My phone rang. Time: 10.16pm. It was my elder sister.
“Sister…” I started, wanting to say hello, but she cut in: “Nna,” she began. That’s what she calls me, “Nna”, meaning “father”. Her voice was low and haunting. “Our mother has gone,” she said, choking. “I just went in to check her, she’s gone…”
I didn’t hear the rest of what my sister was saying. It was as if I was pushed into a deep dark void, and was descending with such uncheckable speed. Surreal.
When I came to, I felt beads of tears coursing wildly down my cheeks, spotting on the floor. I closed my eyes and my mother’s permanently coyish, retiring smile flashed across my face. Then, some of her moments began to race by like frames of film.
My wife who was in the room with me asked if it was “Nnee”, I nodded. She jerked up from the bed, howled, and began to wail.
My mother died Thursday, January 31, 2019. She was 94 years old.