A HUNDRED YARDS OF LOVE | Cynthia Nnenna Nnadi

The first time Papa passed out was Tuesday, over a breakfast of akara and hot pap sweetened with tigernut and fresh milk. Mum across the table, me beside Papa forking and rolling my spaghetti—I’m allergic to corn, so I don’t drink pap—as he ranted about the recent increase in the House of Representatives’ salaries. ‘Filthy thieving pigs, all of them!’ he’d squealed through a mouthful of food, and Mum had said, ‘Jesus, Charles, just eat. The dining is not the place to start a revolution.’ He’d said, ‘Yes, I know, but you see that’s why I left the force. No man wants to be a puppet, and no true patriot wants to be weaponized against their country. The whole system is a rotten mess, Joan.’ 

Mum only sighed, offering a glimmer of solidarity: ‘You’re right, Charles. You’re right. But your pap is congealing now and eating cold akara is just terrible.’ 

Papa went haywire. It started with his abrupt silence, then the hand tremors which caused him to spill the pap from his spoon. His eyes grew wide, vacant, and feral, staring past Mum at the patterned curtain. Then the neck twitching. The foaming at the mouth. 

Unsure of what this was, I’d seized Papa by the shoulders, jolting him back and forth as if that would shock some normalcy into him. Mum dialed the family doctor. ‘Hello? Hello, Dr Hassan? You need to come now. Something’s happening to Charles.’ 

Papa stilled and slumped into Mum’s arms, his weight forcing them to the floor and plunging us into the longest wait of our lives: Dr Hassan’s 27-kilometre drive from Surulere to Ajuwon. 

---

Papa has fainted again today, but while sleeping this time, which I find odd. How does one fall into a slumber while in a slumber? A sleep syncope, Dr Hassan says; I’m eavesdropping on his conversation with Mum. Though the thick door of the guestroom blurs my hearing, I pick up a few things. Like Dr Hassan asking if Papa has been stressing lately. I hear mowed the lawn. Ada. Stubborn. Never listens. Her voice bare and shrunken with concern, almost a cry. Dr Hassan’s and Mum’s voices ping-pong in my ears. Blood pressure. Diet. Bed rest. Vigilant. Sugar. Uncertain. More tests. I stagger away from the door.

My head is swarming with many possibilities, most of them morbid. I feel like I’ve been tossed into Typhoon Tip, suffocating and drowning in a raging cyclone, so I step outside, waiting at the porch for the clean yard air to diffuse through my aching lungs. When I feel less dizzy, I stroll to the garden where I can see Papa, Mum, and Dr Hassan through the guestroom’s window, the size of an entire wall. Seeing Papa sitting up, I almost want to run to him. I follow the dangly giving set attached to the upside of his left palm. Weren’t we just gardening together an hour ago? 

I look around, taking in the well-pruned dewdrop bushes, their velvet petals thriving in the mild afternoon sun. A sea of moss roses stretches east of the dewdrops, spilling into the land meant for an assortment of fruiting trees that share a border with a little snail farm. To my right, a lawn, green from the bliss and fertility of the rainy season, joins a distant high fence. And there’s our duplex, a Bauhaus-style mini-mansion, elegantly etched at the heart of it all.

Papa’s second child, this compound. Despite several counsels from Dr Hassan to hand over its maintenance, he could never. Not even Mum could derail his dedication to this land, and she insists I indulge him. ‘Why don’t you stop digging dirt with him?’ she’d said. ‘Maybe if you refuse, he’ll come to his senses. He can’t do it by himself. Encourage him to employ a gardener.’ But Mum underestimates Papa. Of course, he’ll do it all by himself, and I can never leave Papa out in the sun trimming bushes alone. I know I’ll budge. I know I’ll pick a shear and sprint after him. 

Dr Hassan emerges from the front door at last, holding his briefcase in one hand and my dad’s case note in the other, inked to the brim and attached to a colourful file board. Mum follows closely as they converse, nodding intermittently, acknowledging a fresh set of instructions, I presume. They shake hands, and Dr Hassan offers her a gentle arm rub and a smile that should be comforting, but judging from the wrinkle between her brows and her lips tightening into a small frown, I doubt it is.  

After Dr Hassan drives off, Mum walks in my direction in a brisk yet easy gait, each step laden with contemplation. I know because she’s massaging the edges of her old braids, a thing she does when lost in thoughts. Good, positive thoughts, I hope. 

