The weight of grief

Photo: Nick Fewings

My stomach growls for the umpteenth time, reminding me, again, that I have spent an obscene amount of time staring at your photographs scattered on the table. I look down at all of them, these photographs buried in dust and webs. I blink frequently, fighting the tears welling up in my eyes. Like a curled fist, my innards clench with rage. These photographs are supposed to be up there on the beige walls. You are meant to be everywhere. Like a fragrance. Be seen. Be felt. By everyone that steps into the living room. Not in this box, cramped between a pile of old books no one has read in years. Sometimes, I imagine if there’s enough air in this box for your lungs to feed on. But I blame him, your father. He shouldn’t have taken the pictures off the wall, and you away, boxing you at the corner of the store. He insisted it was best for all of us, for me. For my journey to recovery from the weight of grief.

How does he know what’s best for me? It isn’t healing I seek. It’s you. As I stare at the pictures, my mind wanders across timeliness, searching for you on the tarmac of memories that have shaped our lives. In one photo, you’re a three-year-old dressed in uniform, a green gown and a green cap. It is your graduation day, your transition from preschool to nursery. And I remember you jerking your head and hands violently like you always did. Struggling with the sagging cap on your head. I was scared you’d hit the ground or crash against the pole in front or worse. So I rushed to hold your hands, trying to keep you still before the eye of the camera. Then the impatient cameramen took the shot.

Although he had taken many more pictures of you afterwards, I just couldn’t let go of this, this one in which your face is a frown. I chuckle as my fingers drape over your face.

There are many more beautiful pictures of you and me, taken at different intervals. But my head is filled with blurry images of when and where and why they were taken in the first place. Still there is this one glaring at me, as if beckoning me to pick it up, to dive into that pool of memory. It was the last picture you and I took together. I think we are on a beach in Lagos. Your smile fills the camera, revealing your diastema. And my eyes settle meditatively on your face. Now I wonder what was running through my mind. Perhaps I was just admiring your face. Perhaps I had sensed the end drawing near and was studying the contours of your visage, trying to pluck every part of you that I could to store in my memory bank.

But I blame this thing, too. This thing that built its home in your body and shared every part of you as though it had equal rights with you. I watched this thing snuff life out of you, bit by bit, until it stole you from me, and I couldn’t do anything. I was helpless like you were.

Obeying the call of my stomach, I wobble to the kitchen. Darkness floods everywhere as if it’s nighttime. I find the switch and strike it. White light from the fluorescent bulb on the ceiling fills the room. I dust away the cobwebs strutting across my face as if excited to see me here. Strewn on the floor are a few defaced cockroaches and their brown wings. The plates and spoons on the shelf are wrapped in dust. I open one of the cabinets; a pair of cockroaches skitter out and find their way to the floor. I see you shake your head back and forth and chuckle. I giggle too. When I ask you what you want to eat, you spread out your hands, and I understand. Taking out the frying pan, I wash the grime from it in the sink. Then I crack the eggs and allow the slimy, yellow content slide into a bowl. I stir what’s in the bowl. Cooking is one of the things you and I did together. Although you always turn my kitchen upside down, splattering onion and yam peels and the likes on the floor instead of using the trash can, I allow you in. You love to help out in your own way. You’d cut the onions to an imperfect ring or oversalt the stew or add too much pepper to the pot of oha or onugbo soup, coughing and smiling as the choky aroma of the utasi mixed with pepper wafted from the soup into the surrounding air. Jollof rice and fried eggs and bread are your favourites. Only a pinch of pepper, you always insist, be added to the egg while frying. Because too much of it sends you on frequent visits to the toilet.

