Farewell.
fiction by Abdulmajeed Olarewaju Muhammad
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One thing that terrified me most was the thought that we would leave ourselves behind and settle somewhere else. Sometimes I placed myself in the position of God, even though we were warned never to do so. I would sit in silence and think of how the earth was made, and how our days were carved with difficulty. That, I suppose, is what makes us human.
Departure is what I fear most, especially when it takes someone I love so deeply. Can’t we just stay together until old age and die on the same day? Must we depart? Must we leave the town we had known for so many years — the town where we were born — to go to another strange city where none of our family has ever gone?
People say prayer is a weapon. But what kind of weapon is it when I prayed for this departure not to happen, and it happened anyway? How does that make prayer a weapon? I prayed deep into the night, weeping and crying out to God, begging Him not to let me feel the pain and the sorrow that follows departure. Yet I felt it. And that is what saddens me the most.
I remember the day my sister said farewell. Oh, that day. I cursed that day. I questioned God: why did you let this day exist? Why did You let it appear? For many days afterward, I died a hundred times. There was no life in me. I wept until I felt weightless, as if nothing remained inside me. Every departure takes a piece of my soul. I was sick for many days. It took months before I recovered, even though her name, her face, her smile, and the way she carried herself still hovered before me. I carried her picture to bed, crying and wishing she would come back, until sleep finally claimed me.
When my sister got admission in Ilorin, I was still young. Too young to understand the importance of education. All I knew was to play, to eat, and to sleep. The night before she left, I didn’t sleep. I brushed away every sign of sleepiness and stared into the darkness. I prayed that the day would not come, or that my sister would forget she was traveling. At some point I even prayed for something bad — that she would fall sick, or that anything — would happen to make her stay. But I was only deceiving myself. It happened.
The day came. It arrived slowly, like a door you do not want to open. The morning air was still and heavy. Our house was quiet. Tears ran down my face at the reality before me, and my eyes were swollen. The urge to tell her “wait” rose in my throat. Sorrow swelled inside me and burst.
She hugged me so tightly I wanted to live inside her. Then she let go.
I walked her to the car waiting outside. The driver stepped out. He was a short, medium-built man with water trapped in his beard. He lifted my sister’s luggage and placed it in the boot. He told her to get inside.
My sister saw me. She saw how broken I was. She could measure it, so she reached into the bag slung over her shoulder, took out some cash, and pressed it into my trembling hand. She opened the door and sat down. I sobbed loudly. I could not hold it anymore. I watched with tears in my eyes as the car moved forward. I sank to the ground right there and kept watching, kept crying, until my tears stung my eyes and tasted sour in my mouth.
I could not say farewell to my sister. I could not. It was impossible. The most important person in my life was gone. When will I see her again? I did not know.
After a few minutes I went back inside and took her picture from the wall. I held it to my chest and wrapped my arms around it. I kissed her picture and whispered into it, “See you soon, sister.”