‘What did he say? How’s Papa?’ 

Mum only stares at me with that look in her eyes. Cross, accusatory, and something else I can’t quite touch, hovering at the edge of her silence and on the freckles of her light brown iris. The same look she’d given me when I took her expensive jewellery to school without permission. I was ten. I only wanted to show my friends how cool Mum was, cooler than theirs. 

Now her silence is maddening. I feel the cyclone swelling in my chest again. ‘Will Papa be okay?’ 

‘I told you, didn’t I?’ she says, scouring the yard. ‘Ada, your father is over sixty, struggling with a heart disease. Do you really think he should be bent over twigs and grass?’ 

I mutter the feeblest apology I can muster. What else can I do? Papa says gardening, catering for the earth, is pouring life into life—an endless, divine cycle. ‘Symbiosis’, he’d said. ‘We take so much and give so little. What does it matter if we die? We return to dust and feed the earth with the body we guard so selfishly.’ This is Papa—a wild, wandering wind. How does one cage or control such a thing?

 ‘He has to run some tests. I need someone other than me to take your father’s health seriously,’ Mum presses on, more frustrated, angrier, almost desperate, fear seeping through the cracks of her composure. All I want is to scoop her into an embrace, say Papa will be fine with rehearsed surety. 

I nod, but she doesn’t seem satisfied. Her frown persists. ‘Slice watermelons and take them to your father.’ She shakes her head, dusts the flare of her knee-length sundress, and walks towards the boys’ quarters. Right now, the only thing louder than Mum’s disappointment is the chirping of canaries perched on a nearby oleander shrub, their melody caught in a hushed breeze.  

---

The guestroom is devoid of sound but for the sustained ticking of the lowly hung pendulum clock by the bedside. Papa is staring out the window, squinting, chest rising and falling like a lone swing. His drip arm taps lightly against the soft duvet covering his legs. I watch the clear liquid seeping into Papa’s vein, one sluggish drop at a time, until he turns to me and smiles, like the sight of me were the most joy-inducing view ever. So charming, Papa. So defiant. That boyish grin cast over his supple, wrinkly skin. He gestures for me to sit beside him and I do, careful not to disturb the intravenous stand. 

‘No, baby, just no. Don’t you dare look at me like that now,’ Papa says. ‘This engine just needs a little servicing, okay? Come on, cheer up. Who’s Daddy’s happy little princess?’ He leans forward, reaching for a tickle, but I restrain him to the bed. 

I smile, or at least I try to. ‘I’m glad you’re all right.’ 

Papa turns to the window again, expelling a long sigh. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

I look outside expecting to see Mum, but there’s only the yard. Now we’re both staring outside in silence, filling our eyes with the fruit of our morning-long labor. 

‘The flowers, I mean. We did well with them today.’ 

‘Mum’s not happy,’ I say. 

Papa’s attention is on me now, his jaunty countenance hardening into a mix of shock and gloom. ‘She isn’t? Do I ever make her happy these days?’ 

‘She’s just worried. I think you should stop gardening. It would make her happier and improve your health. Can you do that for us, Papa?’ 

Papa doesn’t answer. He returns to watching the yard, and I watch him. This time, there’s no delight, or marvel, or that characteristic hopeful beam in his gaze—only a brooding despair.  

---

We moved to Ajuwon from Surulere in 2009 when I was only eleven. Papa said the city centres were like cavities. The ongoing decay may not be apparent but present, nonetheless, and the only fix was to take it out altogether. The sweet spot was at the periphery. Close enough to partake in the city’s privileges, far enough to boycott the madness.

Mum, on the other hand, had no great distaste nor fondness towards the city. She’d loved the exquisite spas, the bountiful options of high-end supermarkets, and the beaches. But she’d loved her kitchen more, and Papa promised her expansion in the new house. ‘A pantry three times the current size, all to yourself. What do you think? A keeping room too, maybe. An antique island in the middle. Joan, this is perfect.’ Papa’s excitement was contagious, so much so that I began to fancy the idea. I had my reservations. What about our ice-cream dates at Rufus’ Treaties? What about school? Papa suggested boarding house, and that sealed it. 

