OLANIKE.

22.02.14

When I was younger, I wasn’t the type of child who loved being around everyone. I think my Grandpa was my favorite person. So, whenever I’m drawn to someone, it means I really like them and feel safe with them.

There was this aunty, not my parents' sibling, but family nonetheless, married to one of my dad’s extended relatives. She was so close to my immediate family that I would often go out with her. Though my memories of those times are a bit faint now, one thing I’ll never forget is how some people actually thought I was her child.

Even to this day, whenever people refer to her, they call her "Iya + my oriki." (If you know my oriki, you can do the math 😉).

Her real name was Olanike: a beautiful, kind, selfless, and hardworking woman. She was incredibly skilled at hairdressing and often did my hair. Since I have very soft-textured hair, not every stylist knew how to handle it, but she did it so beautifully. Maybe that was part of why I liked her so much.

Olanike was ambitious and determined, a woman loved by many. I recently stumbled upon a souvenir from her wedding, which took place two years before I was born. Funny enough, her wedding anniversary and my birthday were the same day.

As I grew older, I began to understand that she was fighting battles of her own. By the time I was 10 years old, I had unknowingly become one of her confidants. She would talk to me and my brother, sharing bits of her struggles with us. While I won’t go into every detail of her life, I will share the most painful battle she faced throughout her marriage, she had no child. Not because she couldn’t conceive, but because every pregnancy ended in miscarriage. And no, to my knowledge, this wasn’t due to any medical condition. The world is full of wickedness, never forget that. Pray o!

Fast forward to 2013, she got pregnant again. This time, with my mother’s unwavering support and the prayers of everyone who cared, we were determined that this pregnancy would not be another loss. That year, I spent a lot of time with her. She even lived in our house for a while so my mother, a nurse, could take care of her. We had such beautiful moments together.

Then came February 2014. A Caesarean section was needed. At just seven months, she gave birth to a son. But the most important thing? The baby lived.

I still remember that Wednesday so clearly. I was home with Grandpa, sick, and had stayed back from school. When my mother called to share the news, she passed the phone to Olanike. She spoke with Grandpa first, then asked to speak to me. She wanted to know how I was feeling, told me to get better soon, and reassured me that she would be home soon. I think I even told her I’d visit when my dad got back on Friday, so he could take us to see her since he was usually out of town. That conversation still lingers in my mind.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

Friday, February 22nd.

I remember that day vividly. Dad had just returned to town, as usual, but something felt different. He barely spent a moment at home, just enough to drop his travel bag, before rushing back out. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. I overheard him telling Grandpa through the window that they had transferred her from Dr. Oni’s hospital to Adeoyo.

I stayed in my grandfather’s room, waiting for my parents to return. Deep down, I could feel it, something wasn’t right. But I didn’t want to dwell on that feeling. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news in my own mind.

That night, they came back and broke the news.

She was gone. Olanike had died.

I have known grief from a very young age.

I loved her. Her home would have been my second home. Her salon would have grown into something much bigger, and knowing her, she probably would have made sure I had every single wig I ever wanted, lol.

Her story was a sad one, a heartbreaking one. Sometimes, I wish she had just stopped trying, that she had chosen to live her life regardless of her husband having other children outside their marriage.(Men ehn? hmmn)I hate that she never got the chance to be the sweetest mother to her son. Her son is 11-years old now.

I barely remember all our moments together anymore, but I do know this, she was a core part of my childhood. I was always excited to see her, to receive the little goodies she’d bring along.

And in some way, I’m glad she experienced motherhood through me. Maybe it wasn’t the same as having a biological child, but at least she was loved by me. And that means something.