“Though we love you but God loves
you more”. The priest said. Everyone was dressed in black, my father sat behind
us.
My siblings were drained as a result of unending tears. It was my mom’s
burial. The woman that would be lowered to the ground, the rain drizzled outside; the wind blew leaving its bitter taste on my tongue.
It was my dad’s turn to read his tribute, I adjusted on my seat, my eyes glued on his, waiting, listening….watching and then he said…
“….she was a mother to our children. When we started our lives together, I never knew she would leave before me ( he cried) she meant the world to me and to think what I am today is because of Mopelola, but death would not allow me to enjoy my wife” he stopped to wipe the tears on his cheeks then continued.
“..I am privileged to be your husband though things will not be the same now that you have left us. I will forever cherish the moments we shared together and please make sure you keep the space next to you in heaven so when I come I can have it ( he sobbed). Though you are not here with us, but you have left five wonderful kids who are replica of your awesomeness. From me, Toye Tipe, Tumu, Tedi, and Tara we say, sleep well our loving mother”.
This is Tara and I am the first child, as I watched my father on the pulpit recited the Zionist propaganda on our mother’s coffin made me want to puke and scream out loud “Liar!! that is who you are dad, you killed our mother” but who would believe my story.
My mother is dead, the mother of mothers is gone, she was not there to defend or better still land a resonating slap on my father’s face. That was the time I wished the dead could talk; I mean defend themselves. He stood there looking pitiful and sober. The nostalgic feeling came handy for me since she breathed her last breath. And now I am carried away as the service was on, thinking of how we got here.
At least I knew the reality from age fifteen. I was with my mum in her room folding clothes, she moved to the wardrobe and then opened it, she brought out the pictures my dad and she took while they grew together in love right from the university days.
MY MUM SPOKE
“ I met your father when I was in part three and he came in as a fresher. He looked appealing and I wanted nothing but him. My course mates dissuaded me from going into a relationship with him, they said a lot of things, “He is your junior, you can’t afford to relegate yourself to the background” but I listened not to them. The drama started when he had to drop out of school.
It was like a whirl wind but as an industrious lady, I took it upon myself to sponsor your father. Despite the ranging storms, we were able to survive. Our love grew so much and we became the focus of gossips. Since I was ahead of him, I started working, preparing for us to settle down. The love we had for each other could not be conquered and our parents were in support.
Though my mother was very skeptical about it but with little persuasions from here and encouragement there that my father inputted; we were good to go.
He joined me in the labour market three years later and we tried all means to get him a job but all efforts failed. We decided to get married on my income. None of this mattered to me because we both loved each other.
Few years later we decided to look for another way out and we both agreed he furthered his studies which I single-handedly sponsored. My work got blessed and I was able to build this house. Lest I forget, your father actually made me a woman the night of our wedding, at least he waited.”
I stood to fetch my mother a glass of water. It’s true the say that a mismanaged happiness kills faster than depression; because the moment my dad became a man, he started having affairs with the divorced tenant that stayed in our boy’s quarters. My dad was not dignified enough to move far away.
My mum sacrificed everything within her reach to make my dad who he was. My mum could argue with God that her husband was faithful and that was the major collapse she had. She left for work which was her usual practice but then she left one of the documents at home. I could still picture the shaking as she narrated the ordeal.
Since then, my mum developed health issues that later claimed her life. Can this man just be human? No he is an animal; he actually slept with the whore on their matrimonial bed the night she died (his usual practice anyway). Could he just wait for my mother’s corpse to get cold?
He made sure everything my mum worked for got willed to the slut he was banging, leaving the children with nothing.
The tap of my shoulder jerked me back to reality and the cloud of tears ready to drop couldn’t help itself. I cried out, “Daddy stop!!
Story written by : omolarawrites
Picture Source : Google
Copyright 2018