In 2005, Papa signed the papers for the land and took us to see it after. The drive to our home-to-be was long. Long enough to watch five twenty-something-minute episodes of the new Ben 10. Papa entertained us with stories from his military days: how he’d been enlisted in 1982 after his national youth service and how his father, God rest his soul, thought it treacherous. “Dancing with the snakes that murdered your kin? Turning your back on us? The military isn’t your friend and certainly not the government,” Papa said this was what Grandpa used to say. It was the early postcolonial, dictatorship era, and things were fragile, but I knew nothing about that life. 

In 1991, Papa left the army, survived two attempts on his life, and met Mum in December at an Onyeka Onwenu concert. ‘Crazy times to have lived,’ Papa said. ‘And I’m glad I left. If you stay long enough in mud, you become swine. One day, you’ll be forced to put a gun to a brother’s head, and for what? What kind of life is that? To live or die for a country that won’t return the favour is unrequited love at best. It’s the way of a fool, and I’m no fool.’ Papa paused, squeezed the steering, and glanced at Mum.

She was focused on her reflection in the vanity mirror, lining her lips black, and reapplying her glittery gloss. I was on my last Ben 10 episode. Lagos, the city that pulsated with sophistication, had crawled into stark ruralness. Forests occupied the lands where buildings should’ve been, with vast plantations and industrial structures punctuating every few kilometres. I wondered what life would be like here. What people I’d meet. I thought of Tarzan and orangutans and big, scary warthogs. 

‘I’m happy to be doing this with you two. This new home,’ Papa said. Mum returned the sun visor and stroked his hand where it held the gear. Pecked him on the cheek, too. We were happy. But Mum wasn’t happy for long. When we got to the land, Mum was astonished. ‘Jesus, Charles! All this land for what? Do you want to build a factory?’ Papa said, ‘A garden, actually. Maybe a farm,’ and Mum yelped again, ‘So much money wasted, I can’t believe you. Why buy such property in the west? What if the Yorubas wake up one day and lay claims to our house? What will you do then? Just how rich do you think we are?’ Mum had a point. Houses in Surulere were pinch-sized—moderate at most. This thing we stood on looked like it could hold ten duplexes. ‘The deed is done, Joan,’ Papa said. ‘Just trust me, will you? In five years, I will build our dream house, we will move in, and we will be happy.’  

Papa kept his promise. In less than five years, he’d built our new home, and it was stunning. Like a Barbie castle, I thought. I could make believe that I were Annika from The Princess and the Pegasus, and the feeling terrified me in a beautiful way. But the land was barren at the time, and I remember planting the dewdrops with Papa. The rich smell of damp earth.

Mum was on the porch with cold water for when we needed it. Papa checking the seeds, and me shovelling dirt. I’d struck a hard thing—a bone. ‘Papa, look! A bone.’ I held it above my head and shouted to Mum, ‘A bone!’ Then to Papa, ‘Is it a dog? Is it a goat? Is it a lion?’ I faked a roar, and Mum laughed, her laughter washing my senses with relief, calming the sting of the midday sun on my neck. Papa chuckled, threw some seeds in the sand and said, ‘I told you, didn’t I? I told you we’ll love it.’ 

---

We’re on our way to an uptown medical supply store to buy a wheelchair, Mum and I. Papa’s legs are too swollen to walk now, too tired to hold his weight. In Dr Hassan’s words, Papa’s heart is worsening but holding up. What does “holding up” even mean? I can’t be sure if it’s merely a grain of hope—a shawl cast over a more grievous reality. 

Mum accelerates Papa’s Volvo against a blistering rain, eyes trained on a long scanty road. On the radio, a presenter and a local politician engage in a charismatic debate about the housing crisis, climate change, and the fate of Lagos in fifty years. ‘Lagos will be the second New York,’ the politician proclaims, his voice croaky and ambitious. I scoff, and Mum gives me a questioning look. I say, ‘Nothing. He’s lying.’

In fifty years, more important things than the Newyorkfication of Lagos would’ve happened. A girl born today, if she lives long enough, would be nearing retirement, anticipating graceful ageing with her lovely wife. I would be seventy, hunched over a small family, and peering at my grandchildren through dim, watery eyes. Tonguing the toothless hole in my gum, recounting the taste of things I used to love and can no longer chew, at least not so often. In fifty years, Mum and Papa will be long gone. 

