A New Dispensation: Notes on Leaving
A personal essay about the nature of death and leaving in the Nigerian context.
Because we must remember our dead, I’ve often thought about what it means to leave. That evening in Awka, where I attend university, my mother had called to tell me my aunt, her sister, was dead. I was shocked, how serene she sounded. Until late into the call did I ask when it happened. Some weeks ago, she said. We weren’t particularly close but, some Decembers ago, my sisters and I rose early from the village family house to dump some refuse where they shouldn’t be. Against the cold, silent air, only our footsteps could be heard. Every now and then one of my sisters would ask something and this aunt would answer. She had seven children.
Death becomes a concept for many adolescents. The finality isn’t easily grasped. To cushion the crumbling news about a dearly departed, some parents turn to fiction. Once, I heard a mother tell her child that the subject of her persistent inquiries, who lay in a grave somewhere, had travelled abroad. The kid’s face brightened. “Will he bring back gifts?” she asked. Yes, the mother said, forcing a smile. Personally, I grew without models of grace. When someone died, people thrash themselves about the ground, cursing life, praising God, wishing they had one last moment.
The poignancy of such public moments and the unwilling nature of most to privately discuss their dead makes the subject an enigma. Until recently, I didn’t situate Nigeria in the background of these images. Being a universal trauma, grief could be anyone’s. I saw people wilt in grief only to come alive again. Time heals. Or so I thought. For the longest time, I avoided casual friends and acquaintances who’d lost someone dear: I simply had no language for a moment I thought as ephemeral. Perhaps, my ticklish young brain thought they’d transcended onto something better. Even, today, a 22-year-old writing these words, I swear: I don’t know.
Before I settled on this laptop, this essay had a different vision. It was going to address (or should I say consider) the recent number of Nigerians leaving the country. The departing folks, in a slice of wit, would share a picture of them at the airport, along with a screenshot of them uninstalling the VPN app, and the King of Boys star, Sola Sobowale, raising a glass of sparkling wine. Underneath, the words: “Welcome to a New Dispensation.”
And so I return to death. On October 20th last year, I slept over at a friend’s place. The day hadn’t proceeded without its disturbing peculiarities. Of course, Nigerians protested against the SARS police unit, garnering huge international publicity. Coming off years of uber-visibility in entertainment and cultural spaces, Lagos was a symbolic arena for the wresting back of our power, after centuries of deprivation. Hope burned in the hearts of the millions who marched across Nigeria. So, when clips of officials taking away cameras around the Toll Gate were shared, we thought nothing serious would happen. Not death. Not a massacre. Not the governor lying hours after. Not the fear which whispered in our bones—this home seeks your death.
This morning, a friend shared Warsan Shire’s poem on the WhatsApp group of our book club. The Somali-British poet writes: “No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark/You only run for the border when you see the whole city running as well.” Point to any random Nigerian, and you’d find suppressed hope. You’d see the desire to escape the opponent who doesn’t fight fair. You’d see resignation; you’d see hope. Would they leave, you ask, if a plane ticket to an obscure European country falls from the sky? Of course! The New York skyscrapers; the sensual darkness of Los Angeles’ night clubs; the orange hue of Dubai, the effervescence of wealth bearing down like a thousand arrows. Who wouldn’t want a taste of life?
These words I write from Awka, where I’ve got a little over a year before I graduate. The need to insert ‘hopefully’ in the last sentence washes now over me. Hungry mouths are outside, and any night I return to my room is met with deep gratitude. My mates say ‘school nah scam.’ I say every society needs more than just money but the argument gets weaker every passing day. Money could get me out of here. I wouldn’t have to fear for my life every second. And yet, something binds me here, even as something else frees me, to soar as far as I can, to reach for the world.
So far, I’m not loyal to any particular ideology. There’s no clear answer for leaving. Some of us leave and some don’t. Some die and others live. I guess that’s just life. There’s no caressing the rough edges of black suffering. There’s no escaping Nigeria. But we seek a taste of life anyways. I mean, who wouldn’t?