Opeyemi's transition : A Tale of Fire, Grief, Motherhood.

 

By Kehinde Adedeji

Whenever harrowing death news of the people I know well is broken to me, I deeply imagine how life had eloped from the confines of their bodies. Or it didn't elope but leave slowly? Like a newly born snake slithering from its hole? Taking its time? I always picture how they breathed their last breath, how the colourless silent gas escaped from their nostrils, how they wriggled to wrench their hearts from fangs of death. Was it a tug of war? Or did they give in and offer it to HIM willingly like a sacrifice? Tired of bearing it?

I knew Opeyemi for the first time in early 2022, during the pre-ASUU strike days and our "knowing each other" stretched through the ASUU strike days, spanning months. I wouldn't say he was my "friend" friend but we used to talk a lot. Most times in the late evenings when he was back from work. Our discussions would stretch into hours, reaching late at night until his mother come outside to sound warning to him; the first time, the second time, and sometimes third time before he would succumb to her and enter their room, sulking and speaking in low tones. It wasn't only the two of us always in the nakedness of night. There was Tunmise, Becham's Landlord's son. (Opeyemi was popularly known as Becham among his peers because of his amazing prowess in football). There was also Fatima, the Senagalese, sometimes with her younger ones, and sometimes Taiwo too

Becham's mother was staying in Aduloju area, not too far from Bodija, standing between Agbowo community and Bodija. She is tall, plump and dark. The house was also inhabited by Omolade, a distant sister of mine who I stayed with for a while during the industrial strike. And his mother, for the few months that I knew her, is a kindhearted one, one of the truest abiyamo I've come across in years. She is easygoing, wouldn't gossip like other typical women in the area who always put their mouths on each other's ears when people pass; speaking in low tones and giggling, sticking tongues to point at their shoes and telling the stories behind the pair of shoes. "Don't you know he inherited them from his father? Did you know his father? Don't tell me you didn't? When did your husband arrive here? Oh, I see. You've not spent long time here. Twenty years ago his father fell from a van while the on Lagos-Ibadan expressway. Why? Because he was running away from the debtors he had in each house in our community? He didn't have money to travel by bus so he stylishly climbed the van and wedged himself within the packs of Dangote cement on the top. Didn't you watch the NTA news that night? Twenty years ago? You have not heard of it from anyone's lips?"

Becham's mother was not like this. She paddled her own canoe, and her son's. She didn't poke nose into what she wasn't concerned with. At evenings when she was back from work, she would go to fetch water (at times), prepare dinner while humming a song on her lips, sometimes Barrister's , navigating the corridor's length, then after her stomach was filled, she'd come outside for breeze, hold her phone to her ears as she listen to evening news, tuning the radio to agidigbo FM, 88.7. She'd contribute to the programme's discussion, talking directly to the programme's anchor like she can be heard.

Time flew on as usual, days stretched into weeks, weeks into months and months into years. The strike was over and in the next few weeks that followed I saw myself again in the classroom setting as a 200L student, receiving lectures and assignments from lecturers.

When school resumed, there were few times that I ran across Becham on Agbowo streets. Most likely on afternoons or early evenings when the sun was still up, dull in spreading its rays across the sky. This time around, Becham has become taller, chubbier and his skin was fresh. We'd shake hands and crack jokes and laughed and I'd ask about everyone in the area. Then we'd part ways, waving and smiling.

One time or two, Becham would message with a new contact. "Hi Kenny, this is Becham. This is my new number". I'd reply him in no time then save up his contact. I remember his wishes for me on my last birthday  year too. "Happy birthday Ejire. Long life and prosperity".

As usual, Time sped on like an furious athlete with feet faster than the flash. I learnt from my twin about few times about Becham. According to her, he now has money  and uses an iPhone device, he now wears expensive vintage shirts and classy trousers. "Now I remember. He does a business called Neolife. He even invited me to join them. I'll join very soon when I'm settled in Ibadan". My twin said that day. I nodded and told her to extend my regards to him.

One thing I noticed over time whenever I remembered Becham was his inconsistency on the social media space, better still his disappearance. When I learnt this, I wasn't really worried because I thought he may be so busy because of his Neolife business or that he changed his contact again and couldn't find my WhatsApp number. And like I've written, my twin always update me about him and his current classy lifestyle. So, I wasn't perplexed about his wellbeing. My twin has her way of getting updates about people.

So, I was at Barika that afternoon, tired, transfixed on the chair I was sitting when a student ran to me holding my phone's screen right before me. "You have missed calls". I hissed as I collected, I knew it was my twin, and I wasn't wrong, she had called me like ten times. At first, I became worried, sighed then clicked my thumb on dial icon before her call entered. I picked. 

"Hello"

"How far"

She said something I could not figure out. She repeated it when I didn't get it. "They said Becham is dead". She uttered in Yoruba, her voice broke to my ears. This time around I heard what she said but I still couldn't fathom what she really meant by "Becham has died". I asked again, now to clear my doubts and she rang it into my ears like temple bells. Gbagaun! My heart sank into my stomach.

"I'll be going there very soon, I just called to let you know that I am going and if you'd be following me, I could wait for you in a moment."

I told her to wait for me. And some minutes later I was knocking at my room's door while she opened the door. I asked why she was still in the room. With a pallid face and shattered voice I was made to know that she was told not to come around anymore since Becham's body has been carried away.

I sighed and felt emptiness within myself. What's this life all about? What's its whole essence? Why is sorrow inherent in this space? Why?. The first person my troubled mind went to was Becham's mother. I remembered her cool nature and kind behaviour. Abiyamo tooto. I remembered how she replied my greetings whenever I greeted her, she replied as if I was the one who came out of her own womb. I recounted twice or three times that she gave us some portion of the food she cooked. Her super delicious meal. I wondered how this woman, stabbed at the heart with dagger of grief would survive with this excruciating scar engraved on her heart. This is the most teary part. Becham is her only child. He was her one and only. He didn't have in the front neither did he have at the back. Even though she still has husband who paid them visit once in a blue moon that time, the duo are old and chances of giving birth are so so slim. Even if the chances are robust, at that age, do you know what it takes to raise another child from the series of months in the womb to infantry to being a toddler to childhood years to adolescence to teenage years then to adulthood? What about the investment made on Becham? I think he was 21 or so. One should add twenty-ones years to his parents' ages and check what's left. Can they make up for it? Can anyone comfort Becham's mother? I'm not sure.

I even said it, if Becham's mother had a choice to choose between dying or her only child dying, I'm so certain she wouldn't think twice to die for her son. I'm super certain! Do you think this fire in her heart will be doused forever?

Later from my sister, I learnt he had been sick. That he had been complaining of something tightened up in his stomach. That he had been admitted to UCH for a while while the pockets of his parents grew slimmer and slimmer from the bills. That they later brought him home. That the neighbours were happy because this implied that he was recovering. Unfortunately, this relief didn't last. Groans would escape Becham's lips all the time about his stomach.

According to Taiwo, he was carried to a native doctor. He was there for sometime, suffering. Until the fateful day death ripped apart the curtains of the native doctor's room and kidnapped him. Opeyemi was found dead.

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Kehinde Adedeji is a young Nigerian poet, spoken words artiste, content creator and actor.