The rain’s quieter now. Without its thundering, the politician’s lies are loud and overbearing. Mum turns down the radio, which I appreciate. Soon enough, I realize Mum’s turned down the radio because she wants to talk. ‘Do you know why your father left the army?’ 

I think for a moment, then say, ‘He hated the government.’  

‘He loved the country more than he hated the government,’ she says, slowing down the car as we approach a speed bump. ‘Your father was discharged in 1991. February 6, to be precise.’

‘Discharged?’

‘While on a field training in Borno, he had a heart attack and was declared unfit for military. But he could never tell you that. He always wanted to be a hero in your eyes.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought him any less iconic. I’ll have wanted to know the truth.’ 

‘A lie can be a strategy, Ada—a shield. He had his reasons, and you were only a child.’  

An anger I didn’t think myself capable of harbouring surges through me. I wonder why good men suffer gruesome destinies and bad men become upper echelons, get radio interviews, and dream of selfish, impossible futures. They should be the ones to suffer, to have everything they love taken away from them, to have the earth shrivel beneath their feet in protest of their existence. 

We pull over in front of a building named Abundant Grace Medical Supplies. As I undo my seatbelt and reach for the door, Mum’s voice stops me. ‘Your father is a strong man,’ she says, staring at me with an acute focus that upturns my insides. ‘Let me tell you something about strong men. They don’t back down, they don’t know what it means to rest, and they don’t know when to stop. Strong men can’t help themselves, so you help them. Do you understand?’ 

‘Yes. Papa is a strong man, and we’ll help him. Together.’

We buy a crutch and a foldable manual wheelchair, the first on the row. It’s cheap and simple compared to the others, which is perfect because we’re not here for beauty and certainly not permanence. Papa will walk again. He won’t be needing it for long. 

---

It had taken Papa and me two weeks and three days to till the soil and bury all the seeds. Papa was particular about planting the Bermudas for the lawn. ‘The extra love keeps the lawn fungus away,’ he’d said. ‘No crowding. The measurement has to be just right. The rolling has to be perfect. We don’t want to bury it too deep. Front, back, front again—just like that. Careful now. Careful over there. In a month, you’ll see what marvelous thing you’ve done.’ How exciting it was, digging and digging from the first peek of morning sun till dusk when Mum served us sumptuous dinners to compensate for our long days.

She made us wash our hands in disinfectant and bleach water to rid ourselves of germs, but I’d told her, ‘Mum, there are no germs in there. Only earthworms.’ We saw a lot of earthworms and Papa taught me the salt trick, how to make earthworms dance. I found it amusing, until Papa said the earthworms weren’t dancing; they were skinless, writhing, and dying, and that was it. The end of the salt trick and the beginning of me apologizing to the earthworms for killing their mum, sister, or friend. I started to give them names of classmates, the ones I didn’t like much: Bobby, Chioma, Femi, Tersoo. I named a very small worm Esther, the shortest girl in the whole of JSS2. 

We’d water the barren earth daily, and one day, Papa said, ‘This is a lesson of faith and patience. Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. If you doubt it, you ruin it. The starting point of every good magic is belief.’ As usual, Papa was right. What joy it was when the seedlings sprouted.

‘It might get to the heavens like Jack and the Beanstalk,’ I said. ‘I’ll climb it.’

‘And what will you tell God when you get there?’ Papa asked. 

I contemplated, shrugged, and said, ‘I’ll ask him if there’s really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Since he made the rainbow, I think he should know.’ Papa laughed so hard, so hard he clutched his belly and keeled over. He said, ‘Ada, there is no gold. There is no beginning or end to a rainbow.’

---

Evenings are most beautiful in the yard. Papa and I are out on the lawn watching the night creep into place in an imposing performance. The amber sky is overcast with powdery clusters of pinkish puffs and streaks of silver cloud. Somewhere near a dainty crescent moon, two parallel contrails die out and a solitary star sparkles.

Papa’s gaze is set on a yonder view, but unlike me, he’s not watching the sky. He’s watching a flock of pigeons pecking on God-knows-what. Bugs, maybe. Papa fondles the cashmere scarf draped over his thighs, a multicoloured linen Mum had bought him at a thrift market many years ago. He pinches and twists a small perimeter of the fabric. I study the creases on his face as if to memorise their patterns and the paths they form. Where they start, end, and conjoin. His dry lips house specks of blood between their cracks. Now Papa looks to the heavens and inhales deeply.  

