Maame Adwoa Prempeh, Ghana, HONOURABLE MENTION
The day my mother died, they said to me that the pain wouldn’t last forever. They told me that when we buried her, God would bless me with the spirit of forgetfulness to help me overcome the pain. They told me that with time, the pain would get easier to deal with.
What they did not tell me was how to handle the grief.
They did not tell me that five years down the line, I would still feel the pain as if my mother had died just yesterday.
They did not tell me that in my very few random moments of true joy, thoughts of my mother’s absence would cloud my happiness upon the realization that she was not there to share in my joy.
They did not tell me that there would be times when I would need to speak with my mother so desperately to unburden myself to her and not be able to do so because she simply does not exist anymore.
They did not tell me that all the comfort they offered me prior to the funeral was all performative and that they would leave me alone to sit with my pain and misery while they went about their lives, forgetting that they had promised to walk this journey with me.
The day my father died, they said to me that it was my mother who had come for him. They said she had gotten lonely and needed company. They told me that everything happened for a reason according to God’s plan and that my parents would protect and watch over me like a guardian angel.
What they did not tell me, was that all the work I had done in healing myself from my mother’s death would be undone.
They did not tell me that the pain would be double layered and so intense that it would shatter my heart and make me call for my own death.
They did not tell me that there would be random nights where I would be awakened from my dreams by the thought of being an orphan in this cruel world.
They did not tell me that there would be days when I would question God. Days when I would pour out my heart full of tears to Him asking what I did wrong to have my parents taken from me. Days when I would ask which part of His plans my parents’ death fell into.
They did not tell me that in order for the grief to heal, I had to make room for it. They did not tell me that I had to acknowledge the presence of the grief and allow it to flourish and consume me, only then would it let me be free.
I wish there was a manual for grief. A manual to consult when the feeling of sadness and sorrow consumes and overwhelms my soul, and I am unsure of how to deal with it.
I wish there was a switch for grief. A switch to turn off all the memories that evoke misery and longing within the depths of my soul.
I wish there was a language of grief. A language to describe the helpless feeling of sinking into a bottomless pit of despair and uncertainty.
I wish my mother was alive to hold me in her arms and comfort me.
I wish my father was alive to guide me through the challenges that life constantly throws at me.
I wish my parents could see the woman I have grown to become, the woman they always knew I would be.
I wish my mother was alive so that I could see her smile at me and say my name with her sweet caressing voice even if it was for just a split of a second…
