THE SILENCED VOICE OF THE DYING - LIFE, SUPERSTITION, DEATH AND A MOTHER'S STORY.

He gave us hope and courage.

He was the son of a wise man, the pride of a very good mother and he was my brother. His name was COURAGE.

He wasn’t just loved, he was respected and adored.
From where did he get his composure, his calmness, his intelligence, his brilliance, his authority and his amiable aura?

With a good head on his young shoulders, he was an embodiment of everything that was good.
Boy! How eloquently he spoke! And we were all proud of him.

When street fights were commonplace, Courage was never involved in one.
His aura of strength and meekness could calm any tense nerve and make docile the evilest of minds.
He fought no one and no one would fight him.
When I battled with my siblings especially Kennedy Oriakhi in a never-ending childish feud, he was always there to make peace and save me from my no-nonsense brother.

When sickness came we thought it was one of those that would pass.
But when the doctors started speaking in subdued voices away from my mum we suspected it was something big. But still we never thought that death was near.
Yes, death was very close and it eventually visited and took our Superboy away! It was 1985 and he was just 17years old.

Father was devastated and mother was broken. I thought they were never going to make it.
A vacuum was created in our hearts and souls. We were confused and lost for many months to come.

Mother’s pain was worse.

As she cried she kept saying “If I had known I would have given him the pen and paper when he asked for them.”
She said this so many times that it registered in my heart and left me with so many questions up to this day.

In November 2016, 31 years after we lost Courage, I called my mum to ask her about Courage’s request before his death.
I warned her that my questions were going to bring back sad memories but pleaded with her to be strong.

I explained to her that It was important for me to know exactly what the request was and why he was refused.
But before I could even finish my question my mother started crying. I could tell from her quivering voice that her whole body was shaking.
I too couldn’t help but cry with her.

In her words she told me her story:
“The day Courage died, he was very weak and poorly. The doctors spoke in hushed voices but that didn’t bother me. I believed he would pull through it.
When I later sat beside him he looked at me and said ‘Can I have a pen and a paper, I need to write something?’
I politely declined his request and assured him he will be fine and back home in no time. But that was not to be the case.
I miss him every day my son. His death still causes me so much pain and his last simple request that I refused makes it worse for me.
Every day I ask myself – what was he going to write? What have I eternally deprived him of telling me? Did he have answers to his pain? Was it about life after his death? Was it about his imminent death? Was it a secret he needed to share? What was he going to write?!
I will never know the answer my son and it hurts me every day. I allowed myself to be guided by superstition. I thought giving him a pen and paper would mean encouraging him to say his final words on earth. So denying him his request was a way to keep him alive.
I was wrong my son. I should have granted that last request and would have received answers to all or some of the questions that plague me today. The pain would have been more bearable for me”

Mother cried again and I comforted her.
She misses her son and the answers he could have provided.
I told her that it was not her fault. She did what she thought was right at the time.
Keeping her boy alive with her beliefs and convictions at the time was more important than debating with herself whether it was mere superstition.
I ask myself the same questions that my mother asked herself.
They trouble me as much as they trouble her.
Just like my mother, I too will never know the answers.

Now I try to think of it in another way.
What if she had given him the pen and paper? And he had written something for us to see, but he eventually died. Will that same superstition not turn around to make mother blame herself for killing her boy?

Who would have been able to console my mother then?
With your action or inaction, you will feel the blame and pain.
Now superstition has failed us and Courage has left us.
 All we have left are just questions that will never be answered.
Only Courage would have won superstition if he had written those words and survived death.

Mother misses you my brother. She still cries for you after so many years.
Father missed you so much before he died even though he tried not to talk about it. I guess that was his way of dealing with the pain.
We all miss you so very much.
My eyes are moist with tears as I write these few lines for you.
Your last request was to write before you died. Be rest assured that I am doing that for you now.
I will continue to write before I die. And I pray that whatever it was you wanted to tell us will one day find its way into my script.

We love you my dear brother. Continue to rest in peace.

Dedicated to the Memory of Courage Oriakhi. 1968 to 1985

Written by: Eseosa Ebony Oriakhi