Six-Feet by Adaora Ogunniyi

Indeed, death has taught me not only loss but gain.

Standing by the hole which will soon be my father’s grave, I watch three hired hands, their backs glistening under the rays of the mid-morning sun, haul shovels of red soil, covering another tangible evidence that he ever shadowed this suspended mass. Tears pour down my face. The last shovelful seals the deal. I have buried my father.

I pull my eyes away from the mound of soil– the monument of my loss, to look a few meters away. Hundreds of loved ones, giggling, chatting. Munching and gulping. What a grand burial reception! The aroma of fried meat, stew, and soup unfurls, clashing with the fragrant aftermath of drizzle on dry earth. The resulting smell fills my lungs, strips the resentment I once adorned with quills, sequins, and snapdragons. It now stands naked in stark, audacious splendour.

Uncles, aunties, cousins, and friends. These people never cared about my father. This was but another event. A box to be ticked; soon to be forgotten. And now, I feel the weight of my loss all over again. Enclosing me. Breaking me. Crushing me. I, only I, have lost. But there is a gain I begin to feel. My gain. My freedom from these ones whom I thought cared. Who for so long constrained me with their chains of obligatory reciprocal regard.

I take a six- foot deep breath, touch my loss once again. I exhale and hug my freedom. This new freedom I have gained.