THE DEATH OF CHRISPODIAH EMMANUEL LYON
My name is Chriapodiah Emmanuel Lyon, for reasons unknown to me or perhaps because i can scribble few words, many of you here in Mark Zuckerberg's World call me a writer, for that reason , i agree to be one.
I'm a writer to whom the grave is a second craddle ; in that i will be writing about my death. I'm not exactly a writer who is dead but a dead man who is a writer .
With that being said , it was on a Monday at 5:00 O'Clock in the morning in the month of August , 2020 in my room at my parents house that i died after a brief illness .
My cousin whom i shared the room with woke up around 5:30 Am ,he called my name thrice without a response before going for devotion ,as it was the tradition at home. He came back after some few minutes, took his brush ,applied some tooth paste on it and went out to brush his teeth ,returned after he might have been done , and saw that i was still maintaining same sleeping position as he had saw me before leaving for devotion .
He pulled the bedsheet i used in covering my body in a move to wake me, but he discovered that i was rigid , with my eyes wide open, and i had ceased to breath, he brought his head closer to observe , he felt my hands and face , and then , suddenly he was seized with terror as he screamed , " Wayo Allah!, wayo Allah!, Chris ya mutu! " . Meaning ,oh my God! , oh my God!, Chris is dead!.
My cousin's cries attracted attention, for all at once the door was opened and I heard voices exclaiming ; " mai ya faru " what has happened ? Is his body getting worse ?
I recognized the voices, my Mom's voice was the loudest , then my Dad, and that of my nieces. It is all over cried my Mom as she was drawing nearer, she touched me and increased the volume of her cries . The room was filled with cries except for my Dad whose eyes had turn red without him making any sound. Our neighbors rushed in with power bike's speed.
I heard everything , but the cries were faint and seemed to come from afar . My eyes were completely paralyzed , i was powerless and my will was dead; no fibre of my nerves obeyed me, my impotent body was lying still.
In less an hour, the news of my death has circulated the entire town and even beyond like an atomic bomb. My pictures were all over Facebook with eulogies from those i know and even those i never knew. I became more popular than Covid19 .
Large number of people were coming in and out of my parents house - even relatives who often tell their maids to tell me they were not around when i visit, came within just a short notice .
Among all those people that came, i took cognizance of one particular beautiful lass, she was not a relative , but she suffered my death more than relatives. Yes she suffered more.
I'm not saying that she wailed the loudest , or that she rolled on the ground in convulsion. The lady showed a strong emotion, she was standing beside the small mango tree in our house, her eyes cloudy, her mouth half open, the sad lady had a hard time believing my death. "Now i feel like dying also " i was listening to the lady as she sob.
"Dead! Dead! She kept saying to herself.
My readers, be patient, in just a little while I will tell you who the lady was, but now be content with knowing her unnamed .
The thought that i'm now death has poisoned the happiest memories i spent with her. During my relationship with her, i remember how often she came visiting , laying on my bed beside me ,and i always dreamed of a beautiful future for her and with her.
Then, i was broke and i barely had enough money to support her. Despite how she always go out of her way to give me her best for my comfort - by now my dear reader, you must have known that , the unnamed lady was my girlfriend .
When i was i little boy, i remembered how i was so afraid to die . I was weak and pitied by almost everyone. I had concluded that i would not live long,but would be buried soon .
As i grew older, the same terror pursued me. The thought of death filled me with dread, a dread which haunted me day and night. Sometimes, after long hours spent in reasoning with myself, i reflected "after all, what does it matter ? One dies and all is over. It is the common fate; nothing could be better or easier .
Indeed, just like Job, what i greatly fear, has finally befell me.
Here was my impotent dead body lying still.
I died of typhoid and malaria, yet if i tell you that it was not typhoid and malaria that caused my death but depression and frustration. You might not believe me and nonetheless, it's the truth. Let me explain briefly , you can decide for yourself .
You see, i was having a great challenge in my academics; i couldn't afford textbooks, handouts and anything monetary that i needed for a progressive studies, most times i stay in school hungry for the whole day. Secondly, i had pressure coming from home, my parents had high expectation , Mom was even calling me 5 pointer.
Due to lack of finance, i had look for jobs both menial and white collar with my Diploma certificate, but all my efforts were abortive . I had able and well connected relatives but they were not just willing to help. The humiliating treatments i received from them, emotionally disoriented me, i was just but a black sheep, cause i felt no love .
i can't believe that even my dead body is shedding tears as i narrate this, perhaps i need to stop before i die in my death .
The hour for my funeral came, and it had just occurred to the that i will witness a similar event i witnessed when i went to a friend father's funeral ; i could not believe that i would also be laid down six feet, but the slightest thought of heaven helped me calm down .
The coffin was brought, i could see it plainly, quite new , with roughly planed boards . " oh heavens, is this the end, i'm to be borne off in that box which is lying at my feet ."
I was accompanied to the cemetery by my relatives and friends, and it was raining - drizzling - a thin , sad constant rain, that it led one of uncles to insert it into the speech he was making at the edge of my grave : " you who know him, can say with me that nature appears to be weeping over the irreparable loss of one of the finest characters humanity has been honored with . . . "
This was one of my uncles who deliberately refused to help despite having all the needed connections and resources . His securities would send me away each time i visit . . . " Oga no dey ,just go . . . mek you no come again . . ." even when i could hear his voice from the gate.
As i was laid in my grave, i heard cries ; cries of hypocrisy and genuiness .
My Mom was wearied out and was sobbing like a child. Mamman Benjamin , our Church women leader lifted her, placed her in a armchair near the grave and proceeded to comfort her.
" you will do yourself harm if you go on like this, Mamman Chris"
" it's no reason because your only son is gone that you should kill yourself with weeping, when i lost Benjamin, i was like you, i remained three days without swallowing a morsel of food. But that didn't help me - on the contrary , it pulled me down. Come on , for the Lord's sake , be sensible .
My Mom grew calmer; she was exhausted , and it was only at intervals that she gave way to a fresh flow of tears.
Meanwhile, Mamman Benjamin had taken control of her with a sort of rough authority .
" Don't worry yourself " she said as she bustled about .
Then, finally, my grave was filled with soil, everything now became dark . . . .
© C H R I S P O D I A H E M M A N U E L
Inspire by:
The posthemous memoirs ...
... Death of Oliver Bracaille .
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