I ask if you’d love to join in; you don’t say anything. Blankness sits on your face. I understand, and this knowing pierces my chest like a spear. For a while, I let the pan of oil sizzle over the fire. Something raps at the window across me; I go over to check. Lifting the blinders, I see a bird pecking on the glass, its neck muscle stretching against its skin. Above the bird, I see the horizon, its yellowness dissipating as the sun steeps into the clouds. A flock of herons leap into the sky and flap their wings as they huddle home, and I know evening is here. Nsukka is known for its sober, relatively low humid air. And it’s in moments like this that you and I would sit outside, drinking in the last rays of the sun as it journeys home. As every living thing journeys back to its stead. My eyes linger on the flock gliding through the clouds, and a shaft of memory hits me. During those evenings, on sighting the birds zip through the sky, we would hurl ourselves to our feet, flap our hands like them and launch into a frenzied cry. Leke leke, bamboo, give me white white fingers. Leke leke, bamboo, give me white white fingers. We would continue to sing until the birds were no longer within eyeshot. Examining our fingers for whiteness and realising no transformation had taken place, we would burst into laughter. 

The frantic hissing of the pan, as the oil continues to dart about, cuts through my thoughts. Turning around, I see a thick cloud of smoke floating in the air. Something unsettles in my throat; my lungs cry out. I cough and cough. I manage to turn off the gas cooker and try to fan out the smoke around the pan with a piece of cloth. The bird flies away as I open the window to let in air. I look down at the pan; its innard is covered in soot like a face charred beyond recognition. That’s the only pan in the house. I turn around, and you are gone, just the dirty wall staring at me. Suddenly, I’m full; grief has a way of displacing hunger and taking up room in your gut. I sink down to the floor at the foot of the door and just sit there, legs splayed out, looking ahead,  taking in what’s left of the smoke and coughing as the tears stroke my eyes.

*

Dinner is set. It’s one of your favourites. I capped the jollof rice with a fat chicken thigh, just the way you like it. Your father strolls into the dining. He sits at the head of the table by my right. The chandelier, like a sentinel, dangles from the ceiling. And under its soft yellow light, I watch as he uncovers the plate of food before him, the firm set of his mouth and the bushy eyebrows that never tack. As he lifts the knife and fork off the table, his eyes travel to the uncovered plate of food on the end of the table beside me. As usual, he asks who the extra plate of food is for. His question is exhausting, and I am not inclined to give an answer. But the seriousness arched in the lines of his forehead and his eyes, alert like soldiers waiting to be dismissed by their commandant, break my resolve. Without turning to look at him and with a long deep sigh which I know he heard, I say it’s yours because I see you sitting beside me, your fingers hovering over the fork and knife. Like they are trying to decide whether to settle on them or not.

But his face scrunches up, and his nose flares. “Ngozi, o gini? What’s all these now? Just look at you. Take a look at what you’re doing to yourself.”

My blood begins to boil. I shoot a stone-cold glance at him. “What do you mean by that? Chimezie, what do you mean? Why do we always have this fight? Can’t I dish out food for my son in peace?”

“Can you even hear yourself right now? No, just hear yourself. For Christ’s sake, he’s gone! Arinze is gone!”

I do not hear the snarl in his voice. Nor the sound of cutlery crashing against plate. Nor the scraping of the chair legs against the tiled floor as he pushes it backwards and storms upstairs. All I hear and see floating above me like a ghost is the word gone. Gone! The silence of it. The finality of it shatters my heart further. I hate it when your father talks like this. When he treats my grief as though it is something ordinary, something weightless. I turn around, and before I can ask your reasons for doing this to me, appearing and disappearing at will, again, you’re gone. Like lightning flashes. I only see your untouched plate, sitting on the table, alone, just like me. I heave, and I cannot hold the tears this time.  

Your father’s bulk takes half of the bed as he falls asleep. He snores. I suck my teeth and bite my lower lip long enough for the metallic taste of blood on my tongue. I let go. How does he manage to find sleep when despair is weaving through the air? Doesn’t he see the pain I’m going through? Isn’t he affected by all this? With my hand, I nudge him, trying to wake him. At first, he grumbles, but after much persistence, he gives in.

“What is the problem?” His eyes are red and swollen like one who spent the whole day staring at the computer screen. Still, I do not show empathy.

“We have to talk.”

“Talk? Talk about what? Why are you disturbing me at this time of the night?”

