In memory of Mama Nurse, by Bamidele Johnson

Starting from the last two hours of the morning right to bedtime this day last year, each of my phones was as as busy as a switchboard. Calls were made with the desperation of a man with a flight to catch but the taxi he’d booked was running late. I was also taking calls almost at the rate of those I initiated. I was trying to find a solution. The festive holidays were ending and my sister, who was taking care of my sick mom, was due to resume work. We needed someone to sit in while she was away at work. Our preference was one that’d be there round-the-clock. My mom had been diagnosed with cancer a day or two to Christmas. The doctor, according to my sister, sought the least painful way to break the news, asking if my mom had had an 80th birthday party. When my sister said she had, he broke the news. The people I called were also working through their networks in Ibadan, where my mom lived. I waited for some mood-lifting info, but none seemed to be coming until my friend, Boye Adeniyi, who knew my mom, called back. He was holidaying with his mom in Ibadan. He got me to speak with his mom, who said she’d get us one through her church network. My sister who, with the assistance of her kids, had the burden of taking care of my mom, especially during the five weeks she was ill, had been worn to a frazzle. Anyone in her position would be. Trips to this and that specialist as well as other things in between had worn her out. My wife was planning to take the first train to Ibadan the next day to provide reinforcement. Calls kept coming, but they were not exactly promising. Desperate hours, these. Some relief came when Niyi called to say his mom had found one, but that didn’t last. His mom didn’t trust her enough, as she was prone straying concentration or attention outage. We didn’t need such.She said there was a more diligent one recommended by her pastor, but whose phone was not reachable at the time. In between, I kept calling my sister, whose neurons had become frayed. I told her we’d made progress through Niyi and that my wife would join her in Ibadan the next day. A little while later, I got a call from her. The tone was desperate. She said she no longer understood what was going on with my mom, a roundabout way of saying things were spinning outta control. I should have suspected. My sister called me earlier that day to say my mom had asked for her own mother’s name! I asked what she’d need that for, but my sister said she was insisting on being told. I sent the name. I was worried, but waved it off.

The immediate thing was to have her stabilised. I told my sister to drive her to the hospital and keep me informed. Some five minutes later, at about 1.30pm, my sister called. No word came from her, but sobs that she was unable to muffle. Alarm bells chimed. I asked what was going on, but no word came. I called her daughter, who was awash with grief and could not speak. She wept. I called my sister in the UK. Her response was also lachrymal.

Only one inference was drawable: she was dead. I was later informed that it was in the hands of my 16-year old niece, who was dressing her up for the proposed trip to the hospital. I went numb. I told my wife what happened. I called Niyi to ask that the search for a carer be discontinued, as my mom had gone. I contacted members of her family and my dad’s. My sister, supported by neighbours and Akinrosoye Idowu, moved her to a morgue. I couldn’t travel that day, on doctor’s advice. While my wife and I were speaking with my sister in the evening of that day, my sister said something about Alhaji, my mom’s neighbour, whose family was friends with her. My wife heard “ji”, the last two letters of Alhaji, and her eyes lit up. “Ji” is the Yoruba word for risen or woken up. “Se won so pe mummy ti ji ni?” She asked if my mom had woken up. “For where?. O je lo serious,” I said. My sister explained that she was talking about Alhaji. We, at least, got some much-needed levity and laughter on what was a grim afternoon.

At 7am the next day, myself, my wife and my cousin, Wole Makanjuola, went to Ibadan for the first meeting towards her funeral. There, we also got another dose of levity. My sister said her five-year old son asked her when grandma would return from the hospital she said she took her to. Her error was saying she took my mom to the hospital instead of a morgue. The lad was used to seeing his mom drive his granny to the hospital and bring her back.

Grandma was never coming back again, his mother told him, because she’d died. It was a piece of info that got him agitated. “Why would grandma die now?” he asked. “I thought you said Jesus was a good man. Why would He let grandma die?”

By the time we were told the story, he’d adjusted to the fact that his granny was gone. By 1 January, mom knew her race was run. That was the belief of my uncle and his wife, who spoke with her the night before her demise. According to them, she said she had eaten and had told my niece to go and make her bed with a clean sheet. She was said to have repeated “bed mimo”, which they flipped as “holy bed”. She was said to be of great cheer, despite how the cancer, which manifested really late, had ravaged her.

Once again, I wish to thank everyone who stood by us during that period and after. Gbogbo wa la ma gbeyin arugbo wa o. It was not the best way to start the year, but we could do nothing. We are grateful that none of us left before her, was in a vegetative state or in jail. My mom had the patience of a saint and, mentally, was as strong the great China Wall, something you would not know from her gentle demeanour. She made enormous sacrifices for us and others. I remember trying to nudge her to go to Saudi Arabia in the 80s when Nigerian nurses were moving there and earning a mint. She said we’d go off the rails without her as guiding light. I could have. She was a woman of quiet authority. Mama Nurse, we will remember you always. Diamonds are forever. We will have you in our hearts till the day the sun stops shinning. Continue to rest in peace.