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ I say. 

‘Men my age think a lot. Not like we have much else to do.’ 

Papa coughs, and I take his feverish palm in mine, caressing it like that would do any good. 

‘When I first thought of getting a house, I wanted one as big as an actual football field. But Joan would have thought me overambitious or mad. I didn’t want that.’ 

‘How big is it, then?’

Papa thinks for a bit. ‘Mentally, a hundred yards. Just as I hoped.’ He turns to me. ‘Am I allowed to be a little delusional with you? Do you also think I’ve lost my mind?’ 

I shake my head. ‘I think you’re brilliant.’

‘You flatter me. We should do something fun together, like old times. Remember Majikland? You loved the Ferris wheel, but I wanted the spinning teacups—something quiet and simple. Or the one time we went fishing at Badagry, remember?’ 

‘I fell off the canoe and you jumped after me. I was so scared, I thought we’d die.’ 

‘Really? I didn’t think so. I think people know when they’re going. It’s an unmistakable feeling; you can’t just toss it away and go about your day.’ Papa rummages the thigh pockets of his pants and takes out an old rusty coin. ‘But we can toss this. Head or tail?’

I hesitate, and when Papa nudges me, I say, ‘Tail.’ 

Papa flips the coin. It’s a head. ‘Now, you must tell me a nice little story.’

‘Hmm. Do you have anything in mind?’

‘Something to boost your old man’s spirit. Maybe about courage, or love.’  

We talk about men who returned from war in rags, unrecognisable and alien to their families, irredeemably stripped of their humanity and forever scarred. Wives who, in the Biafran war, wrote letters to their husbands, uncertain if the letters ever reached their destinations—if there was anyone at the other end to receive them. Despite the chilling silence, they would write again and again and again. We talk about mothers who died for their children and siblings separated by bombs, those living, still nurturing hopes of reunion many years after the war. What’s braver than unflinching love? 

In Papa’s eyes, a film of tears gathers, but he doesn’t cry. Papa never cries. Still, I stand and reach for a hug. I lean into him, and he folds his arms around me, pulling gently until I lose my stance and fall into his bosom, where he presses me against his chest. It’s cosy here, and Papa’s smell is a tinge of medicines drowned by the soothing aroma of lavender and honey. Papa’s heartbeat is a slow, quiet lullaby against the symphony blaring in my ribcage, threatening to spill over. I’m drifting into a wondrous place until I hear Mum calling from the house. 

‘Is Charles ready for dinner?’ she asks. 

‘Yes, please,’ Papa says. 

‘Ada, bring him over, will you?’  

I push Papa across the lawn, careful not to crush the grass too much. Mum’s wearing an apron over a polka-dotted column dress and her braids are packed in a neat ponytail. 

‘I bought her that dress in 2015. It’s a limited-edition Sister Jane. Isn’t she the most romantic thing you’ll ever see on God’s earth?’ Papa whispers to me. 

‘Mum or the dress?’ 

‘My wife, of course. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ 

I chuckle and say, ‘She is, Papa. The most beautiful of them all.’ 

---

Just before daybreak, I’m awoken by Mum’s screams from the master bedroom. I rush in to find Papa lying on the floor, and Mum screeching to someone on the phone, agreeing to drive Papa to the hospital. Mum throws Papa’s blazer over her nightdress and together, with a lot of effort, we drag Papa downstairs, through the parlor, and into the car. Mum’s screaming for help to an empty night, begging for Papa to stay with her. To stay with us. Mum’s firing down the road, storming through the dark with a determination that horrifies me, because I start to realize this is isn’t a dream. Papa’s really unconscious in the back seat. I can’t help the tears and breathlessness that take over, so I squeeze my chest till nails pierce skin. All I can think is fight. Fight, Papa. 

---

Papa’s been admitted to critical care at St John’s, the memorial hospital where Dr Hassan works as a cardiologist. He says Papa has an ischaemic stroke, mild sepsis, and uncontrolled hyperthermia and will require close monitoring. One half of his body has now been paralysed, and there are infarcts in his brain—whatever that means; I decide against Googling Papa’s condition. Dr Hassan says when Papa recovers, he may experience random surges of pain. He may have trouble sleeping, speaking, or remembering, and it’ll take a while for Papa to walk again. For now, the major concern is regulating his body temperature, because Papa is hitting as high as forty degrees.

