I wonder what they will put on my gravestone. I wonder what name would go on my epitaph but I can affirm one that would not and that is “mother.” For this responsibility can only be determined by another person who decides on how you will be remembered. Thus, when this letter reaches your hands and you flip it open, I will no longer be in this world. I will be six feet under, obliterated into oblivion. I know people will begin to talk days after my death but let it be known, that I do not care an iota of how they perceive my wretched life. It is indeed their solely right to speak however they want, to whomever they want and whenever they deem fit, but herein lying in my casket, I will tell the forlorn truth about me. This truth that I so long endured to conceal .
Yes! I was no saint in real life and as it is death has a way of making everyone honest. So here is my secret beyond the grave, one that is tended for your eyes alone. This is because for the longest time you have endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sweet melancholy, to absolute joy and inimitable sorrow. Hence, as I write to you, I am agonizing the difficult of going through a painful metamorphosis of slipping between the cracks of my absinthe recalling the ineffable sensations as I try to give each one of them utterances. At some point, I find myself at the verge of giving up and I squirm with the impotent frustration at my inability to speak straight from my heart, but within some time I get the urge to continue writing.
It was not once, not twice, not thrice, quite a number I must say. All these experiences had my ass literally hanging out of my robe, lying on the same bed propped up as I endured the aftermath of profuse bleeding, nausea and vomiting copious amount of orange bile. And when I realized I was pregnant again, the religious trauma suffocated me. Such that I began to feel some compuctions about my behavior whose acts struck me as morally horrid and dirty. That even though it was another of my ‘mistakes,’ this time I resolved to keep and love it anyways. I kept it at a cost because he left me. Pregnant, alone living through the nine months of feeling the kicks and going through crazy hormonal imbalances I still resolved to keep it. Having it, I had this sharp apprehension of inexpressible internal sensation, which weighed upon my heart with the feeling that this too is ephemeral and on transit. Even so, I still chose to keep it.
Needless to say, the premonition came to pass because he did not yell and when he was given to me, his eyes were closed. His tiny fists clenched in air and everything was just right with him except that he was cold and not breathing. Must it ever be this… that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? It was in this moment that grief began to plague my being. I could feel a certain rush of loss moving stealthy in a way that it was doomed to remain eternally unmitigated. This happened since I would spend my whole days from the moment I got up to bed trapped in my cubicle. My own quietness would sometimes terrify me and I would begin to entertain visions of household perils like cutlery suddenly falling from the cupboard, taps suddenly running, lights switching themselves on and doormats slipping themselves in the hallway. Maybe. Maybe this is how all houses feel after someone dies prematurely, so I thought. For this torment would persist.
That sometimes I would wake up in the half confusion of my slumber and in vain I would seek him in my bed with the happy sense that he is near, but each time this happened, sudden tears would ensue and I would weep uncontrollably making each nightfall unpropitious for me to live in. Not until one night this burden crushed on me like pulp that I woke up with a fixed purpose to get rid of his toys and clothes and everything that acted as a memento to his being. I wanted to erase him from my mind too. I did this not because I hadn’t loved him, but because I so much did that I wanted to reliquish his memory and keep him dead. Nonetheless, this resolve did not bring me any slight consolation. Instead, the abyss of an ever open grave yawned before me for the reason that he refused to be crossed out.
It was then that my whole being was enveloped in tumult and disorder. For I would begin to hear children’s voices in my head. Their sounds rustling in my head without me knowing how and why, because it’s not through my ears that I listened to them but through my head that I did. I tried to stop the voices but they would not oblige. Rather, the voices would bear down on me with words of “you have no right,” and it would press me back and I would instantly go limp. In the inner recesses of my heart, I became lonely and sad that my only escape was liquor. I was at a stage where I felt the squalor of my drunkenness that one time I became completely distraught that I ran through the streets looking for a priest and wound myself in a synagogue. I know you must imagine me going nuts but I was definitely not mad and even if I were, all lunatics claim they are not but still end up cuffed in the asylum. The only difference is that my kind of asylum was one bottomless pit and I believed that this malady that had since seized me, was a punishment of my past. A punishment that I had to go through alone for the absolution of my sins.
Well, for a moment I had this uncontrollable urge to reach far back in my past. To slash the poignant canva of my youth but seemingly, I could not, because my past was horrendous and it preserved it’s sting to provoke and destroy my existence. Be that as it may, I was unable to unburden myself from it. For these scars continued to bleed and sometimes I would feel as though the weight of my misfortunes, any one of them if borne by my neighbor, would be enough to make a murder of him. Thus, I write to you. I write to you because it’s only you who speaks my language and these words will not sound gauche and rusty when I reveal them to you. I write to you, because for the longest time you sought me but I kept evading your probes. I write to you now, because I want you to understand that when in the pits of grief and despair, some seek companionship for solace while others like me shrink from their dearest friends.
I want you to understand that this decision was not even intentional. It’s one that was birthed after a build up of habits of not wanting to live until this time today when I let go of my misgivings and swiftly allow myself to succumb. Do you not think that suicide hasten a little bit of what God will eventually see to his own? Right now I can see my life slipping through my fingers as it travels to death serenely. I cannot do anything other than watch my depletion with each passing minute. So, kindly, entreat my sick mother in the village to pray for me. It has never been my wish to give pain to the only person whose happiness I should have promoted. Hence, I want her told nothing and I request that her memory of my life be preserved pure of pastiche , untarnished as possible. As for you my friend, I will continue to love you even in death. Remember this message is only curated for your eyes. Adieus!
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