You always knew that you were going to die. But I don't remember you telling me. Maybe because you knew I wouldn't have fallen in love with you if I knew.

Your silence is why I am lying on the cold floor of your gravestone, hoping to catch a sniff of your scent.

It disappeared from your clothes a while ago. Now they stink.

Your clothes are not the only things that no longer bear your scent. I can no longer perceive your scent in the room we shared.

I kept the windows locked and the curtains drawn, hoping that would preserve your scent, but time did what it does best. It swept away everything that had your touch and scent on it.

The closest I can now get to you is to lie on this gravestone. I have dug holes into the solid floor with tears that, if collected over the years, could fill the largest ocean.

I remember the day you left this world like it was yesterday. I remember the rain coursing down your face and your trembling hands trying unsuccessfully to wipe the rivulets off your eyes so you could see me.

“Wait here for me, okay?” You whispered, holding onto my cheeks with so much affection. I should have told you not to go. I should have tried my best to hide the pain. I should have pulled you towards me, but instead I watched you leave. Your broad shoulder as you ran down the alley, not knowing that was the last time I would see you alive. I never knew that the smile you gave me would be the last I ever got from you.

I caress the skin of the smoothed floor of your gravestone and imagine I am caressing you. Your dark, smooth skin, which was always warm. They were warm that evening, even though it was raining.

But they weren’t when I hugged you in the alley after I discovered your body. Your skin was so cold, and you remained deaf to my words. You heard me scream, but you wouldn’t pay me any attention.

I even put my mouth in your ear and whispered that name. The one that often made you giggle and laugh out loud. The one that often made you carry me up and twirl me around until I giggled and burst into laughter.

None of these happened. None of it. You remained where you had been found, by the shore of the river. Cold as a refrigerated fish. Your lips pale, and your hands clutching tightly to the sachet.

Why?

Why?

Why didn’t you tell me you were going to die?

Why were you so selfish?

Why?

Why did you make me fall in love with you?

“Ah,” I cry out loudly into the concrete and bang my chest hard as if that would get the pain lodged somewhere deep in my heart to leave.

It remains as it has always been since your death. It sinks its claws deep into my chest, sucking at my life.

The walls of the cemetery swallow my cries.

Can you hear my cries?

Is this what you hoped for? That years later, I will be stuck in that night over and over again, wondering what I could have done differently. Hating myself for not seeing what everyone saw and for being so selfish that I didn’t even know what you were trying to say with your eyes every time you looked at me.

I gasp out loud as my cries lose their voice and become silent. Darkness witnesses it all. It is not a strange sight, though. It has watched me do this on too many nights.

I crawl deeper into the floor, hoping it will warm me.

I should have seen it in the way you stared at me that evening. You kept hugging and kissing me. I believe the pain reliever had just been an excuse, your excuse.

I was so stupid for not seeing it. You have broken me. You took my light and life with you when you jumped in that river. And your answer? The letter in the sachet. Oh, and you got the pain reliever. Your pitiful attempt at a joke. You have always been able to tell them. Stupid jokes I laugh at. I wasn’t laughing that night. I stood still as they dragged your body out. You looked small, not at all like the man who cuddled me to sleep for ten years of my life.

The sachet was held tightly in your hand, and no one could get it out. But when I finally got it out of your hand, your hand fell limply to your side. It was like you were waiting for the one who the sachet was for to get it.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I hate you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I rise up from your gravestone, and immediately the cold assaults me. I hug my arms around myself.

Then I bring the rumpled letter out of my pockets and, reading through it one last time, lay it on your coffin. I stare at your picture, the one I forced you to take during our trip. The one you had grudgingly taken. The only picture I have of you.

I hate you.

I love you.

I stare at the washed-up picture for a while longer, swallow my cries, and, turning back, walk away from our forty-year relationship.

“Till next year, madam?” The guard, who had gotten used to seeing me every year, asked.

“I won't be returning.” I replied. Then I added, “At least not like this.”

He stared me up and down and gave a nod. I am sure he did not understand at that time. But he later came to understand days later when I was laid to rest beside my husband.

The letter, which had miraculously remained on the tombstone, read...

My dear Lulu

I am sorry

I am sick.

I found out the same day I met you.

