Some things are never meant to get easier

I woke up on Monday the 14th with my eyes dry and tight like I had cried in my sleep. I don’t remember any of my dreams. I know I slept deep from my travel fatigue and the last thing I remember was straining to hear Bilali’s cries from next door. That afternoon I passed by to see if he had gotten any better since I last saw him two days ago and he had not; his legs thinner, round belly shrunken and eyes vacant, unfocused. As I sat there with Hauwa, his mother and my best friend in village, I asked about his condition and she showed me the five medications he was taking, none of which he could keep down. I told her that it was a good sign he was crying, for although he is sick he still had enough energy to cry and that she should worry when he ceases to cry. As I lay asleep that night maybe I knew then and already mourned his death in my dreams or maybe I knew yesterday that this time he wasn’t going to get better. As a child he has suffered much. At 1 ½ he still wasn’t walking or talking because of previous illness. The next morning already in a melancholy state from work problems, five children showed up at my front door looking down at their feet avoiding my irritated attempts to get them to speak. They brought the news to my ears and it wasn’t shocking. When I entered Hauwa’s yard she was already surrounded by crying women, her own eyes half closed and puffy. I went directly and sat behind her on the mat spread out for all the women who were soon to come. I was sitting so close to her, wanting to reach out and hug her in my grief and hoping it would help her to grieve. We sat in silence with the occasional greetings tossed back in forth with lackluster. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, French was eluding me and still worse Fulfulde wasn’t an option. What does one say here? What does one say to a mother who has lost her second child before the age of 20? What does one say to a mother who has lost her child to a preventable illness? I’m trying to be angry and at the same time I’m not. I could blame many people for his death, but I’m not the one to judge. I think of all the things that could have saved him and I just end up blaming everyone, because we are all to blame.

The flies buzzed not even giving us a moment’s peace. As I sat I thought about how I am going to miss holding him and how in these last weeks he would reach out for me when I went to pick him up. I cradled his feverish body against mine, his head leaning against my chest and my chin on his head. I’m going to miss his smile, it was so infectious. It made my anger dissipate and Mandama seem hospitable. I’m going to miss the joke Hauwa made at least ten times a month about how Bilali was going to return to America with me in my luggage or my pocket depending on the day. And I hope that when I think of how Hauwa always called me his second mother I won’t cry like I am right now. I know people die here more often than they do in the West, but that doesn’t mean the hurt is any less, it just means that people here are more adept at dealing with loss. I see nothing wrong with crying. I feel like we all have a certain amount of tears stored up for certain people and when it’s time to let them fall it’s good to get them out. One should cry, grieve and carry on and be happy knowing that the one you loved is no longer suffering and is in a better place.

May we count our blessings everyday...