Somehow, as I lie supine on this bed tonight, with my head propped up by a pillow, I remember the first time I cried because of you. And no, on that day, the tears did not fall in torrents. It was a noiseless sorrow: no whimper, no wail.I was on this same bed, in this same position, when reality crashed on me like an avalanche, and the first tear dropped. As it ran down my pimpled cheek with an eerie warmth, flowing in a single line without derailing, I knew this grief had come to stay.

There are different types of grief. There is a type of grief that weighs one down like a heavy metal around the neck of a swimmer. There is another that turns people into vegetables, draining them of energy to the very last calorie, such that they can only look on as their lives waste away.

Dare Amuda, I know of these griefs and many others. But this grief with which you have left me is hard to define; it is a potpourri of elusive things. I try to grasp it, and it vanishes. Like water held in a clenched fist, the definition sips through my fingers until I am left with a wet face in place of a wet hand. Again, I try to grasp it. It vanishes, reappears and vanishes still.

That night, as the tears welled up in my eyes, I cast a quick glance at my two roommates where they slept with heaving chests, their loud breaths competing with the whizzing fan blades for attention. I observed that their faces looked serene, too serene, as though there were no troubles in the world. It was this detachment, this ability for fellow humans to carry on when everything was wrong with you, that prompted the first tear to drop. Thenceforth, many things about me began to change. Now, people say my laughter has become short and shallow, that my smiles are tight and tired, that my tears flow rather readily. I look at them and shake my head because they can’t understand, because even I barely know what I have become.

Your death is a catalyst, Dare; it has altered the activation energy of my emotional reactions.

As I gaze at this ceiling, with a gecko traversing its white-patterned asbestos, I recall the many tarred roads, marked with broad white stripes, that we trod back and forth, chatting and laughing on breezy nights. I recall the time we spent eating together, watching movies and checking pictures. The few times we argued, the debates were dispassionate and candid. I would look into your eyes and tell you that you were saying arrant nonsense. You would smile and ask me to prove it. Life was that simple.

I wish I had cherished those moments better. All I have now are memories, flaky reminders of a short companionship. Even at that, the ease with which sorrow blots out the sense of pleasure floors me. In those last days of your life, while you lay exanimate at the Intensive Care Unit, with an oxygen mask perpetually stuck to your face, I could only look on, helpless, as you drifted away from this world. I saw the excruciating pain that convulsed your frail body at those times you were due for another dose of painkiller. They were things I’d never seen: the awful grimace, the restlessness, and the muffled moans. I witnessed them, and my spirit sank. My spirit sank because my sorries and affectionate pats could not assuage your pains, because I was of no use when you most needed succor.

So when the doctor broke the news of your demise many days after, I received it with a mixed feeling. I was somewhat glad that you would no more be in distress, and I was inconsolably dejected that you were gone too soon. You have left a gaping hole in my heart, one that wrenches the most sensitive part of my being, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Often, I now find myself examining your pictures or reading your writings over and again. I have gotten all the books you loved, the magnum opus of your favorite artist, and I’ve been visiting all the places you hoped to see. I want to know what life meant to you. I want to have an understanding of things that interested you, and how they did. I want to be all you wanted to be and more. But then, there can only be one Dare Amuda.

The tears are welling up in my eyes again. I imagine all you could have been if death had spared you, if that vehicle hadn’t hit you, if you hadn’t gone for that Industrial Training, and I want to jump up from this bed, scream till my voice goes hoarse and break every louvre blade I see. I want to write your name with my blood on the walls, then pull the walls down with my bare hands afterwards. I want to rip my clothes to shreds and devour them. I want to…

But instead, I bury my head in my pillow and let the tears flow. Some griefs are too heavy for raucousness. I do not whimper or wail. I just stare into the darkness that envelopes me and let the tears fall in torrents for once. This noiseless sorrow is mine to bear, mine alone.



Post image by richie palmer via Flickr

About the Author:

Portrait - SimultOmoya Yinka Simult is a writer in his late teens. Born and bred in Ekiti state, he is an alumnus of the maiden edition of Association of Nigerian Authors/Yusuf Ali Creative Writing Workshop. He won Fisayo Soyombo Inter-varsity Essay Competition in Nigeria for 2015. He is currently a medical student at the University of Ibadan. Like Anton Chekhov, Medicine is his lawful wife and Literature his mistress; when he gets tired of one, he spends the night with the other. He blogs inconsistently on omoyasimult.com.

Tags: , , ,

I'm finishing up a phd at Duke University where I study African novels, which I believe are some of the loveliest things ever written. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

4 Responses to “Tears for Dare Amuda | by Omoya Simult | An African Story” Subscribe

  1. Ifey 2016/03/30 at 3:02 am #

    Omoya, Starboy *winks* I was not wrong about you. You write with a quill naturally imbued with ink. I could see and feel the grief as I read. Your deployment of imagery is great. I have shared in this sorrow, so it’s no longer yours to bear alone.

  2. Farida 2016/03/30 at 3:02 am #

    Heartfelt. This brought tears to my eyes.

  3. Phil 2016/03/30 at 4:18 am #

    Deep, and beautiful. I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you find a bit of consolation in the knowledge that this piece has reminded one more person of the need to cherish the seemingly unimportant moments with loved ones. Never stop writing.

  4. Adenike 2016/03/30 at 11:52 am #

    Even though time heals us, yet, the scars would forever be there in our hearts to remind us that someone so dear has once lived there and has refused to leave.

Leave a Reply

I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

Subscribe to Blog via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.


Nnedi Okorafor’s Chicken in the Kitchen Wins Children’s Africana Book Award


On October 8th, Nnedi Okorafor attended a ceremony at the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art in Washington, DC  where […]

Adichie Has Some Thoughts About Michelle Obama as a Figure of Black Femininity


As Michelle Obama concludes her 8-year run as first lady, The New York Times Style Magazine assembles a group of […]

Welcome to London | by Lucky Edobor | An African Story


05:40 am. The immigration man’s backside is too flat, even for a skinny white man. It is hard to not […]

Opportunity for African Writers | Entries are Open for the Brunel University African Poetry Prize


Entries are officially opened for the Brunel University International African Poetry Prize. You can now enter your poems for a […]

Chibundu Onuzo’s Brand New Ultra-Chic Author Photos


A week ago, Chibundu Onuzo shared this photograph above on Instagram with the caption: “There comes a time in every […]

Imperialism-in-Artistry: Bob Dylan’s Nobel Win Is Proof Adichie Is Right about Beyonce | by Otosirieze Obi-Young


IN A RECENT INTERVIEW with the Dutch newspaper de Volkskrant, ahead of the Dutch translation of her We Should All […]