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Victoria Olufunke Adeoya
28 August 1938 to 10 April, 2015.
In death, she looked so healthy. So much at peace. Like sweet, innocent sleep. It took some time, but we finally got to the moment of truth: Commit her to a mortuary. There was some paperwork. Pure routine. We were all composed. Children…Brothers…Sisters… Like we all knew it was going to happen. Like it was not so sudden. I had not shed a tear in those many hours in between(That’s another story, another day). They told us about the must dos, Autopsy? No. So we had to make some changes. Then it was time to hand her over to complete and total strangers. Still not a tear from me. They sent us her clothes…I was blank. Trying to make small talk, get things going, stay rational…stay focused…get the job done. The storm was within. Mixed grill of unanswerable questions and puzzles.
“How old is she” The question came again, for the umpteenth time.
“78”, I answered, though she she was actually 77. We were all a bit mixed up.
He chuckled, peered at her closely, lying there in that vehicle as the sun blazed overhead,
“Oku eba ni” There was no emotion, just a flat, impersonal joke.
I didn’t get it at first. It would have made more sense if he had said something like “Oku malu ni”. Meaning, its time to celebrate with a cow. To use “eba”, the most humble of meals brought a whole new awareness of the ultimate equality of life to me.
“Ok”, he commanded, “tell the driver to bring the vehicle into the inner compound, I will open the gates.
He had earlier, in a businesslike manner, explained the fine details of embalmment, body preservation and receipted and non receipted costs.
We finalized.
But something kept gnawing at me. I felt something was not right.
“Why embalm the body, wont the ice do the job”, I asked no one in particular?
“That’s normal”, my uncle, Baba Tunde explained, he had a puzzled look on his face.
Then it came out from deep inside me: “What of all the stories of corpses waking up after days in the morgue, those could not have been embalmed?” I offered…
Everybody looked at me strangely and I could see the deep furrows of worry on their faces.
“Akin”, Baba Tunde answered with a tone of finality, “Mama is gone to the great beyond, accept that”
I had thought my miracle filled life was going to have another big one. But 24 hours later it has not happened.
Still I can’t yet bring myself to write an elegy for this woman, the most significant, most positive and most defining influence of my life. I can’t, yet, reconcile myself with the inescapable reality that she lies there all alone, in the care of strangers…
It is A Time to Cry.
Please find it in your hearts to say a prayer for the repose of her soul…she was so good and so kind to me…she always believed in me, at a point, almost exclusively, in my troubled, turbulent and rebellious youth. Even as I entered adulthood, she was always right behind me. Her support was always uncompromising.
I guess its time to say goodbye.
I m u s t s t o p h e r e f o r n o w . . .m o r e l a t e r
(The attached pix is that of her December 1964 wedding to my dad, Mr Adefemi Adeoya, who was alone with her in her final moments, at the Methodist Cathedral, Ifaki Ekiti)
