Odamea, I don’t know how you feel. My own diagnosis of your situation is different. I feel like instead of memories, what you have are waves of regret that course through your mind like a swift river current which pushes away everything in its path. I feel like your life flashes before your eyes and you see it for exactly what it is — a flash; an experience that happened too quickly, went by too fast; a film you wish you could have paused at a certain point. I wish I could have you back for just an hour. I wish I could still see life when I dare to look you in the eyes I almost can’t recognize.
I miss you so much.
I miss when we used to get Banku and Okro for breakfast at 7am when the sun was still deciding to rise. You rebel! You choosing a less than normal breakfast was one of your ways of giving the middle finger to the idea of the “normal” way. Or perhaps it was just among your little rebellions against the status quo in general. You would be expected to cook something; maybe prepare a beverage to eat with bread, or to at least make your own meal but no. Odamea doesn’t do the status quo and so she eats Banku and Okro that she buys from a Ga woman at 7am.
Man, I miss those mornings. I miss the walk there; me holding your hand, you showing me off like a trophy. Showing off your Kweku to the world. That’s how it was. You and me, your Kweku. And you saying for the umpteenth time, threatening me even, that I should remember all this when I grow up to be a successful man. I miss that you. I don’t have Dangote money yet, but I think at this stage, you would’ve considered me successful. Hell, I never had to do much to impress you. I miss worrying you for money, for coins, for kebab, for toys, for basically anything I chose to worry you for. I wish I understood that you really were just trying to manage and that you would have easily given me everything I asked for if you could. Sorry for being a little bastard about that. I wish you were worrying me for money now; for new cloths or for anything at all, just like you used to do with your cousins and relatives at funerals; hassling, almost mugging, the hell out of them.
I miss you so so much.
I miss the days when I was in class 5 first term. You, picking me up from school. First from the school gate and later when I would walk up to meet you at the junction where the woman sold oranges. Thanks for that little independence you gave me. After so much hand-holding in my life, those four months were very important to me in developing some independence. But I do miss those walks where I would again worry you by giving you my very heavy school bag to carry. Free of that burden, I loved watching you with that burden. I miss you saying “wo anya ne fo paa” each time I did that. And, of course, you always remembered to add that in the future, my wife dare not mess with you when you come to my house and demand to be fed and treated like the queen your name, Regina, means. I’m not married yet and I don’t have my own house yet but Odamea, I want to give you royal treatment. You deserve it. Life has been hard and is even harder for you now that you hardly have one. I love you. I miss you. I miss your shito, the one I kept insisting you bottle for sale to a larger market. I miss your salad sandwich and your pig feet stew. I miss those nights with you at your tea stand. I always thought you’d be a better actor than Miliki Mikuul. Have they met Odamea? She’s a thousand times funnier and more controversial. A million times better at hosting and cooking. They haven’t met my aunt, they were never at Attico!
It hurts me that I’ll never have a coherent conversation with you for more than what, two minutes? I even manage to crack a smile when you mix up the hymns and still manage to sync them in melody. I call your versions “hmmms”. It always reminds of that bible quiz round from when I was in Children’s Service. Where, when I was asked to sing a hymn I hadn’t heard before, I still confidently took the hymn book and “sang” (crucified actually) all three stanzas, while the whole auditorium was guffawing. The greatest stand up comedy I’ve ever done.
How many more times can I ask you to sing for me to break the uncomfortable silences? The Presby hymns you sing to me are the most coherent words you are able to put together these days. The ones you remember, anyway. I wish we could go back and forth and sing to each other like we’re in some sort of musical like, you know, Cantata. I just want you back. Even at this age, my memories of you are fading and I hate it. Maybe the next time I come see you, I’ll read this to you and I’ll try not to cry like I’m doing now.
I miss you so so so much
