I was not there when I tied the ribbons on the church pew on New Year’s Day in 2006. I really was not there. Can’t quite say where I was but I was certainly not there. I went through the motion of the greetings, the hugs and more ribbon tying completely out of sync. It was just a motion and I was trying very hard to be present but I kept floating in and out of the room and thinking about many “what could have beens”. I was in church for the funeral mass of my delectable sister Josephine Amodu, popularly known as Baby. Named after my mum, no one called her by her real name for many years as a sign of respect for my mum. My friends and family had gathered and everyone was sorry and sad and condoled with us all. I stood by the door after a while receiving all those who came, but I really did not have to. I had left the room several times, watched my mother cry the tears of a woman whose wailing reached up to the heavens in sorrowing.
I had also watched her only daughter, my niece, Eucharia Bata, just a little girl whose understanding of her loss was still unclear to her. To lose a mother so young is hard but when you don’t understand it yet is even harder. I remained by the door and continued to offer a weak hand and a faint smile. I really was not in the room when her casket was brought into church with flowers I had picked all morning long, bougainvillea, roses, all fresh flowers draped her coffin as the pall bearers walked past me.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw them walk past but my body simply could not bring myself to the understanding, so I left the room again and wondered through her restaurant in Karu and another restaurant in Wuse, all in Abuja, which she managed, where I had shared many cooking moments with her. Finally, the funeral Mass over, I felt a certain rush of tears, my eyes wet with salt and water. In-between I had delivered a poem to remember her by, a sad but happy poem of different things that defined her, her generosity, her love, her smile, her cooking.
Josephine Amodu was number three after me. Lovelier than words can describe and beautiful inside out. Eyes so large you could drown in them, a smile so warm it was amazing, a personality to die for, everyone’s friend.
Let me tell you how we are, Josephine. We have missed you so. I am doing alright and your nieces and nephews are doing great. Of course, Mama has joined you as her tears after your passing never stopped. She remembered you at every event, every day, every moment. Aunty Eucharia and all your other siblings are doing great. Your lovely daughter, Eucharia Bata, has turned out as delectable as you and the soul of every family gathering, charming, cerebral, beautiful. You should be proud of her and she is now an undergraduate. How time flies!
It’s been nine years since you passed but it’s just like yesterday. We know where our loved ones go. We pray for your soul daily. You chose to be unforgettable to remind us every New Year Day that your beautiful self passed here and you touched us all with your beauty and your warmth. Every New Year Day is different since that day nine years ago but your memories are a constant.
You were an excellent sister, a special friend, a good mother and a generous neighbour. You gave always to those you knew and those you did not. You taught us generosity of spirit, you gave food to whoever came your way, you cooked far more than you needed, always saying, like Mum, you never know who is coming.
As a new year begins its rhythm again, I remember you as always and pray God that you continue to rest in peace. Those whom we love just change accommodation, they are always with us, they never really go away. They are in our hearts always. Josephine Baby Amodu, we start the year without you again, but we know you are always with us.
I really was not there when I tied the ribbons in church a certain New Year’s Day nine years ago, it was just a motion. While I was standing there physically, I really was in Josephine’s flat laughing at her quirky jokes, her laughter ringing in the corridor of her flat.
I miss you, my sister, but I know where God’s children go.
Eugenia Abu
