Dear Osaze… 10 Years on…

Dear Osaze

Let me tell you something. Grief is a funny old thing. If you don’t process it, it will just stay locked up in your heart; trapped. Weighing the heart down, whether we are conscious of it or not. If you are lucky, it will come out at a most inopportune time. If you’re not, it will remain within; quietly causing unrecognised havoc.

I first had a real appreciation of this truth last October when I went for a personal healing retreat at Ellel Ministries. Considering that I have been in the inner healing ministry for a few years, I do self-sozos regularly, and I am the numero uno participant of a life transforming programme I started, Pursuing Wholeness, I was seriously taken aback by what transpired. I found myself sobbing uncontrollably over your loss. My friend, my brother from another mother, my boss, my mentor, my partner. It had been nine and half years since your sudden passing. Yet, there I was, crying as if it were only yesterday. The tears were coming from a very deep place. I really did not realize that, within me, I was still carrying so much grief concerning you. I thought that, with the passage of time, it had dissipated. After the tears and prayers in that session, I felt so much lighter. I felt a release within, and the expressed grief was replaced with an indescribable sense of peace.

I know why that had happened though. I was about six months pregnant when you left. I couldn’t even bear to see your face on the funeral programme, so I spent the entire service alternating between wiping my tears and trying to cover your photos at the bottom corners of the programme (I still remember the location) with my thumbs. That way, I could pretend it wasn’t your funeral.

Everyone’s advice to me at that time? “Take it easy, Sanyade. You have to hold yourself together. You have a baby to think about; not just yourself.” Well, like the “earth mother” I was, I did just that. I “gathered” myself. I did my best to bottle up the emotions as I was scared that, if left to their own devices, they would hurt the baby in my tummy.

Do you want to hear something interesting? Three months later, within a few hours of giving birth to her by emergency c-section (cord around her neck), the midwifes noticed that there was a problem with her breathing. After some investigations, she was diagnosed with a congenital chest infection. Thankfully, she was fine after a few days in the neonatal intensive care unit. However, imagine my shock a few months later when I watched a TV programme that shed light on the fact that strong emotions experienced by a pregnant woman can go on to affect the physical health of her baby when born. No prizes for guessing that the part of the baby’s body where his/her mother’s grief can manifest is…. the chest. Hmmm…

A few years after your passing, I attempted to finally go through your tribute book, having not been able to do so before. I still struggled. Deep down, I knew that there was repressed pain within me, but I didn’t know when and how to deal with it. At the time, I didn’t even know how to give words to what I was experiencing. Thankfully, now I do.

If I am honest with myself, when I lost my dad suddenly in March 2019 there were times when I would cry and my spirit within me would tell me that a portion of those tears were actually for you. That there was unprocessed grief for you within me that was “seizing the opportunity” of my dad’s passing to be released.

Actually, if there is one thing that I learnt from Daddy’s passing was that to come out through the other side of grief, you needed to allow it to flow through you. Each time the waves came I simply allowed them to wash over me; making no attempts to dam the tears. Consequently, I healed from Daddy’s loss relatively quickly.

The final time these unattended-to emotions raised their head was at the call held in your memory yesterday evening. You would have been so proud of Adesuwa, Ehioze and Ibukun (who has done a fabulous job with the children by the way, but I know you would have expected nothing less of her). They honoured your memory in a beautiful and touching way. We were asked to come prepared with a memory to share. I went alright but share I did not. Initially, it wasn’t because I was feeling emotional; not consciously anyway. I was just blank. At a loss as to what to say. Later, it was because I was too weepy to risk saying anything. Who was I to be displaying such emotions when Ibukun, Adesuwa and Ehioze were holding it together?! Though unwelcome, the tears this time were much less than they had been in October. Small small…

Having wimped out yesterday, I promised Ibukun that I would write something today. So, here goes…

The memories? Where can I start? I can still hear your voice saying, “Mrs Okoli”. We were always on the phone. It’s a real wonder how Ibukun and Uche put up with us. We were always talking about one thing or another. At work. At home. In the car as you took me around Lagos introducing me to any and everybody… Well, scratch that! You were talking and I was listening. 😉 Let’s just say that our relationship served to hone my listening skills. 😊

I know that I was referred to as your “sidekick” by some. Ijeoma, Sola and I were called “Osaze’s angels”.

You and I both liked to think that the fact that your birthday was the day before mine meant we had a special bond.

After having had many brainstorming calls, I can still remember where I was when you called me to say that you had the name. “Travant!”, you said proudly. I played around with it in my mouth. It felt  right. I knew we had finally hit it. It took a while and a lot for me to eventually let go of that name. We had so many dreams. Oh life!

Thank you for not abandoning us when you went to FBN Capital. Thank you for putting us in the most capable and dependable hands you could possibly have. Together with Ijeoma, the three of us are still a solid team. It hasn’t always been easy, but we keep pushing and we are very hopeful for the future.

Do you remember when you dragged me halfway across the world to São Paulo to check out Embraer aircrafts? We spent 24 hours getting there, 24 hours there, and 24 hours coming back to Lagos! Only you would embark on such a crazy trip! 😅

There are two sayings you taught me that I still say and think of you.. “You cannot cry more than the bereaved.” and “Omo wa’se!” (“The child wants to work”, with an implicit extension that now they have found work).

I used to enjoy watching you dance. I found it so amusing. You approached it with the same intensity you took to so many other things.

If I close my eyes and focus, I can still see your mischievous smile.

You used to talk so fondly of Egbe and Enoma. It was super important to you that your children have a close relationship with theirs so you ensured you did your best to enable them to spend as much time together as possible.

Do you remember what you said when I told you Uche and I were expecting our fourth child? “Ah! Ah! Mrs Okoli, have you and your husband not heard of DSTV or other forms of entertainment?!” You’d be amused to know that that became a running joke amongst your friends during the time of the funeral.

In the first few years of your passing, I would hear a big piece of news, something that I knew would be of interest to you, and immediately think, “I have to tell Osaze!” Then I would remember…

As I am now choosing to process the grief and let it go, I feel a void emerging in my heart where grief had tried to fill the hole you left. Last night I concluded that since I was now finally ready to let go of the last vestiges of grief, I would fill the void the only way I know how. I would let God fill it.

I think writing this letter has been another step forward. More healing tears. Don’t worry; I am not letting go of you or your memory. You, Osaze, are anything but forgettable. I am simply letting go of the long-held grief. It’s been there way past its “useful economic life”. 😉

They say that time heals. I think that’s only true when, in time, you choose healing.

Thank you for the gift of you.

Continue to rest in peace, my dear brother.

Love

Your dearest aburo (Well, after Enoma, Karen, and all your other many many aburos, that is. 😊)

Sanyade

PS. Oh! By the way, I still have your number saved in my phone; but don’t call me o! That’s bound to make me come and meet you sooner than we all want. 🤗🤗🤗