we were apart? We became best friends. He’d call, tease me endlessly about boys, mock my stubbornness, and then end the call with a prayer or a random life lesson ( something that always had me saying “so you have sense like this”).

He always taught me math—he was brilliant with it. Physics and electronics? He was eating it up like it was nothing. I, on the other hand, helped him with other subjects. That was our thing—helping each other. Being there, even if it didn’t always look like it.

He used to say,
“Don’t worry, your husband go prostrate tire for all the stress you stressed me. Just wait till your wedding day.”
I think about that now and laugh and cry at the same time.

I remember trying to run—just to see him. To touch him. To pray over him. I had faith. I still do. He loved that word, faith. His favorite verse was: “Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

I begged them to let me see him.
They shouted.
Said I had to be strong.
I ran to the backyard. Got caught.
But I still wonder…

Maybe if I saw him…
Maybe if I prayed hard enough…
He’d still be here.

There’s a part of me that still hopes this is a long, cruel dream.
That one day I’ll get a call and hear,
“He woke up. He’s alive. He just lost his memory. He’s been in another city all this time.”
I would take anything… just to have him back. Just to hear his voice. Just to laugh again. Just to argue over who took tge bigger piece of meat. 

He was strong-willed.
Kind.
Caring in ways people didn’t always see.
And he should still be here.
He should be great by now. Physics and Electronics would’ve been his stage. He had dreams. He had drive. He had purpose.
And he was ours.

My only brother.
My memory keeper.
My chaos and calm.

I miss you so much.
Every. Single. Day.
And this is me finally saying it out loud.

I love you forever, Pappy
Always.