I feel something crack through my skin, spilling its content into the core of my being. “Really? Chimezie, you call this disturbance? When was the last time we talked about our son? Or about anything? I mean, when was the last time you listened to me talk about Arinze? I see him everywhere, the way he stares at me, the sadness in his eyes.”

“Ngozi, please, I don’t have the strength for this tonight. I had a very stressful day at work. Biko.” He rolls on his side.

“You don’t have the time? Really?” I raise my voice.

“You’re shouting.” He tries to hush me up.

“Yes, let me shout. You go out every morning, and I stay all day, waiting for you to return. When was the last time you touched me? When?”

Mist collects in my eyes, and I dab at it with the back of my hand.

Following your demise, I suffered three miscarriages. The different doctors your father and I visited all gave the same report: we were fit and nothing was wrong with my womb. But your father has stopped trying to get me pregnant. These days, he barely looks at me like before— with the deep, lingering gaze of lovers learning and admiring the shape of their bodies while running out of breath. “What’s the use of sleeping with you when, after everything, you’ll miscarry?” he had said one night. That night, my bones quaked as I shouted at him, and we spent the rest of that night in separate rooms: he, the guest room; me our bedroom, crying, unable to sleep.

I clear the constriction in my throat, coughing twice. “OK. When was the last time you said you loved me?” His mouth hangs half-opened as though surprised by my questions. Not a word is formed. Only a watery croak escapes his throat.

Your father and I haven’t had the best time coexisting. Our marriage has been a cocoon in which we occupied separate territories. No trespassing on the other’s space. Perhaps you knew this, and sometimes I feel, if given another chance, you’d choose another set of parents. We were always quick to fight and hurl words at each other over weightless issues. And you’d sit on a chair or sprawl on the floor, watching us tear ourselves apart. Sometimes you’d cry out loud, begging for us to stop. Never for once did we stop. Once, I had served your father his meal cold; he insulted me, spat on me, and then trudged upstairs after slapping me and hurling the plate of food at me. It didn’t bother me that my state was disgusting, food drooling down my face; my focus was on you, cringed by the wall, your eyes all bared out in fear.

But your father wasn’t always like this. Before your birth, he was one of the sweetest men I had known. We met at the NYSC camp. To me, he was just an ordinary boy who wore shades to cover his eyes from the blinding Kaduna sun, who heaved his right shoulder in a swagger. He had seen me in a crowd during SAED lectures and somehow got me to agree to meet him over food and drinks. As he talked, his voice pinned me to a spot, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. His voice was a gush of wind filling my ears with music. And I fell for him. Not because he was from Anambra, my state. Not because he had blue blood running through his veins—the free ticket to his lavish lifestyle.

When he asked, I told him about my late father and my mother, a nurse nearing retirement at Nnewi. We got married a year after youth service. Everything was going well. Our love boat cruised on the smooth river of life, unaffected by the threatening waves. Our parents visited often to know how we were settling into our new lives as newlyweds. We went out to mark each other’s birthdays and other special days in our lives. Two years into our marriage, no cry of a child greeted the house. When both our parents complained, we assured them everything was alright. Because the doctor had assured us that we were both fine medically. Our boat continued to sail. And then, you came. And everything upended. The waves tugged at our boat until it crashed against a rock. At first, your arrival stirred no joy in me as you lay in the crib beside me. My skin crawled just looking at you, and I turned away. Like a drawing hurriedly done, all your features were plastered to the small room of your face. Saliva slid down the corners of your mouth, and your cry pierced the air in the room. I shut my ears with my index fingers to wad off the sound. The nurses begged me to breastfeed or at least carry you. I refused. But it kept growing until I heard, beyond your high-pitched cry, a plea in your voice. A helplessness. Wrapping you with my hands, I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get you to latch. I wept and left you in the crib to cry yourself to sleep.

A few minutes later, your father sauntered into the ward where we were, holding two fancy leather bags filled with provisions and baby items, his eyes beaming with excitement. The glow in them melted away the moment he saw you, and something dark and vicious rose in its wake. He dropped the things he brought on the table at the foot of the bed and stormed out. Not a word from him to me. It was then I knew I was alone; we were alone. It became my responsibility to love you like a mother would her child.

