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Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie: Notes on Grief | The New Yorker
From England, my brother set up the Zoom calls every Sunday, our boisterous lockdown ritual, two siblings joining from Lagos, loss of innocence essay, three from the United States, and my parents, sometimes echoing and crackly, from Abba, our ancestral home town, loss of innocence essay southeastern Nigeria. On June 7th, there was my father, only his forehead on the screen, as usual, because he never quite knew how to hold his phone during video calls.
He felt a bit unwell, had been sleeping poorly, but we were not to worry. On June 8th, Okey went to Abba to see him and said that he looked tired. On June 9th, I kept our chat brief so that he could rest. He laughed quietly when I did my usual playful imitation of a relative.
On June 10th, he was gone. My brother Chuks called to tell me, and I came undone. My four-year-old daughter says I scared her. She gets down on her knees to demonstrate, her small clenched fist rising and falling, and her mimicry makes me see myself as I was, utterly unravelling, screaming and pounding the floor. The news is like a vicious uprooting.
I am yanked away from the world I have known since childhood. And I am resistant: my father read the newspaper that afternoon; he joked with Okey about shaving before his appointment with the kidney specialist in Onitsha the next day; he discussed his hospital test results on the phone with my sister Ijeoma, who is a doctor, and so how can this be? But there he is. Our Zoom call is beyond surreal, all of us weeping and weeping and weeping, in different parts of the world, looking in disbelief at the father we adore now lying still on a hospital bed.
It happened a few minutes before midnight, Nigerian time, with Okey by his side and Chuks loss of innocence essay speakerphone. I stare and stare at my father. My breathing is difficult, loss of innocence essay. Is this what shock means, that the air turns to glue? Grief is a cruel kind of education. You learn how ungentle mourning can be, how full of anger. Loss of innocence essay learn how glib condolences can feel.
You learn how much grief is about language, the failure loss of innocence essay language and the grasping for language. Why are my sides so sore and achy? I did not know that we cry with our muscles. The pain is not surprising, but its physicality is, my tongue unbearably bitter, as though I ate a loathed meal and forgot to clean my teeth, on my chest a heavy, awful weight, and inside my body a sensation of eternal dissolving.
My heart—my actual physical heart, nothing figurative here—is running away from me, has become its own separate thing, beating too fast, loss of innocence essay, its rhythms at odds with mine. This is an affliction not merely of the spirit but of the body. Flesh, muscles, organs are all compromised. No physical position is comfortable.
For weeks, my stomach is in turmoil, tense and tight with foreboding, the ever-present certainty that somebody else will die, that more will be lost. One morning, Loss of innocence essay calls me a little earlier than usual, and I think, Just tell me, tell me immediately, who has died now.
Is it Mummy? In my American home, I like to have National Public Radio on as background noise, and whenever my father was staying he would turn it off if nobody was there listening to it. Pomegranate juice became a standing joke. Another revelation: how much laughter is a part of grief. Laughter is tightly braided into our family argot, and now we laugh, remembering my father, loss of innocence essay, but somewhere in the background of the laughter there is a haze of disbelief.
The laughter trails off. The laughter becomes tears and becomes sadness and becomes rage. I am unprepared for my wretched, roaring rage.
In the face of this inferno that is sorrow, I am callow and unformed. But how is it that in the morning he was joking and talking, and at night he was gone forever? It was so fast, too fast. It was not supposed to happen like this, not like a malicious surprise, not during a pandemic that has shut down the world.
Throughout the lockdown, my father and I talked about how strange it all was, how scary, and he told me often not to worry about my doctor husband. He laughed at himself and told me that warm water was harmless, after all, not like the nonsense that went around during the Ebola scare, when people were bathing in saline before dawn.
Messages pour in, and I look at them as through a mist. Who is this message for? Whose father? My sister forwards a message from her friend, saying that my father was humble despite his accomplishments. My fingers start to tremble, and I push my phone away. He was not. He is. There is a video of people trooping into our house for mgbaluto give condolences, and I want to reach in and wrench them away from our living room, where already my mother is settled on the sofa in placid widow pose.
A table is in front of her like a barrier, to maintain social distance. Already friends and relatives are saying that this must be done and that must be done. A condolence register must be placed by the front door, and my sister goes off to buy a bolt of white lace to cover the table, and my brother buys a hardcover notebook, and already people are bending to write in the book.
I think, Go home! Why are you coming to our house to write in that alien notebook? How dare you make this thing true? Somehow, these well-wishers have become complicit. I feel myself breathing air that is bittersweet with my own conspiracies.
Needle pricks of resentment flood through me at the thought of people who are more than loss of innocence essay years old, older than my father and alive and well. My anger scares me, my fear scares me, and somewhere in there is shame, too—why am I so enraged and so scared?
I am afraid of going to bed and of waking up, afraid of tomorrow and all the tomorrows after. I am filled with disbelieving astonishment that the mailman comes as usual and people are inviting me to speak somewhere and regular news alerts appear on my phone screen. How is it that the world keeps going, breathing in and out unchanged, while in my soul there is a permanent scattering? Grief is forcing new skins on me, scraping scales from my eyes. I regret my past certainties: Surely you should mourn, talk through it, face it, go through it.
The smug certainties of a person yet unacquainted with grief. Only now do I learn, while feeling for its porous edges, that there is no way through. I am in the center of this churning, and I have become a maker of boxes, and inside their unbending walls I cage my thoughts.
I torque my mind firmly to its shallow surface alone. There is a grace in denial, loss of innocence essay, Chuks says, words that I repeat to myself. A loss of innocence essay, this denial, this refusal to look. Of course, the effort is its own grieving, and so I am un-looking in the oblique shadow of looking, but imagine the catastrophe of a direct, unswerving stare.
Often, too, there is the urge to run and run, to hide. But I cannot always run, and each time I am forced to squarely confront my grief—when I read the death certificate, when I draft a death announcement—I feel a shimmering panic.
In such moments, Loss of innocence essay notice a curious physical reaction: my body begins to shake, my fingers tap uncontrollably, one leg bobs. For the first time in my life, I am enamored of sleeping pills, and, in the middle of a shower or a meal, loss of innocence essay, I burst into tears, loss of innocence essay. My wariness of superlatives is forever stripped away: June 10,was the worst day of my life, loss of innocence essay.
The week before June 10th, while running around playing with my daughter, I fell and hit my head and suffered a concussion. For days, I felt unmoored, sensitive to sound and light, loss of innocence essay. I did not call my parents daily as usual. When I finally called, my father wanted to talk not about his feeling unwell but about my head. Concussions can be slow to heal, he told me. I wish, I wish. The guilt gnaws at my soul.
I think of all the things that could have happened and all the ways that the world could be reshaped, to prevent what happened on June 10th, to make it un-happen. I worry about Okey, loss of innocence essay, a stalwart, sensitive soul, loss of innocence essay, whose burden is different from ours because he is the one who was there.
Okey says that my father prayed, calmly, quietly, what sounded like lines from the rosary in Igbo. Does it comfort me to hear this? Only in the sense that it must have comforted my father. The cause was complications from kidney failure. An infection, the doctor said, exacerbated his long-term kidney disease. But what infection? Of course, I wonder about the coronavirus, loss of innocence essay. Might he have been exposed then? He needed hydration, and so he was admitted to the hospital and put on I.
Loss of Innocence in Lord of the Flies - Visual Essay
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