Dear Ife,
I had missed a call from Jacob that evening while taking a nap. I woke up to see the call notification and immediately checked the messages he left. Three texts in sequence read;
“How far”
“Call me back”
“Na emergency”
Jacob and I hadn’t spoken in a while, so I wasn’t sure of what was happening, and even more, what to expect from the conversation. But I called him back anyway. He picked up my call and we both exchanged the obligatory “How far” and “How you side.” A standard conversation opener. “Make we switch to video,” he said. Immediately he did, I saw one of the saddest versions of his face I’d ever witnessed. He passed his palms along his entire face as if trying to wipe something from it. I asked, “Wetin dey sup?,”1 and he replied, “Omo na Ife oo”. So I questioned further,”Is he sick? What’s happening?” That was when he revealed, “Omo Ife not dey with us again oo.” I recall my initial confusion after that statement. It sounded unbelievable and disorienting, like something from a badly narrated dream. It was not too long before another friend joined us on the call. He read our faces and quickly realized that all wasn’t well. He asked the same initial question as me, “Wetin dey sup?” and Jacob told him “Ife don waka.”2 I immediately started to overanalyze both of the ways this bereavement notification had been made.
“Ife no dey with us again”
“Ife don waka”
The first one suggests that you might have been taken away from us by something or someone. The other suggests that you walked away from the living, as if intentionally. I repeated both sentences in my thoughts, still unsure if any was real.
I went for a walk that night. One without aim and direction. As I progressed on that walk, I would scream “fuck” as loud and frequently as I could. I tried to cry, but no tears came. I didn’t know how or what to feel. This was the same time I was also grieving my dear friend Sharon. The compounding sum of all these things took a toll on me that night. I felt my body vibrate and body jerk impulsively.
My journal entry for that day read.
September 4, 2024
Ife died today. He was dear to me.I think about how I learned about the death of Sharon and now Ife. I’m still confused with so much anger. These are close friends who shared their dreams and aspirations with me. I have to live with what is now a broken dream of theirs. I see something they would have loved and benefitted from and I get sad they can’t and won’t have it. My sorrow deepens when I remember that they didn’t get all the things they talked about.
I have tried to stop grieving since you died. I know one is supposed to be strong and move on. Accept things for what they are and keep living. Not to get stuck on what has been and look ahead. But I would be lying if I said that I don’t miss you so much.
When I lay in bed at night, I remember you. I remember the tone and texture of your voice as you yell out “Kelvooooo” or “Idannnnn”. I remember the distinctive smile you gave me, whenever I said something foolish, half amused, half exasperated. I remember your loud and careless laughter when we hung out with other friends. I remember the nights I slept at your apartment, under that thick blanket, because if there was one thing you loved, it was setting the AC to very low temperatures. I remember the night we stood by the chemistry department library, talking about our plans for the future we couldn’t see. We both shared an enthusiasm for hard work and hustle. You were hungry for success and eager to do what it takes. Your tall and athletic frame might make one pick you for a “hard guy,” but you were a true lover boy. I remember how you would lecture me about the importance of love and romance. You’d ask, “You’re so passionate and resilient with everything else; why aren’t you like that with romance?” You knew I didn’t care much for dating or adjacent activities. I remember how I expressed disgust and laughed out loud when you told me, “it is not so bad to fight for love.”
I read the messages and eulogies people left on your online memorial. It felt great to know that people saw the good in you. You were highly praised for being a good friend and brother. People said you were fun, loving, smart, kind, and caring. I thought the same thing about you. You were a curator of good experiences. Man, I love how you could create a good time for all our guys.
Jacob shared a video from your funeral, and I watched it over and over again. I remember thinking, “Old Roger is dead and gone to the grave,” but in this, case it was my friend Ife. I thought about the “Up and Grateful” memes you’d post almost every morning. I fixated on what it meant to be “up and grateful” and how you wouldn’t get to say that anymore. That thought was like a needle piercing my kneecaps. Painful and disgustingly uncomfortable.
I live with your dreams and desires, at least the ones you shared with me. Your plan to pursue a masters degree. The business ideas you had and the other tiny things you looked forward to. Top of that list is the fun vacation we planned to take this year. It’s now 2025, and I’m thinking hard about where I’d go, still unsure if I even want to travel anywhere. It makes me sad that I didn’t get to spend more time with you after I left Osun State.
Some dilemmas plague me every day and I think about how you’d have been the best person to talk with and clarify them. Our calls were long and great. We’d talk about everything and anything. The other day, I wanted so badly to rant to you about how the USPS still hasn’t found my laptop. I loved how supportive you were, including when it came to my creative work. You praised my writing and podcasts, always looking forward to new releases. What a real and true fan you were!
For you, my friend, I will keep living. I will tell stories of you whenever an opportunity arises. You were such a great friend to me and many others. I hope that your family and people who were much closer to you find comfort. When I think of you, I can hear the sound of your voice saying “My guyyyy” and “Kelvo no worry, money go come”. I will remember your laughter, and the dreams you left behind.
With all my heart,
Kelvin