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Matured Stories

Too Late To Cry – Season 1 – Episode 7 [Completed]

Except for the deep sigh that escape from my mouth intermittently, I was very quiet, my arms about myself to keep warm despite the scorching sun. As the priest read out the blessings upon the departed, and spoke lengthily about his person, I heaved another heavy sigh.
The priest spoke nothing but the truth and the longer he spoke, the more naked I felt.
He had friends, lots of them and they no doubt loved him. Unlike me they were faithful to him and were present when they were needed.
My heart was at the point of hemorrhage, I was bleeding on my inside. My inner tears was more powerful than the emotional display of his friends. It took me years to realize how much he meant to me and before I could do anything about it, he was gone.
I couldn’t cry. I had exhausted the tears in my ducts. I could hear wails and shouts as his friends lowered his coffin into the dry earth. They were visibly shaken. There was nothing called being manly here. They cried openly daring anyone to shush them.
‘Bobo…’ I whispered, staggering as the tears started falling. I was hoping that by some miracle he would hear the ache in my voice, see the pain in my heart and just awaken.
I had returned home in a trancelike state. My father was a wreck. I knew he was likely not to last after Bobo’s death. He apologized for all he had done to me. He had made peace with mother before she passed, grandma had returned to Europe, she dies and was buried there. My aunts never returned to Nigeria.
I returned to my room that day with tears in my eyes. My father allowed his family destroy my family. My room was just the way I left it. I opened the bag where I kept his letters and read every single one of them.
Oh such outpouring of love from a baby barely four to an adult. In his letters, Bobo told me everything that was going on with him. Bobo told me how my mother missed me and cried every day. If what he had for me wasn’t love I wonder what it could be called?
In every of his letters, he told me how
much he loved and missed me. The letters were in thousands and I read every single one of them. As he grew older, the letters became more detailed. I cried while reading some and laughed while reading some. I could almost see him in the room with me.
‘Sister Eyinju please take the shovel.’ The minister’s voice brought me back. He had cried a river too for he loved Bobo.
I collected it from him. I couldn’t hold it and twice it fell from my hand. My hands seem to have lost control of its functions.
Many times I had wished him dead. Now he was dead, why wasn’t I happy? The more the knife welded by regret twisted in my heart, the more the tears kept pouring down my face. I couldn’t walk the short distance to his grave, my legs felt like lead.
How I wish I could just drop dead and be buried beside him; the one who kept loving me despite all my ill treatment of him.
‘Bobola…’ I called again. .’Please wake up.’ I implored. ‘Please wake up. I am here now. I …I…Please my beloved brother. My defender, my…please just wake up.’
The end.
(c) Akinrefon Eno Dorcas 2020.

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