Sun, Aug 30th, ‘20.
16:01.
Today is Kenechukwu’s birthday. I remember this popular saying about how one’s parturition marks one’s beginning, how it’s a window to the chance of a lifetime, the chance to fulfill one’s unique mission — one’s destiny. Consequently, one’s birthday is a momentous occasion, to be celebrated just as a nation commemorates its birth or as an organization celebrates its founding.
But there’s mourning in my house, and I see nothing to be joyful for.
I got married to my childhood sweetheart, Nnamdi, 16 years ago. My parents didn’t agree to our union at first because according to my mother, men from Imo state are not to be trusted: there’s always something fishy about them. “Nne, I just can’t place my hands on it but I know this boy is up to no good”, she said. Boy. I wondered how she was able to call a 32-year old man a boy. How can a boy be a managing director of a textile company? Or can boys send their parents out of the country for the Christmas holidays? Ironic how my paternal grandmother was also from Imo. We believed they would later agree, so we were patient, and decided to wait till they gave their blessings.
They had to give their blessings when they found out I was a few weeks pregnant. My catholic parents could not afford to bear the shame of an unmarried, pregnant daughter. It was quite unfortunate because Nnamdi and I had planned to keep our hands to ourselves until we were married, but my parents were determined to bring our relationship to ruin. We, on the other hand, couldn’t stand to let them destroy it.
Months later, we gave birth to Kene. His birth was tough. The doctor said he was abnormally positioned, which led to breech birth. This meant his feet were facing towards the birth canal, and the doctor told me I had no choice but to have a cesarean section. There were complications, and they led to my inability to conceive. The first sight of him gave me so much joy that I named him after myself. That immense satisfaction of welcoming your little one into the world for the first time is more profound than anything else you’ll feel. He looked like an angel, just way more petite. I didn’t even bother about my infertility. We were parents, finally. Nothing else mattered.
Nnamdi and I were barely prepared to raise a child, but we were determined to work our way out of our ignorance related to nurturing a child. We sought advice from our friends who were already parents. Of course, our mothers were there for us too. In the beginning, it was hard. There were times I almost regretted giving birth early. I had always wanted to wait two to three years before having a child after marriage. But life, they say, is what happens to us while we are making other plans.
Kene was gradually becoming a fine young boy who we deeply cherished. On his birthdays, Nnam and I would cook whatever he wanted, buy him a cake with short candlesticks, and wear those colorful triangular birthday hats. He loved it. This made him grow to love his birthdays. When he clocked 14, he invited his friends for his birthday. I remember how they sneered at him, and made fun of him, telling him he was too old to celebrate his birthday that way. I wondered how else a boy his age should celebrate his birthday. I don’t think I can ever forget the look on his face when he asked how it bothered them; that he invited them only to eat and celebrate with him. To be honest, you have no idea how proud I was as a mother, seeing how my son could not be easily intimidated by friends. I guess Nnam and I were doing a great job as parents.
Let me chatter a bit about Nnamdi. My Nnam. It was when I got married I realized that love isn’t about all those saccharine words and hormonal highs. It’s more of a choice than a sensation, and I saw my husband’s choice to love me over and over again. I saw it in how he chose his words carefully instead of lashing out at me when he’s angry — even when he had every right to, how he respected my boundaries and never made me feel uncomfortable, how he was always extremely kind and considerate, how he touched and kissed me: making every iota of my being feel loved and seen. Oh my goodness, love is such a beautiful thing.
Everything was going on well until 6 months ago. I got a call while I was at work. It was Kene’s school. I was told to come over immediately. The principal had refused to tell me what happened.
When I got there, I met the wistful eyes of teachers who stared at me with pity. They were murmuring to themselves. I could barely make out their words but I was certain I heard words like: “To think that’s her only child, quite unfortunate”. I was used to hearing words like that, so I wasn’t moved. I walked straight to the principal’s office and inquired what the problem was.
I do not think I can ever forget that day.
“Mrs. Okeke, please sit.”
“What happened to my son”, I had asked, still standing.
“He was vomiting during his sport’s practice”.
“Where is he?”
“Madam, it turns out that the-
“Where is my son?!”, I yelled. I remember the beads of sweat that formed around my neck despite the fully airconditioned office.
“We are really sorry but he’s dead.”
I remember the people around me dissolving like gas, I remember not feeling my legs anymore. I remember fainting.
The school nurse said it was food botulism and asked what I had given to him for lunch. I had cooked his food that day, it was his favorite — ripe plantain with vegetable sauce and canned tuna. The nurse mentioned it was likely to be the tuna and explained how canned foods could be contaminated and all sorts. You know while we prepared for the day that morning, he jumped, giggled, and told me he looked forward to lunch break in school. He said my food was the best. I didn’t even get the chance to kiss him goodbye before he ran off to get into the school bus.
Now, I would have to live with the fact that I killed my only child.
Nnamdi was in Boston when he heard the news, I remember crying on the phone explaining what had happened. Kene was the apple of Nnamdi’s eye, so his death took a heavy toll on him. We began to drift apart. Those morning kisses he would shower on my neck and my face ended. A part of me believes he blames me for our son’s death, although he never said anything about it. My body was no longer exuding the warmth he once sought. He started to find me irritating. Next, we stopped talking.
It’s like there was nothing to say, but so much yet unsaid. We had agreed no one would come to the house to mourn or sympathize with us. Only phone calls were allowed. We started sleeping in separate rooms and spoke only when necessary. Whoever was around would cook, and do the dishes. I could see the impact of Kene’s death on Nnamdi: his bright eyes had begun to sink, he stopped eating at home, he poured out the remaining part of himself on his work.
Today is Kene’s birthday but he isn’t here with me — with us. The house is sullen and quiet. The atmosphere is forlorn. Everything is sour — the flavor of pain, I guess. I’m sitting opposite Nnam at the dining table and it feels like a graveyard. The silence is deafening but no one wants to say anything. Maybe Nnam is scared of breaking down in front of me, maybe he hates me. The metal spoons and ceramic plates clanging are trying their best to break the silence, but they can only try.
I wonder if anything can be compared to the death of one’s child. My mother told me to be the woman of the house: to be strong, and prayerful so that at least I can conceive again. I still can’t believe it. Hence, my eyes have chosen to stay dry. I think that I’m okay. Kene, sometimes I find myself in imaginary conversations, with you. The way you talk, the way your shoulders shake when you laugh, your gait — everything reminds me about you, my sweetheart.
When a loved one dies, one can choose to wallow in the mud of grief or decide to celebrate the escape of such a person from this gruesome world. You would have been 16 today: I would have asked you what you wanted to do, how you wanted to celebrate it. Losing you is heartbreaking. Nonetheless, This is me choosing to celebrate you. I’m celebrating the joy you brought to our lives, the wonderful years you spent with us, the beauty you added to our drab world.
I’m writing this wearing your favorite birthday hat and eating this strawberry cupcake that you love because I’m glad you are at peace.
Happy birthday, my son. Your father and I love you, very much.