I wonder just how hot that is. I think back to a time I was down with severe malaria and my temperature spiked to thirty-eight. I felt so hot, like the sun had been blended into an elixir and rushed into my veins. Poor Papa, he must be burning inside. I think of what it’ll feel like if Papa opens his eyes to Mum and me, staring at us with the curiosity of one scrutinising a stranger, all the memories we share lost somewhere inside of him. I imagine losing a person and not losing them at the same time, unsure whether to be grateful, angry, or devastated.

I’m sitting in the reception with a woman from whose phone call I learn is caring for her sickle eight-year-old who had a bike accident and needs an urgent blood transfusion, the third one now. When she gets off the call, she starts whispering prayers in tongues. I latch onto her supplications, coveting some for Papa. To distract myself, I play sudoku and word games on my phone, and to pass even more time, I start a drama-comedy miniseries. But I just can’t seem to concentrate on the voices in the series echoing quietly in the hospital lobby, saying things that disintegrate into gibberish before reaching the walls of my mind. I’m too preoccupied guarding my faith against lurking intrusive thoughts. 

Finally, Mum steps out of Papa’s ward. I ask her how he’s faring. She borrows Dr Hassan’s words, ‘Holding up,’ except it doesn’t ring in the same firm, toneless manner as a doctor. We sit side by side in the reception, hoping and praying, not saying a word. 

‘It’ll be fine, Mum,’ I say, after a long silence. ‘This too will pass.’ 

The only things that pass are days upon days upon days of Papa in a coma. It’s the twentieth day now; nothing has changed. I’m watching Papa through the door’s sidelight, listening to the machines beep away, studying the repetitive, jagged motion of the green line that’s supposed to be Papa’s heart rate, the ultimate proof that Papa is still with us. It resembles a snake chasing after its own tail but never catching it.

I allow myself to be hypnotised by it, closing my eyes, picturing myself with Papa in a meadow so big we can’t tell where it starts or ends—like a rainbow—and we’re running till we can’t feel our legs, laughing till we’re breathless, crying, and too dizzy to stand, so we collapse into a sea of tall grass. It has tiny spikes that sting our flesh, but it doesn’t matter because we’re too happy to care. 

When I open my eyes, the green line is faster, peaking higher. A frantic crowd emerges in Papa’s room. One of them is Mum; the others are medics. A nurse fussing over an intravenous line, flicking a filled syringe. Another drawing blood. One pressing down on Papa’s chest with gloved palms, and a doctor holding a defibrillator. 

Mum’s screaming. She clutches a handful of the doctor’s scrub, begging him to save her husband. She says, ‘We have a daughter. What will she do? What will I do?’ She says, ‘Please, help us.’

A security man rushes between them and tries to pull her away from Papa’s bedside. She flings her arms about to evade his grip, hitting his jaw twice so that his face curls into a small frown. He slides behind her, seizing her by the shoulder and guiding her towards the exit. She’s kicking, hissing, and slamming her back against his buff frame.  

The doctor’s eyes skittle between Papa and the monitor. When he says ‘We’re losing him’, my eyes shift from Papa’s motionless body to the doctor’s face, the tautness of it. Not one twitch of a muscle, or a slip of emotion, not even when he instructs to ‘Clear the patient.’ Not when he brings the machine to Papa’s chest or when he hands it to a nurse, slouches slightly, and glances at his wristwatch.

I stare at the static green line on the monitor, refusing to blink, holding my breath, as if exhaling were affirming, as if I could suffocate myself out of this nightmare. The doctor turns to find me gaping through the sidelight. His reluctance to look away feels like an apology.

---

Full name: Ezeabali Charles Madueke. Date of Birth: February 5, 1956. Time of Death: August 14, 2018, 10:36 AM. Name of Institution: St John’s Memorial Hospital. Cause of Death: Cardiac arrest.

Papa’s death certificate feels unreal. Fabricated is the better word. It’s been five days since he left us, and I’ve been in denial for most of it. Nothing in the world could’ve prepared me for Papa’s death. Some days, I feel insane. I see Papa out in the yard tending to overgrown bushes, taking the form of tree trunk shadows, or just sitting out there doing nothing—existing, what living people do.

