Mama, I Thought You Would Live Forever, by Isaac Asabor

Dear Mama,

It feels like just yesterday, but it is been five long years since you left. Exactly on September 30, 2019, I received a call at Ojota Bus Stop that you had passed on. Today marks the anniversary of your departure, and as I sit here trying to pen my thoughts, I am reminded of the void your absence has left in my heart and life. It is hard to believe that it’s been five years. In truth, Mama, it still feels surreal. I thought you would live forever.

Growing up, you always seemed larger than life to me, strong, resilient, and filled with so much love. I never imagined a day would come when I would have to navigate this world without you. You were my first teacher, my fiercest protector, and my biggest fan. Even when I stumbled, you were there to help me find my feet again. There is a warmth only a mother’s love can give, and losing that has made the world feel colder.

I miss your voice. That soothing tone you had whenever you called my name, “Aziki”, especially in those moments of doubt or despair. You had this incredible ability to make everything feel okay, even when life was far from it. I miss our conversations, the laughter, and the life lessons you slipped into ordinary moments. I thought I was prepared, but nothing could have readied me for a life without you.

Do you remember how we used to talk about life, dreams, and family? You were always quick to remind me that life is fleeting and that we should cherish every moment. But the irony is, I never applied that to you. I thought you would always be there. I thought there was time for more laughter, more stories, more hugs. I guess part of me believed you were invincible. How could someone so full of life not be eternal?

It is funny, Mama, how the mind works. Even now, there are moments when I forget you are gone. I will see something that reminds me of you, hear a song we used to enjoy together, or come across one of your favorite dishes, and for a split second, I think, “I should tell Mama about this.” Then, reality sinks in, and the weight of your absence hits me all over again. It is like losing you afresh.

The world has changed so much in these five years, particularly Nigeria. There is so much I want to share with you. There are days when I desperately wish I could hear your thoughts, your advice. I want to tell you how life has unfolded since you left, but more than that, I want to hear your laughter again, to feel your embrace, and to see that reassuring smile of yours that could make even the darkest day seem brighter. But it is unarguably impossible seeing you for now because I am praying to live longer on earth than you lived. You left when you were 82. My consolers were wont to tell me not to cry that you were old before you departed. To me, you were not old.

I have learned that grief does not really end; it just becomes part of who you are. Some days, the pain is a dull ache, and other days, it is as sharp as it was on the day I lost you. I have also learned that love, even in death, does not fade. I carry you with me in everything I do. Your wisdom guides me, and your memory fuels my strength. I still hear your voice in my heart, urging me to keep going, to live a life that would make you proud.

There are times I wish I could go back, just for a moment, to hug you once more, to tell you all the things I did not say enough. Like how much I love you. How grateful I am for every sacrifice you made for me. How I would give anything just to have one more day with you.

But life doesn’t work like that, does it? All we have is the present and the memories that keep our loved ones alive in our hearts. I treasure the memories of you, Mama. They are the balm that soothes the wound of your absence. I see you in the little things, in the cassava crops you used to plant at the backyard back then in the village, in the sunset that paints the sky in colors I know you would have loved, in the faces of our family. You left your mark on us, and that is something that time can never erase.

As I sit here, five years later, writing this letter to you, I want you to know that you are still deeply missed. I thought you would live forever, and in many ways, you do. You live in me, in the lessons you taught me, in the love you gave, and in the legacy you left behind.

Thank you, Mama. Thank you for everything. For the love, the guidance, the strength, and the joy you brought into my life. I will carry you with me for the rest of my days. Until we meet again.

With all my love, 

Aziki