Dear Helen

Dear Helen,

Happy posthumous birthday.
I went to church today. It was a nice Sunday. The choir sang their hearts out, and they had a glorious voice. The pastor preached about faith. It was a homely service in church, but I miss you.

You remember the twin sons of Mr. and Mrs. Bolaji? They are now big boys. One is at EKSU, the other is at FUTA studying mechanical engineering. Sweet boys they seem.

You taught them as a Sunday school teacher in the youth wing of the church. It was a seed you planted as a young lady for Christ. To reap the fruit, I wish you were here to see them.

Mr. Ogunlesi lost his wife 4 years ago, you remember her right? The harsh children's teacher. Every Sunday, she made sure we sang the fire deliverance song ‘My inner man, receive fire!!!’ Those times molded us. I didn’t know you then, but we both grew under the fire-brewing Christian life.

Undergraduate days came flourishing, we met during healthcare registration and familiar backgrounds flashed through our eyes when we saw. We associated and became friends. I still remember how much we glued during fresher’s orientation.

The faculty courses were where we played schoolmate friends. Huge memories hidden in many lecture theatres. I remember fighting with Kunle when he sat down on the space I reserved for you during CHM101.

I was disappointed when you chose to forgo the seat and managed with your friends Kemi and Sola on the other wing. I wondered if I didn’t mess up by not properly guarding the space by my side for you. I didn’t know what you thought of it. Maybe I should not have fought for you like I did, or maybe I should have been a little tough.

We grew older to realize that what brought us together is our huge difference—church.

As a schoolboy, I drifted away from church after the freedom in school. I had been under strict parenthood in respect to religion, so after I gained admission to the university, I didn’t like to attend church. It was a trauma response.

You, on the other hand, never left. Even as a young and beautiful girl, you didn’t like to rub makeup, still hadn’t pierced your ears yet, and you were ever diligent.
I remembered when I slept over at your place and you woke me up with prayers, speaking in tongues. I chuckled and went back to sleep.

You never stopped inviting me to church. Helen, do you remember the weekly program I attended? The one I wore the T-shirt you bought for me? I didn’t enjoy the program; I was busy counting the grammatical errors of the pastor while he preached.

I knew I didn’t want to be here, but I did all because of the love I had for you. How many other things have I done, not out of being me but for the love I had for you?

I remembered the first time you cooked for me. It was a normal routine that had gone on for many times until that day. We just finished class and I made my way to your room. You immediately changed into a free gown, and you went to the kitchen.

Until then, I always refused your food. But that day, you served me and said if I didn’t eat your food, you wouldn’t be friends with me again. That courage and bravery became what I admired in you.
It’s not 8 years since the last time I ate your food.

Not your fried stew, rice, and dodo can I taste again as you are long gone.
We were preparing for your mom’s 50th birthday. I was actively involved. We searched the internet for a perfect cake. I recall it took us time to pick one.

A blue with white icing made the cut.
I had to collect the cake and bring it to you at the bus stop as you were on your way to Oyo to celebrate with your mom.

Who could have thought that would be the last time I was going to see you alive? You waved to me and pecked me. You thanked me for being a good friend and filling the gap to make the cake ready. I waved as you entered the almost filled bus.

Who could have thought that when my phone rang that evening as Bayo and I were drinking at the school bar while watching a Manchester United match, I would be met with the news of your death?

As a 24-year-old man, I could count how many times I have cried in the last 10 years, but that day, they flowed. I cried, no, I wept.
I still haven’t forgiven myself for not standing with your mom, for not attending your burial, and paying my last respects to you.

I blame God for it all. How could He have taken His daughter, who fervently worshiped and worked in His courtyard? What could be the explanation for it all? What sin have you committed against Him that He couldn’t forgive you for?

He took you, and now I can’t have you again.
It’s 8 years on this day, and even though I’m still angry at God, I came to church. I know that’s how you would have wished to be remembered. Where it all started.

Helen, how is it over there? Have you gotten another friend? Is he like me or even better? Do you cook for him too? Or he doesn’t need to eat in heaven?

I miss you, and I know you are aware of how deeply my love for you goes. If you would give it fit to reply to my letter, come to my dream and take me to the lagoon. I don’t seem to remember what you look like anymore. Day by day, your face keeps fading in my mind.

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