Sometimes, I tell myself he’s on a short trip, and when he doesn’t return, I create imaginary decoys to lengthen my wait time. Maybe he’s off in the north visiting an old friend from the army. Maybe Colonel Auta or Simeon, or Major Lawal. He often spoke about them. Maybe he’s travelled overseas. But five days turns fifty. Fifty days turn to many months. The maybes are no longer plausible, and one day I say to myself, ‘This is real. He’s gone. Get over it.’ But where, how, and when does one begin to get over a loss so cruel? 

It’s a different kind of pain seeing Mum hurting. On the first week of Papa’s passing, Mum avoided the master bedroom altogether. She’d sleep in the guestroom, then she took down Papa’s pictures in the parlour and started to sleep there too. One day, I watched her try to trim some flowers, but Mum had never held a shear.

She fell to her knees, sobbed into cupped palms, and sat there for a whole thirty minutes. I wanted to comfort her, but what does a grieving child say to a grieving wife? When Mum broke into tears in the supermarket, in front of the spice shelf, I engulfed her in a hug and shielded her pain from the world. I said, ‘Papa is in a better place. He’ll want us to be happy, so let’s try.’ These were words I desperately needed to hear. That I’m fine, and it’s okay, and maybe Papa’s passing is all right. 

Today is Papa’s one-year memorial. Mum and I decide it’s time to move Papa’s things to an empty room downstairs as part of our healing. We start with Papa’s clothes, his documents, and all the other things he used to own. Vinyl discs, antique flower pots, journals—lots of them—and his military uniform.

We remove his footwear from their protective boxes and load them in a big carton. In the process, I find a brown envelope tucked to the side of the box carrying Papa’s favourite tan brogues. It’s labelled “For My Sweet Girl”—a letter I open with haste and trembling hands. I don’t realise I’m crying until tears wet the paper carrying Papa’s familiar cursive, the last bit of his thoughts I’ll ever get to know. It’s all palpable now. The reckless disbelief I felt watching Papa’s resuscitation, witnessing his final seconds. Feeling my faith melt away on that cold morning and knowing that I would never be the same person again. Knowing that I’d lost something I’ll never find, not in this lifetime. 

---

Saturday, June 23, 2018. 20:07

On gardening… 

My sweet Ada,  

If you find this, you’re most likely packing my things out. If you’re doing that, it must mean I’m a little far away for now. I am so sorry, baby. I really hoped for an outcome that didn’t involve being separated from you and Joan, but wishes are only wishes, remember? If wishes mattered, we would all be different people. As I write this, I can feel my heart fighting and failing. I feel like I’m drowning in air. I can feel it burning, yet I feel so cold. I’m terrified, yes, but every sick old man gets used to the feeling. I know you didn’t notice but at a time, we were four in the house. Me, you, Joan, and a shadow. The first time the shadow appeared, we were trimming roses in the backyard, and you were talking about a master’s degree in data science in Germany. Have you told your mother about it? We started a trust fund for you since you were four. I hope you go for it and make me proud. Take good care of Joan and maybe teach her some gardening. Remember, you only need to water the moss roses once a month. The hibiscus is more delicate, so water them more. When you trim the bushes, cut quickly, neatly, without hesitation, and at a slight angle. And Joan was right. Maybe we do need a gardener. Fortunately, I know a man who can get the job done perfectly. Call Mr. Chidi (08132678843) and tell him from Charles. Please, don’t be sad for too long. I am still and always with you, my forever sunshine. Though I now rest in death’s cold arms, thoughts of you will keep me warm and preserve me through this long night, until we meet again. 

P.S. Could you tell Joan I left her a note as well in the last page of our wedding album? 

All my love, 

Papa.

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Cynthia Nnenna Nnadi is a writer, editor, and pharmacist born and raised in Lagos, Nigeria. She reads for Craft Literary and has worked as a Deputy/interim Managing Editor for Masobe Books. Recurring themes in her works are loss, longing, family, grief, womanhood, and memory. In her writing, she often traverses the nature of episodic memory and memory as narratives, exploring what it means to exist delicately and purposefully in a raging world, while highlighting the kinetics of simple living. She can be found in the shadows of Instagram and X @inkpharm, existing more zealously in safer, real-life spaces.