Although I struggled to get you to latch two weeks after our discharge from the hospital, I never gave in to despair. I tried baby formulas; you spat them out and cried so loud the walls trembled. My mother visited. The first time she saw you sleeping in your crib, I read her face for a sign. I was scared she might gather her things and leave the house that day. Just like my mother-in-law did: she had only demanded your name, and I told her. She left and never stepped foot in our house again. I saw in her eyes as she stared down at you that, to her, you were something filthy. A despicable thing.

I couldn’t make out what I saw in my mother’s eyes, but I knew it was different. It wasn’t rage or irritation or pity. It was a mother’s love, the kind I felt for you. The kind that grew and flourished on arid soils, beyond the world’s opinion and the austere reality of life.

“What’s happening to you is only pressure. You need to relax more. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” Mama sang the words into my ears; they brought me comfort. She visited often, helping with the house chores, buying drugs and making pap for you. She never complained. She saw everything—Chimezie’s incessant late nights, leaving me alone, at home, with you—but we never talked about it. Perhaps like me, she understood and nursed the pain in her heart.

Then, one morning, I carried you in my arms, and immediately, as if by a miracle, you latched onto my left breast, and I suckled you.

*

I’m up and in the bathroom, on a stool, washing dirty clothes. Most of them belong to your father. Just a few are mine. These days, I do not know what the world looks like. I rarely go outside, except when I want to spread washed clothes on the line to sun-dry. Your father does all the shopping now. And it’s been a long time since I went to my salon. My workers call to check up on me; some even come to visit. But I feed them the false hope of resuming work soon. Of course, I know it’s more than two months since you died, but I’m still grieving. A mother’s heart doesn’t just find healing and swallow it like a tablet. She’s in no hurry to free herself from the invisible fetters of grief. May never do. I stare at the bathtub, and my mind unfurls to the past. To a time I  used to bathe you in there. It was the first time I saw this thing through your eyes. Like a demon, it possessed you.

You were three then, but you wielded the strength of a thousand men as you jumped out of the bathtub, from my reach, your naked body partially covered in soap bubbles. Before I knew what was happening, you were screaming and hitting your head against the wall. I screamed. Your father ran into the room. With his help, we were able to pull you from the wall that had chewed off your flesh and drank your blood and left a mark on your head. You kept screaming, trying to wriggle away from our arms. We fought to keep you still. I cried in frustration to Chimezie. “What do we do?” The panic spread across his eyes; he too was as clueless.

Then, I began to sing a lullaby, and to our shock, gradually, whatever-it-was left you. Your body, finally,  surrendered itself to sleep.

The doctor had called this thing, your condition, a rare mixture of down syndrome and schizophrenia. He said only very few survived such cases. But I needed you to survive, so I scoured the net for information about this thing that invaded your body. I consulted other doctors. Went to every church that friends recommended. Prayed and fasted myself reed-thin. Nothing changed. In hopelessness, I allowed fate to play its game. I knew what was left was to manage you and this thing that took so much from you without giving back. From the day you started school up until your final days, my heart never left my mouth; I wore my fear like a cloth. Each time a teacher called on the phone, I ran quickly to see you—to give you your medication, to sing you to sleep, to wipe the film of crusted blood on your broken forehead.

Still washing, I get to your father’s trousers, the one he wore to work yesterday. The pocket is bloated. I know, sometimes, he leaves money in his pockets but not huge sums that would leave his pocket like a pregnant woman. I fumble through it, and in there is a red g-string and a bra small enough to be tucked into a pocket. I don’t shout. Although my nerves are burning, I’m collected.

Rising from the stool, I storm into the room where he lies in bed. I tap him three times, acting as if my blood isn’t on fire. He grunts and stretches and yawns.

“What are these?” I fling the pant and bra at his face. Within a flash, he hurtles up, sinking his knees to the bed. “I can explain, Nkem. I’m sorry. Forgive me.” It’s the first time that Nkem, the name he calls me, spills out of his mouth after a long, long time. I hate its sound, the lies and betrayal coated all over it.

