I was gutted on Easter Monday this year when my younger sister Maryanne passed late that night. Earlier that morning, Pope Francis had also passed. It was a little much for me when, at 11:15 p.m., my brother-in-law informed me that my sister, his wife, vibrant Maryanne Asuku née Amodu, was being taken to the ICU. I held my breath and ran to be by her side.
There had been no notice of an illness, and I followed the ambulance from hospital to hospital while her husband made decisions about which one was best for her condition so late into the night. By 1:30 a.m., with a foggy brain and multiple anxieties, we arrived at Nizamiye Hospital, where doctors battled to save her life or so I thought. My husband had to usher me out of the emergency room as stethoscopes were flying off doctors’ hands to her chest. Other doctors were feeling her temples and gently opening her eyes. She seemed to be sleeping.
Our late mother, Mrs Josephine Amodu, was a nurse, so my mind told me she was in a coma. Two of her children stood against the walls, pensive and anxious. I was restless, pacing back and forth at the emergency room door. As she was wheeled out, I peered at her sleeping face and noticed her skin was wrinkle-free and glowed more than usual. She seemed rested. Her brows, often raised in conversation, were now relaxed. I waited with bated breath for her return from the tests.
In less than five minutes, a Turkish doctor asked if my husband would sign some papers. My husband demurred and asked Maryanne’s husband to attend to them. The doctor walked away and said to the receptionist, “Fill DOA”—Dead on Arrival. Her children, standing a few inches away, collapsed on me. My world fell apart. Disbelief and waves of grief washed over me.
I began experiencing out-of-body sensations. My mind processed in fragments, while my body trembled uncontrollably. I cupped my niece’s head and half-hugged my nephew. Words failed me; only my tears and screams bore witness to my grief. Questions tumbled endlessly: How? Where? Why? What? The floor felt unsteady, though there was no seismic shift.
At the mortuary, grief overwhelmed me. Tears flowed freely as attendants consoled me, but disbelief lingered. My husband led me back to the car at 2 a.m. At 3 a.m., I began calling her siblings one by one, who had been praying, one in the U.S., one in Lagos, and others in Abuja. It was an unholy hour to speak of a beloved sister.
I was practically a zombie for three weeks. Everything was a blur. Returning to work, life seemed bland and colourless. Meaning had departed. Yet friends, family, and priests provided support that gradually helped me cope. Looking back, I have asked many questions to make sense of it all.
But death comes when it comes and remains a mystery. All religions urge acceptance of God’s will. As a practising Catholic, I have done so, though questions persist. Why was I not aware she had been in the hospital days before she passed? I could have rallied doctors to see her, held her hand, and reassured her. Did the doctor follow protocols for breaking the news properly? These gnawing questions would not bring her back. As a Christian, I know where our loved ones go. The glow in her skin told me she was at peace.
Maryanne, who would have been 59 at the end of December, hated injustice. She fought everyone’s fight, whether she knew you or not. She wore her heart on her sleeve and spoke truth without hesitation. Never one to suffer fools gladly, she earned enemies from those who hated honesty, yet she was a friend to kind-hearted, straightforward people. She had a big heart and would drop everything to be by your side.
Although she was my younger sister, we shared the same parents, and I benefited from her generosity. Beautiful, kind, and hard-working, Maryanne Asuku née Amodu will be sorely missed. There will be no late-night banter, hearty laughter, challenges, or celebrations to share. No one to call at 1 a.m. to vent, only for her to calm frayed nerves or work on a solution. She was tough yet tender, strong yet soft-hearted.
Maryanne will not be bringing drinks this Christmas, nor inviting me for her birthday on December 30, nor joining any grandchild’s celebration, nor sharing Christmas dinner in my home. Maryanne Asuku née Amodu, my vibrant younger sister, has gone to meet her Maker. May her beautiful soul rest in peace. She is unforgettable and will remain in our memories forever.
As we pause to celebrate, let us also remember those who grieve, the impoverished, and the brokenhearted. May God touch hearts, cushion grief, and provide helpers this season. May God comfort all who suffer and ease whatever pain gnaws at them. It shall be well. Amen.
Compliments of the season to you all.
