It is safe to say there is no more need for introductions, but it never hurts to say, “Hello, once again.’
“I saw your poems on a friend’s status, and I loved them. Do you mind sending me more of your poems? You write well.”
That was the text I got one night four years ago at the height of the lockdown. What followed next was a random stranger urging and wishing I would write more.
First things first, I know not everyone you meet or talk to is considered your friend, but Ruth had the sort of energy you would want around you, she spoke with genuine warmth that only a sunny day could give you, and sooner rather than later, you might start saying to yourself — “that’s my friend.”
Ruth deserved more than what the world and the universe at large gave her. She smiled as much as she could and laughed as hard, like a child with no worries — but Ruth had a lot of worries. The hospital was second nature to her, a second home maybe. Day after day, like Monday greets Tuesday, and month after month, like December says goodbye to January.
From time to time, Ruth took a lot of breaks from social media. I just assumed academic work was kicking her ass. I never would have guessed she was fighting for her life. The last meaningful conversation we had was about her exams, how she wrote her last papers with a cannula in her arm, and how she went back to the hospital after the said exams.
Life happened, the texts dwindled and conversations came to a grinding halt. I sent a few unanswered messages over the years hoping she was alright — those messages stayed unanswered. The last text I sent was sometime around February this year, and I guess you have an idea of how that went — silence!
Three weeks ago, I was on Twitter doing what I do best — mindless scrolling. Then a post caught my eye. Someone I follow posted a familiar face and the caption was akin to something you would read or listen to at a funeral, and not far from a eulogy.
My heart almost abandoned its original location as it tried to make its way to my mouth. Ruth had been dead for two years. She had the sickle cell gene, but Tuberculosis was the end of her. The drugs to treat tuberculosis were too strong for her body, and her organs responded by shutting down.
On hearing this, I was shocked, at a loss for words, and even now, I still cannot believe that the universe was that cruel to Ruth. She deserved better. She deserved a healthy life, a life free of hospital scents and rooms.
Till now, I still do not have the right words for what I am feeling. Ruth died two years ago, and I only found out three weeks ago.
So long, dear acquaintance. Wherever you are, I hope you find eternal peace, dear friend.
Nezo,
Nigerian by birth,
Indian by hemp,
Canadian by Loud.
Signed - Nezo, St Patron of women with vowels in their names, especially the ones with 0-2 boyfriends.
So sorry about your loss, Nezo.
This is really shocking. My deepest condolences. Her memory lives on with you and I think that, though not enough is beautiful🥹😔