Hello Mummy,

How are you? Um… today marks seven years since you passed away. I hate life without you so much. I once read somewhere that the best way to honor a person’s memory is simply by remembering. So today, I remember.

Mummy, I think about you every day. I remembered you when I caught a whiff of Doobai perfume on a woman at Ring Road. I stood there for over a minute, basking in the scent, until the stall owner chased me away. I thought of you when I saw the rearview of a light-skinned, plump woman in an Indigo guinea abaya at Uselu. She looked so much like you that I almost screamed, “Mummy!”

I remembered you when I heard a bus conductor shout “Ogida Market” because you mentioned that place in one of your childhood stories. I recall you saying that you schooled at a place opposite Queen Idia. I almost got on a bus to Ogida just to be in a place you once were.

I remember you every time I listen to the remix of Iyogogo  by P-Square. I picture you dancing to it, and each time I play it, I replay your dance in my head over and over again until my eyes water. I remember you when I play Aka Aka Ya by Gabriel Eziashi. We used to play a CD of gospel songs, and when that one came on, the atmosphere changed because you sang like it was made just for you. You loved God so deeply. I remember you asked me to replay it, and you taught us the lyrics. When Mimi said, “Buhari ebem no,” you burst into laughter.

Mummy, I remember your laugh. You laughed from the depths of your stomach. Everyone at school used to say my laugh was “too loud,” but I never got upset or tried to stifle it because I knew exactly where I got it from—you. I remember your flawless skin, especially your knees. Mummy, I always called you my “Oyibo”. I’ve yet to see anyone with such perfect skin—even your knees had no lines or discoloration. I doubt I’ll ever reach that level, especially with skincare products being so out of reach these days, thanks to T-Pain. 

I still remember your phone number. I saved it as ‘Udokamma ❤️’. Sometimes I’m tempted to call it, but I know my heart would break if someone else answered.

Can I tell you something? Sometimes I convince myself that maybe you were just tired and needed a break (I feel like I need a break from life every now and then too!). That’s why I keep looking for you everywhere I go. 

Maybe that’s also why I refused to look at your body at the burial—I didn’t want to taint my memory of you as my vibrant, bubbly mummy with the most beautiful smile. Ishioma looked though. She said you looked good, that you were smiling. I’m so happy you passed that smile on to Ifeanyi. You know, that boy acts just like you. He reacts to situations the way you would, and he’s as smart as you always said he’d be. It amazes me how much he takes after you, even though he never met you.

I was so angry when you left. I was furious that you left me alone in this wicked world. For a while, I thought you did it on purpose. But now, I know you didn’t—there’s no way you would have chosen to leave a day before my birthday.

I’m turning 25 tomorrow. I’ve been telling myself that when you were my age, you already had a two-year-old me. Sometimes, I compare myself to you and think you were doing so much better than I am at my age. But today, I remembered—I am all you ever wanted to be!

All you wanted to do was read. You often said we would become everything you couldn’t be, and that you had a covenant with God that we’d never suffer anything you did. The truth is still that you were everything I want to be.

So why am I even sad?

Lastly, the kids are alright. There’s this talented superstar, Arya Starr. You would have loved her. She made a song titled The Kids Are Alright. I can’t listen to it because it makes me cry too much Ishioma, Ifeanyi, and I—we’re alright. Daddy’s never been the same since you left us. None of us are.  But we’ll be alright, because we choose to remember. And that way, you’ll always stay alive.

I will love you till the end of time, Mama. 

Your daughter,

Uche.