I dream about my childhood a lot…
Most likely because that is when my happiest memories were formed.
Every summer holiday, my mom shipped me and my sister off to spend a couple of weeks at one of her three brothers’ houses. Once or twice, we went to her third brother’s house; most often, her second brother’s; and sometimes (the best times), we went to her first brother, Big Daddy’s house.
Big Daddy’s house was the heart of joy. It was in a big compound with a colourful garden where we played chase (read: police & thief) and all sorts of games till we knocked ourselves out. The garden was flanked by a long windy walkway lined with neatly trimmed shrubs that bore tiny red berry-looking fruits that we called mandarins. PS: to this day, I don’t know if that is what those fruits are really called or if they are even safe to eat, but we plucked and ate them anyway while chasing each other around the compound and screaming with glee.
In the evenings, the whole house would erupt once the sound of Big Daddy’s car horn was heard at the gate. As he drove in, my cousins and I would run screaming (as always) to his car, jumping and screaming (again) till he came down. He would roll up the sleeves of his signature white Agbada to remove his gold-rimmed dark shades, which he wore whether it was night or day but only took off for us, to pull us all into a big bear hug. His neck and fingers are always heavy with gold jewellery. He would hand us his walking stick – which helped to balance the unsteady gait caused by one shorter leg but also added to his swag – and his monogrammed briefcase; that I recently had a similar version commissioned because I always wanted one like his.
After we ushered Big Daddy in, he would open his black suitcase and bring out handfuls of various sweets while booming laughter as our greedy little hands snatched them from him with glee. He sometimes snuck me extra sweets while my cousins weren’t looking. “Shhh. Don’t tell them!” I’ll nod to affirm. It was our little secret.
In every way, Big Daddy lived up to his official title Omoba (meaning Son of a king). He took it as a personal responsibility to ensure that every member of the family was good. He had a spirit so generous it made the walls of his compound thrum with life. He was larger than life and we all adored him.
Big Daddy and I shared another little secret. He was my grandmother’s favourite (and first) child, just as I was her favourite granddaughter. And in turn, we loved her absolutely. That bond of shared reverence for her tied us together in a way words never fully captured.
But when Grandma died 10 years ago, something in him died with her.
Big Daddy’s compound – once alive with squeals of laughter, Fuji music, and clinks of glasses filled to the brim with “adult” drinks – went quiet. Even the frogs in the compound that croaked loudly every night knew better than to make any sounds henceforth (I think they moved). The spark drained from Big Daddy’s house just as it did from his eyes. He began to wander the walkways flanking the garden, lost, confused, rambling, and it shattered all of us. The man who once filled every room now sat quiet, hollow. A shell. His big voice faded. His hands no longer carried sweets, only tremors.
I look around the compound that I keep dreaming of. I walk the edges of the garden, retracing our steps. I am looking for Big Daddy.
“Moyo!”
I faintly hear someone call my name from the house, but I don’t answer. I need to find Big Daddy first.
He must be at the other end of the garden. Maybe I can’t see him because the shrubs have grown too tall. I guess no one trims them anymore. The garden no longer looks vibrant; it resembles the despair I feel in my heart.
My chest tightens with urgency.
If I can just get to Big Daddy, everything will be okay. Maybe he will give me sweets.
“Moyo!!”
I ignore the second call. My steps quicken as I turn the corner.
There he is! Big Daddy.
I pause, my eyes straining to see clearly. Something is wrong.
Big Daddy is standing at the end of the garden facing the exit gate, his back to me. He is dressed in his signature white agbada but it hangs loosely, too loosely, like the fabric no longer recognises him.
He is smaller now. Shrunken.
“Big Daddy!” I call.
He turns around.
“No-” I feel a chill down my spine. My throat closes and I forget how to breathe. He looks all wrong. He looks…
“Moyo!!!”
I wake up. It’s my mom. She’s been calling my name. Why are her eyes red and swollen? She looks older. Tired.
In one second, the memories flood back in. I feel a deep physical pain in my chest and it hurts to breathe.
“Is he really…?” I can’t get the rest of the words out, but I already know.
She nods. “Stand up. Your sister is waiting outside. We need to join the rest of the family at the morgue to identify your uncle’s body.”
My ears ring while I try to numb the pain in my chest.
I get up and follow her. I was at my mom’s house and I had fallen asleep in her room, wandering into memory lane for a little while. I have always found it difficult to let people go. It was like this when Grandma died.
As I follow my mom outside to my sister’s car, I think about everyone I have had to say goodbye to. We should always tell our loved ones how much we love them, not because ‘life is short’ but because without them life is too long. And death, unlike memory, is irreversible.
I put on my gold-rimmed dark shades – reminiscent of Big Daddy’s – as we head to the morgue. I will be strong for my mom. When the time is right, my grief will find me (like it always eventually does) and then I will welcome it and sit with it like a long-lost companion.
At the morgue, we are ushered into the room where his body is laid. My mom’s brothers and their children (my cousins ) all grown and married with their own children, are already there. We greet and hug one another. The siblings hold each other as the cousins looked on at them. My mom and her two surviving brothers were crying. The three of them have felt this pain before. You see, they were originally five.
“The rock of their generation is gone. We need to stick together and take care of them.” one of my cousins said. The rest of us nod in unison. I look to the corner at the kids, the next generation, who are tentatively interacting with each other, having barely ever met – very much unlike our generation. Yes, we need to stick together.
As we leave, I remove a small wrapped sweet from my purse and slip it under my uncle’s cold and stiff fingers.
It’s our little secret.
I carry a piece of Big Daddy’s light, and I owe it to him to keep it burning.
Author’s note: This story is based on real-life events, up until some parts of the present day. The truth is I never woke up. The dream turned into a nightmare. I am still trapped in it.