I was on my way from the hospital when I saw you dancing under the fat mango tree in the rain.

Almost immediately, I forgot the doctor’s report.

I was mesmerized by your beauty, but much more by your childlike spirit.

I was selfish, love

I couldn’t tell you.

You were my slice of heaven given on a platter of life.

I knew I had to marry you.

And I did.

Oh, what a beautiful day it was.

Although I spewed blood all over the toilet floor, I laughed watching your twirl in my arms as we danced.

Truthfully, you must be the reason I have lived this long.

Sorry love

It was hard not telling you.

I was selfish.

I was wicked.

But remember the day you told me about your dad?

The day you said you lost your dad to a terminal disease and how you never want to go through that again

I should have divorced you then and there, but I was too selfish.

You are the best gift God has ever given me.

We didn’t have much, but you never complained.

I spent almost all I had on hospital bills, and you, thinking I didn’t have a job, took care of us.

Thank you.

Yesterday, I visited the doctors. They said I had two months to live, and those two months will be spent relying on life support.

I cannot do that to you, my love.

I just can't.

The money we would spend,

You having to go through it again

I can't do this to you, my love.

And so, today was the last day I had with you.

We had a date after a long time of not having one.

Truthfully, all my bathroom breaks were to go and get my smile back on my face.

I was in so much pain.

I hated seeing that confusing look on your face as I returned.

I tried to get you to smile.

And you did.

But I was in so much pain.

And that was why I knew it was time.

I didn’t want to go back home with you because I knew it would kill my bravery.

I couldn’t smell your scent in our home.

I couldn’t see your scattered shoes and clothes.

I just couldn’t go back home with you.

Then you got cramps, and that was all I needed.

I hugged you tight many times.

Hiding my tears behind your back

I kissed your lips again and again, but it was not enough, and just as I was about to break,

I found the strength to leave.

I turned my back and never looked back.

I couldn't

If I did, I would never be able to do this.

I got the pain reliever, my love.

And right now, I am standing on the bank of this river.

Sorry for everything.

Sorry for being selfish.

Sorry for hurting you.

I am so sorry.

I love you.

My love, my Lulu, I am scared.

Very scared

I don’t want to do this.

But I would

If it will all end in death

Then let me end it now.

There is no place to keep this letter, but I will hold on to it, hoping you get it.

I am so sorry.

To my love, my Lulu

This is me, your butterfly, flying to the clouds to wait for you.

Don’t come too soon.

Take your time.

And please, be happy.

Well, there goes nothing. I told myself I would never come back. I fought for freedom with my teeth and nails as I made myself swear that I would never again step within these four walls.

Yet, here I am. Waiting in line with a sweat-drenched back.

I consider making a dash for it. No one would stop me. Of this, I am sure. I look at the door and step away from the line toward it.

"Olanrewaju Victor Emmanuel.” Someone calls.

“Yes, that’s me.” I move towards her, chest out, shoulders raised, and head high.

Let’s do this.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I knew something was terribly wrong as soon as I opened my eyes.

Gray; the world was gray. It stared me blatantly in the face, taunting me with the harsh reality of my predicament. It screamed its lungs at me, telling me without mincing words, You are finished.

This was not the problem.

Sniffles dragged my attention from the wall clock, which was staring endearingly at the pothole-infested floor, to my mother, standing in front of the medicine cabinet. Her body was dancing to the melody of her cries, jerking back and forth like a ship about to capsize.

That was definitely not the problem.

I dragged my attention back to the clock; it still held the same endearing look. I wish I could see the floor to fully grasp the reason for the attraction.

Click, Clack. Click, Clack. My ears gravitated towards the tiny dripping sounds sneaking up from underneath my bed. The sounds were quickly swallowed by scattering sounds as my urine deserted the pan and pushed its affections to the floor.

Yes, this was a problem, but not the problem.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The air smelt wrong. Underneath the stench of urine and the detergent that always pretended to get rid of it, was a smell so putrid that it was alarming how Mother was not perceiving it.

It was a smell that did not belong there.

I could taste it on my tongue; it was neither sour nor bitter, but definitely something in between. It tasted like it did on the day I was doomed to my fate.

We are so sorry to inform you, but the chance of recovery is below 1%.

I could feel it on my neck, like the breath of the dead spreading goosebumps in its wake.

