My Sad, Dark Birthday

Whispers

Today is my birthday, and I am sad. It was this time last year that she called me. It was Erelu Joseph Sampson Edgar, and she said she had a headache. I said calm down, drink water and rest. Too much Zee World and chopping my money is doing you. She said, “No, Duke, I feel something is wrong.”

I said, “OK, go to the pharmacy and get something. I am coming.” She said OK. She later called that she had to escape cos she was feeling faint and didn’t want anybody to rush her to the isolation centre. This was the peak of COVID-19. I laughed; still not taking her seriously. It was my birthday. This woman should not distract me abeg as I was in strong pursuit of hedonistic pleasure. ‘That is how she will be doing and be distracting me,’ I said to myself.

Well, after my revelry, I went home and met my worst nightmare. She was on the floor with little or no breath in her. I cuddled her, trying to be a man and said it would be OK: ‘the Duke got you.’ My people, I threw her into Nigeria’s healthcare system – the best place she could be under the condition- was what the mumu medical director of one of the most prestigious Nigerian hospitals told me. Two weeks after, I buried her.

They have said, “Edgar, it’s one year, move on.” But my people, he hard, especially when I look at her son, Alvin. At 13, he lost his mother, the only person that will jump into fire for him. We went to her grave during the week, and he stood there with heads bowed and tears in his eyes, and I gave him space. He needed to cry out his heart. Meself, I could not hold it. I broke down, and we wept.

She was a blessing, beautiful and troublesome. She knew how to handle me, and that is why she stayed with me till death. I can’t bring myself to celebrate any stupid birthday, not even in the least interested. I will sit under the tree in front of my house and eat afang and drink Yemi Shodimu’s palm wine, switch off my phone and wallow in the darkness that has enveloped me.

On July 25, I will drop the first-of-its-kind tribute for her. I will move 200 of her closest friends into Tera Kulture and get the ever beautiful Yinka Davies to sing her favourite songs; them plenty. Then, Segun Adefila, talented writer-director who directed my play, ‘Our Duke Has Gone Mad Again,’ will reprise the graveside scene of that explosive play.

Yes, I reburied Erelu in that play. We will show it again to the wonderful songs of a 50-man choir. After it all, attendees should just walk away: don’t come near me. Don’t hug me. Don’t talk to me, just go. Thanks for reading this. I am sorry for belabouring you guys with my sadness. But how else can I exhale?