As I lay on the floor in the dark, NEPA had not restored power for days now and there was no fuel in my tiger generator. As I lay in the dark, I envisioned my suicide, what it would look like, who and who will it affect and how many people will care and cry for me? Will I be missed? Will I be mourned like Papa was mourned, will I be eulogized? Because I remember Aunt Otusha’s dramatic wailing at papa funeral, giving herself to the naked earth like that, rolling here and there like a tuber of yam without the care for her expensive garments being stained by the red earth. Her bereavement was laced with melodramas, like one I had never seen before, the display of genuine grief with one’s act. It was in this act of mourning, this aunt Otusha’s display of bereavement I finally came to the realization that Papa was really gone, that it was final and there was no him coming back. I wore black for months.
His dead shocked me, leaving me disoriented, like a prank was being played on me by Ashton Kutcher of MTV base, my favourite TV programme. I was waiting to be jogged back to reality, where all the camera crew and Ashton Kutcher will come out of their hiding places with flashing light and a comic smile but Aunt Otusha’s act was my reality jog and mama’s frequent calls.
Downstairs, Femi just turned on his generator, I hate the sound of that generator, I hate the sound of all generators these days, and their thundering noises is not just a pollution but agent of depression. I had the sensation of going down to Femi to borrow a litre or two of fuel from him so I could power my tiger generator but no one knew I was home, that’s what they told the landlord last time he came knocking on my door for his rent. “Oga landlord he no dey house, we never see am since.” I could hear them all from the bedroom where I laid still.
My thoughts went to Mama, how will she feel if I committed suicide? If I gave in to these pains draining the life out of me? I know what Ehimare might think, I know what my neighbours might think but Mama will be the one who will never heal from the affair, losing the two most important and only men in her life, Papa, five years ago and now, me, this will break her, this will leave her hopeless.
But it wasn’t Mama I wanted my dead to hurt the most, it wasn’t Mama I wanted my dead to scar the most, it wasn’t mama I wanted my dead to break, it was Bigail I want my dead to matter to the most, it was Bigail I want all these to pique, to devastate, that I was pinning and this is the end result. Will she care? Will she mourn me? Will she be devastated? I wish I knew.
I want my death to kill her with guilt, I want her to blame herself day and night for my death, for her to know that she was the cause of it all, for her to know that I could go to such an elaborate length to win a minute or two of her feelings for me. These are the reasons I was considering jumping over the railing of my apartment and end it all, these were the reasons I was ready to risk it all, these were the objects of my suicidal, I am here now at my veranda ready to let go, I hope mama will understand, I hope the world will understand. All for Bigail.
P.S. If you are reading this for the first time please read part 1 here