by David Ishaya Osu

a. I woke up one morning with a lingering image of my dad in his casket. Details of his funeral played back in my mind as though the day were happening all over again. Details of the safari suit he was in as he went six feet under the ground, as the world closed on him. If history repeats itself, let it not be funerals, please. I could not place my mind on why this bit of memory was flashing back. Somehow, later in the day, it got me thinking that, perhaps, grieving never ends—that, we will live and die with memories. Memories of ourselves, of things, and of places. 

b. Mum once phoned me to tell me that my sister brought out dad’s clothes and washed them. It was so wonderful that mum had to share it with me. She wanted to pass the experience—her wonderment—with someone else. She wanted it impressed on my mind too.  

c. Nothing stops you from giving your mind to the past. And in this case, it is through your sister’s mind. She wears your late dad’s pyjamas for a whole month; wears his shirts. June and November—dad’s birth month and death month, respectively.

d. I like to think that everyone (or thing) is a force on their own, and that this force permeates through another existence, and on and on. So that: a dead leaf falls to the ground, falls into a pond. So that you gather shards of glass and throw them away. So that: we sit, we eat, shit, and sleep. 

e. One thing I learned from swimming is that there’s fear in my body. The other thing I learned from swimming is that there is no fear in my body. They are the same awareness. Say: both sides of the same ocean. 

f. Fear of intimacy, fear of mathematics, fear of money, fear of sinning against god or a lover, fear of misplacing car or door keys, fear of not using a condom, fear of disappointing people, fear of forgetting passwords, fear of computers crashing, fear of truth, fear of lies, fear of marijuana, fear of cancer, fear of living, fear of dying. Fear of nothing. 

g. So that: the first time in water feels like your breath, life is leaving you. So that: you do not want to sink, to drown; you want to save yourself, by instinct or learned skills. Something is refusing to give up.

h. By the way, to give up is part of life—and death, or something like that.

i. I once missed a certain line that came upon me while writing a certain poem. I was not going to agonize over a line that came and disappeared—there was no point. I said to myself: if it comes, it comes; if it does not, it does not. I left the page and logged in to Facebook to post about the missing line. As I was about typing ‘I just missed a beautiful poem,’ the line surfaced. I burst into laughter. All this happened within ten minutes. Such are the wonders of creating, of living: loss, memory, and remembering. The things you remember you don’t remember; you remember the sensation but no longer the thing, and then this thing appears long after one thing or the other. And guess what? The missing line came back through an itchy eye: as I reached to touch my eyelid, it popped back. I left my eye and went for the line. I wrote it down and felt so good. One thing leads to another. Hide and seek, forget and go, remember and go.

j. I remember starting another poem and leaving it halfway. I went back to the poem and could not remember what was leading it or its supply; I just couldn’t connect to what the poem was before. I went down a line, added what came to mind, and bam, that was it. I now have no trouble getting lost in a poem or on a path. I am not scared of forgetting. I am not scared of remembering.  The ocean always meets itself. 

k. Wander away. 

l. It was hard to physically show or explain to people that I did not initially feel any pinch of sadness when my father died. I neither cried nor expressly mourned. The expectation is that one would shed tears, roll on the ground for the dead, as a perfect proof of grief. But no, I did not. I was rather listening to what the death of dad was saying to me. I was in a separate realm. 

m. I woke up one morning sobbing. I had just dreamt of my dad.  But he was not in the dream; he was on my mind in the dream. In the dream I was a little child, not even a teenager yet. I was gathering random items: newspapers, clothes, etc. And then I ran to my mother, leaned into her breasts, and asked her: when will daddy return? I remember breaking into tears. It rained in the dream. I woke up sobbing. The strangest thing that morning was realizing that it was my father’s birthday that day. This was two years after he passed. 

n. Grieving is never linear, just like sight or love or remembering. Just like forgetting. I am also beginning to contemplate the nature and dynamics of grief; that grief is omnipresent and inexhaustible. I might be wrong.

o. My father’s passing has had a significant impact on my life. As a young human being in this old world, I tread known and  unknown paths with the knowledge that, just like my father, I will pass. 

p. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away, Jesus said. 

q. I have been ferociously writing memories down, and one thing that does not escape my storytelling is death—absence, to put it in another way. 

r. Each news of death that I receive takes me back to my father’s. And what seems to frequently spring up has now become a mantra: “David, just live your life”. Somehow, my father’s death has given me life. The thought that I, too, will be gone someday animates my creativity and love life. I would say: David will pass away, but may his work not pass away. But will I be physically around, when I am already dead, to know if my word or work will not pass away? That is not mine to worry about. 

s. Weeks after photographing a rose tree in Cornwall, I watch how the flowers wither, how leaves fall off. I have photographs of flowers and leaves that have now died. I watch how new buds grow. 

t. Back at home: there are two mango trees that blossom every February through to April or so. In those months, there is an abundance of fruits, an abundance of licking, of sharing. Branches, stalks of mangoes overarch our fence, attracting folks far and near to partake in the harvest. So much to go around. And then there is so much to remember: to remember that dad, who planted the trees, is no more. 

u. My grandfather is also long dead, but his cashew plantation is not yet dead. Trees outlive their planters. 

v. Every year I run into people who ask about my father. Some even tell me to extend their greetings to him. To some I break the news that he passed on years ago, to others there is no time to explain. I ran into a newspaper vendor who knew me and dad closely. He had moved base, and only came visiting in the neighbourhood: “It’s been a long time, I haven’t seen your father in ages,” he said. This time I had the chance to narrate the story, and to help him through the shock. “How is he doing?” was the question that changed the mood. 

w. Contrast: even after you are long gone, there will be someone somewhere who will not know about your life or death. In a world of almost eight billion people, not everyone will know everyone. 

x. Within one week this year, I received news of the death of two classmates. Devastating. On a wet October morning in Liskeard, Cornwall, I received news that my roommate from university back in Nigeria is no more. Everything around me paused. Memories of our days back in school flooded my mind. I shook my head and mused: I cannot undo this life. 

y. Weeks, months after the passing of dad, I had trouble answering phone calls. I hated to hear my phone ring. Each ring caused a degree of panic. May it not be some bad news, I would murmur. I stayed away from my phone and messages in general. I have, since then, kept my phone on silent mode. Not answering, or missing phone calls has now become a habit.

z. In a song, Sade Adu asks, “…will this grief ever be gone? Will it ever go?” Right now, I am not particularly keen on the question of or answers for the longevity of grief; I can only sing the song and let myself feel free with my emotions. Will it ever go?

David Ishaya Osu is a poet, memoirist, editor, and street photographer. His work has appeared in Poetry Wales, Magma Poetry, New Welsh Review, Channel, Australian Poetry Journal, and Griffith Review, among numerous others. David has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Kent and is the author of the e-chapbooks: When I'm Eighteen (2020) and Once in a Blue Life (2020).