“You can explain? Why, Chimezie? What did I ever do to you? My only crime was to love you.” My eyes are cloudy. I massage my forehead; a sharp, searing pain shoots through my skull. I have cried too much.

This isn’t the first time he’s apologising. For each beating I receive,  he says sorry. Each time he betrays my trust, my love, he says sorry. He tries to touch me. I recoil from him. Again, I’m reminded of how you died.

It was a Saturday morning, and there was no grocery in the house. So I rushed to the market, leaving you under your father’s watch. When I got back home, the smell of something burning hit my nose. “Chimezie!” I called out three times. No response. Although I called and you didn’t answer, I thought you were curled up on the floor of your room, playing with your toys, same way I had left you moments ago. I wish I had pushed myself to check on you first. That way, my heart would have been spared further trauma.

Plunging into the unbolted room, I saw them, Chimezie and some girl, making out on our bed. He held her in a tight embrace, more than he had held me in a while. I screamed. They jumped off the bed, he reaching for his shirts and shorts, she grabbing her stuff from the floor. I watched her scurry off like a mouse caught stealing bread in the full light of day. Past me. I couldn’t do anything. Shortly after, another scream rang through the air. We ran together to your room. Found you on the floor, writhed like a worm, eyes budged out, foam sliding down your half-opened mouth. A thin iron rod inserted into a wall socket on your hand. I stood close to the wall, arms crossed over my chest, too stiff to lift a limb, too scared to imagine how the electric shock had coursed through your veins. You writhed constantly. I was terrified of the reality staring me in the face. Your father held your wrist to check for a pulse. He shook his head at me; the thread of my sanity snapped. The scream broke out of my throat. It pierced the room’s walls, flew out of the house, and called the neighbours.

And now, with the pant and bra beside him, he begs, “Please, forgive me. I promise never to do this again.” Both his hands are clasped as if in prayer.

“Really, forgive you? After everything? Why Chimezie? When Arinze died, I took all the blame, telling everyone that you had gone out and that I was in the kitchen, oblivious that my son, my Arinze, had hit his head continuously on the wall until he died.” My heart is beating so fast; words are flying out my mouth; it’s like all the anger in the world is housed in my chest. “Even when your mother accused me of killing my own child, I remained resolute, telling her the same story. And for what? For you?” I am shouting now. “I feel so stupid for thinking that this wreck of a marriage could be salvaged.”

“Nkem, I was drunk, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know she had slipped her underwear into my pockets. Believe me.”

I shake my head, determined not to cry. I have vowed never to let a tear escape my eyes for Chimezie. “You’re the worst, Chimezie.”

“I promise it won’t repeat itself. I love you. Believe me!”

He tries to touch him. I slap his hand away. I can’t stand him, his guts, his love that is like a chameleon, taking up all colours of deceit and pretence. I gather my clothes from the wardrobe and slam them into my luggage with the urgency of one trying to catch a train. I do not stop at the door. Nor linger to give an ear to his nonsense.

I do not know what the world has for me, if there’s a future waiting for me with wide arms or not. But one thing I do know is that I am stepping out of darkness into light. I know you’d want this for me too. I know this because I can see the smile radiating over your face as the light slowly sucks you into its vortex.

About the author

Ewa Gerald Onyebuchi is a Nigerian writer who writes both short stories and poems.  His jaw still drops each time he gets published. He is an alumnus of Professor Chigozie Obioma's 2021 creative writing masterclass. His short story, wearing my skin, was shortlisted for the Ibua Journal 2020 bold continental call: Imagining a new Africa. So far he has been published in literary journals and magazines like Ibua Journal, whimsicalpoets.com, Brittle Paper, Nantygreens, penmancy.com, Bengaluru Review, asterlit.org, and elsewhere. If he's not writing, he is either taking a walk to clear his head of writers' block or thinking about his writing. Sometimes, if lucky, you can catch him fiddling on Facebook and Instagram to ease off boredom. Other times he's taking a nap. 

Stories by same author

More Fiction