I lay wide awake in bed, heavy with exhaustion but unable to slip away. The wailing kept me awake—an unsettling sound so broken and hollow, like a woman in excruciating pain; it seemed as if someone was seeking an end, ravaged and tired. It was the sound of my Dad dying.
Every day, he died a little more. The cancer ate him away from the inside, and all his children had to watch him wither away on the outside. I would get out of bed and linger in the corridor, listening to my mum trying to comfort him with words. My older siblings were also by his side; they had not slept either and were determined to face the night with him.
One night, I awoke to the suffocating darkness and was immediately drawn to the small glow of light coming from the corridor. I climbed out of bed and followed that light out into the corridor, where I stood alone, facing the gaping door of the master bedroom. It felt like something had lured me out to that inevitable moment—because then I heard the horrid wail of a broken man, a cry that rooted me to the spot, and stayed with me for many years after.
A week ago, we rejoiced when he started Chemotherapy. They called it a miracle cure for cancer, but it seemed more like a curse. With every session, he came home different, changing by the day, until his nights became dragged and excruciating. We, his children, would lie awake, waiting for the end.
And the end came. It felt like a film trick—brushing right over our heads and leaving us stunned. We expected it, but deep down, I doubt we thought death was real, that it could happen to us. Death had snatched the joy and pain from our lives all at once, leaving us with emptiness.
When a loved one is ill, the sadness echoes through everyone around them. It dampens the little joys that would have made that house a home. It changes the agenda of every individual in that household; dreams are put on hold, pleasures are incomplete, and life becomes measured and shallow. And so, everyone else drones through life until that loved one is made whole —or maybe, they pass on.
When Dad died, we were stunned. A profound silence gradually broke the family apart; a dispersion of personalities unable to cope with the weight of memories within our home. Each of us sought to process the tumultuous past few months or salvage whatever life had left in store.
The reality hit hard—our breadwinner was gone. My mother, distraught and without income, had seven children to support.
And there I was, silent in my shame because I had run away from home a week before my father’s death. I went to the dormitory at school and refused to go home during school break. I couldn’t bear to listen to him cry through the night or listen to the unfamiliar wailing of a man whose present image was a contrast to what I had built in my mind; he had been so vibrant and strong. He had been my hero. I didn’t know who that was anymore, and I ran.
News of his passing reached me in school, and I did not cry. It felt like a film trick, so I decided to see for myself.
When I went home, the silence left by the shock took hold of me. I’m not sure any of us could grieve. Only three of us were adults at that time and the rest of us were confused.
First was fear, and then, after the chemotherapy, was the inescapable sadness that a loved one would eventually pass away. The silence at home was soon echoed by the gaping hole left by a breadwinner. I looked from my mother to my brothers and then my sisters; not one of them was fit to earn a livable wage.
My mother did not have a job, and my older brother and sister had just finished school. I was the middle child, and still in school. This circumstance contributed to the perpetual reason we could not grieve! There was too much looking us in the eye: bills, school fees, and funeral costs.
Family members I had never known showed up the following weeks after the funeral, and everything about the funeral was a fast blur, or maybe it usually is for those shocked by death.
I didn’t go to see my father before he was put in the ground—I just couldn’t, but I resolved in my mind to fill the gap he was leaving behind.
The first problem after the funeral was my sister’s school fees. I had no certificate to show and no skill I had learnt, but I remembered one thing Dad always said, “What is in your hands now? Use it. Develop it.”
The only thing I had was writing. I had been an avid reader since I was 13 years old. I remember long visits to the bookshop with Dad to buy books for me: fiction and nonfiction. I devoured them, and I loved to write short stories. Dad was the first one to catch my passion and steered me in that direction. He was always watchful, with those deep brown eyes. “Have you read a book this month?” He would ask as He offered me one.
Everyone was trying their best to keep my sister in school: my brothers were off finding work, and my sister was busy applying to jobs. Slowly, frustration was creeping in. We were no longer sharing happy meals and warm laughs; none of my younger siblings played out in the sun or even with toys. They withdrew from our common living spaces, finding solace behind closed doors.
What could I do? What to do? These questions took focus in my mind. I could think of nothing else. I could feel nothing else.
I ended up online, scratching at websites for ideas and coming up with menial tasks that paid little and would probably not earn enough money in time to pay her school fees.
“What is in your hands?” Dad would ask. The only thing I knew how to do was write. I had been writing stories and essays; It was something I enjoyed. Could there be opportunities in writing? I asked myself that night, blinded by my tears.
I took one last go and stumbled upon information on writing careers. I researched for longer and found freelance websites. One particular website stood out. I created a profile and began to set it up. The greatest hurdle came thereafter—the bio. I went blank. What was there to say about myself? I had not won any awards; I had no certificates. But here I was, needing to start something out in professional writing. I poured my heart out. I attached some samples, although I knew they were rough.
The next day, I woke up to my acceptance mail. It was the first bright burst of joy I had experienced in weeks. Immediately, I began applying for smaller writing tasks. Within a week, I had landed one. It was the first time I got paid for anything in my life. Despite it being well below industry rates, I was overjoyed. I screamed and danced around the house. I ran to my mother and showed her the check, and for the first time in seven months, joy filled our home.
My name is Racheal Asikpo. As a Memoir and Autobiography ghostwriter with a decade of experience, I am passionate about how stories impact lives and change futures. When I work with aspiring authors, I seek to immerse myself in the writing process to realize the best delivery of their voice in their story.
As a science fiction and fantasy ghostwriter, I enjoy plunging into challenges of unboxed imagination, creating thought-provoking journeys for readers.
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