PEOPLE ISH: ONYEKACHI
ONYEKACHI
Onyekachi, I remembered you this morning. Why? Because sometimes it is like that.
When you died was it OK for you? Did your life 'flash before your eyes,' as they say? Where you scared?
Do you feel you should have been nicer to me? I hope you do not because I did, I felt I should not have fought with you, I wished I had not, for a long time it nagged me and it was a choking feeling, uncomfortable like a scratchy, new sweater.
Every moment of the year and a few months after you died, our class was still housing your absence, it was suddenly noisy and then quiet again.
Your seat-mate left the school that week, but of course, you would have liked that: you always wanted Phil with his ruggedness to be your seatie.
When Teacher Felix came to tell us why we had had no classes that day, the class was silent, "Onyeka passed away last night, some of you will be picked to go for his burial with the teachers next week." His voice taking on a richer timbre than when he taught boring Quantitative Reasoning.
One boy bowed his head slowly like a movie, cradled it ensconced in his arms on the desk, everyone else soon did like they were praying or maybe having a forced siesta.
Teacher Felix lingered, I noticed he had no cane with him, which surprised me or maybe should have surprised me because just then I felt so far away.
I could not cry, I could not even pretend to cry, I did not believe it was true, everything was looking staged: Teacher Felix without a cane, Phil crying.
You broke my ruler on Tuesday and I had tackled you, I had told you repeatedly to be careful with it. The image of you falling and standing up flexing your small muscles and the harassed look on your face, the image of your face that day just stays here, refusing to be replaced by any other image, stubborn to even your remorse the next day.
I realized that face would never leave when I too bowed my head.
On the afternoon of the Friday we were told, during recess, you played with us in my mind, we sat down in a circle and talked about death, eleven-year-olds like us. Some started saying the school was built on top of a graveyard, I smiled. Otime also smiled her intellectual smile.
Immediately tall, dark Santus stood up to say, "Onyeka gave me his Bakugan card to take home yesterday," as he brought out the game card from his pocket; immediately he did that, I thought for the third time that you may be watching and I felt no fear at the thought, you should have been there.
I dreamt of you dead that night in my sleep, cold, after straining to crawl to the drawer on your study table and stopping to die only a few meters away from the inhaler inside it.
Your Mom and Dad nko? What about them? They still insist on educational games and cartoons for your siblings? I should find out, meet them or maybe not, in case they wish to forget you.
Onyeka, where are you now? Are you you? Do you still smell stuffy? Do you still act soft and cautious, saying, "I think," Before you talk? And if you were alive what would you have chosen to be? I write now (yes that poem I had shown you was something I was passionate about, you should have been less dismissive of it, you snob!!!)
I want to believe you struggled with death, you know? heroic to the end? But the you I know makes me feel you died peacefully in your sleep, this is why your face this morning brings only a muffled pain, not as acute as before.
I have a question, last one, "Do people grow in heaven?"
When you died was it OK for you? Did your life 'flash before your eyes,' as they say? Where you scared?
Do you feel you should have been nicer to me? I hope you do not because I did, I felt I should not have fought with you, I wished I had not, for a long time it nagged me and it was a choking feeling, uncomfortable like a scratchy, new sweater.
Every moment of the year and a few months after you died, our class was still housing your absence, it was suddenly noisy and then quiet again.
Your seat-mate left the school that week, but of course, you would have liked that: you always wanted Phil with his ruggedness to be your seatie.
When Teacher Felix came to tell us why we had had no classes that day, the class was silent, "Onyeka passed away last night, some of you will be picked to go for his burial with the teachers next week." His voice taking on a richer timbre than when he taught boring Quantitative Reasoning.
One boy bowed his head slowly like a movie, cradled it ensconced in his arms on the desk, everyone else soon did like they were praying or maybe having a forced siesta.
Teacher Felix lingered, I noticed he had no cane with him, which surprised me or maybe should have surprised me because just then I felt so far away.
I could not cry, I could not even pretend to cry, I did not believe it was true, everything was looking staged: Teacher Felix without a cane, Phil crying.
You broke my ruler on Tuesday and I had tackled you, I had told you repeatedly to be careful with it. The image of you falling and standing up flexing your small muscles and the harassed look on your face, the image of your face that day just stays here, refusing to be replaced by any other image, stubborn to even your remorse the next day.
I realized that face would never leave when I too bowed my head.
On the afternoon of the Friday we were told, during recess, you played with us in my mind, we sat down in a circle and talked about death, eleven-year-olds like us. Some started saying the school was built on top of a graveyard, I smiled. Otime also smiled her intellectual smile.
Immediately tall, dark Santus stood up to say, "Onyeka gave me his Bakugan card to take home yesterday," as he brought out the game card from his pocket; immediately he did that, I thought for the third time that you may be watching and I felt no fear at the thought, you should have been there.
I dreamt of you dead that night in my sleep, cold, after straining to crawl to the drawer on your study table and stopping to die only a few meters away from the inhaler inside it.
Your Mom and Dad nko? What about them? They still insist on educational games and cartoons for your siblings? I should find out, meet them or maybe not, in case they wish to forget you.
Onyeka, where are you now? Are you you? Do you still smell stuffy? Do you still act soft and cautious, saying, "I think," Before you talk? And if you were alive what would you have chosen to be? I write now (yes that poem I had shown you was something I was passionate about, you should have been less dismissive of it, you snob!!!)
I want to believe you struggled with death, you know? heroic to the end? But the you I know makes me feel you died peacefully in your sleep, this is why your face this morning brings only a muffled pain, not as acute as before.
I have a question, last one, "Do people grow in heaven?"
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