Something was very, very wrong.

INFORMATION ABOUT ME AND MY BOOK

TITLE: WHEN A MOTHER CRIES

GENRE: Fiction

AGE RANGE: 15 +

WORD COUNT: 5,000+

AUTHOR NAME: Feyikemi Olajide Esther

WHY MY PROJECT IS A GOOD FIT: This story, WHEN A MOTHER CRIES, sheds light on the struggles of a single mother taking care of her handicapped son. It also sheds light on the hard decisions mothers take for the sake of their children. I believe my project is a good fit because my story is not just to entertain but also to pass on a message of hope to single mothers, of courage to handicapped children, and to inform the world that there are issues like this out there. In short, my story has a voice that rings loud and clear, with a message for all to hear.

THE HOOK: A mother makes a very difficult decision for the sake of her son. She gives her son what he has always been begging her for, even though he has never put it into words.

SYNOPSIS: When a Mother Cries tells the story of a single woman and her daily struggles to take care of her handicapped son. It also sheds light on the struggles and realities of life for handicapped children and teenagers.

TARGET AUDIENCE: Anyone and everyone.

BIO: Feyikemi Olajide began writing when she was ten, but her story-telling journey started way before then, as her very imaginative mind began cooking up different stories at a younger age. She has won writing contests and hopes to one day win the Commonwealth short story prize and have her books published in several languages.

PLATFORM: Instagram, Twitter

EDUCATION: BSc., Computer Science

EXPERIENCE: Creative Content Writing (2023-2024), Copywriting (2021-2023)

PERSONALITY: Extrovert with a slight dose of introversion.

WRITING STYLE: I always write stories that have an underlying message. I don’t just write to entertain; I also write to draw my readers in and have them try to decipher what the message is. And when they finally do, their mouths are left wide open, and they read the story a second and third time.

LIKES/HOBBIES: Reading, writing, watching Korean dramas, dancing, and getting lost in imaginary worlds.

HOMETOWN: Abeokuta, Ogun State, Nigeria.

Dear typewriter.

How are you?

I am guessing that you are fine since you are still as excited as you were yesterday, as you were the day my mother gifted you to me. 

Your click-clack sound rings out pure, not smeared or tainted by the world outside. 

But just like yesterday, and like five years before that, my fingers are making feeble efforts to push you down. I beat at you with the same frustration and anger that I feel. 

My boss snapped at me again today. 

It was for the smallest thing. I forgot to tuck my shirt in after I visited the restroom, but that wasn't my fault either.

He made several remarks about how lazy, old, and terrible I was. He even told me I was a failure and asked me to quit the job. 

I wish I could, but how will I eat? I can barely make do with the meager amount I am currently being paid. If I lose my job, I may even have to lose you. 

You wouldn't want that, would you? 

Your click-clack sound tells of your answers. 

So, I have to remain there. Allowing him to batter me with his words.

I feel a bit of me die every single day.

At forty, with no kids or wife, I have only you.

I am tired. So tired. 

Maybe I should just end it all. 

I bow my head and weep, and you receive my tears in your careful hands. 

After I could no longer go on crying, I moved to pick up the paper that contained another one of my musings and throw it into the basket where several others had been dumped. 

I stop, startled, as I stare at the four words on the paper. 

You will be fine. 

2024 waved its huge arms at me as mine remained folded. Yet, I had no option but to step into it. I could not afford to be swept away by the rivers of 2023.

Mother would be mad if that happened, given that I am her only daughter. I am the only one she can share her girly gists and conversations with.

My brothers—three troublesome and annoying ones—would not understand a dime of what she was saying, no matter how many times she tried to have her conversations with them.

As I carefully made my way towards the open 2024, one leg in and one leg hanging outside, standing just at the threshold of the year and staring at it with all my fear and trepidation shooting from my eyes, I quietly whispered,

"2024, please don't let me sink my pillows into the rivers of my tears. Please. Just that one thing is what I wish for."

"Fey, it is Christmas today."

I turned on the torn wrapper I had laid on the floor and glanced into the tired eyes of my brother. He sat on the bare floor with his legs crossed. His ten-year-old body looked like a beaten-down forty-year-old's. I am sure I looked worse than he did.

I looked around and noticed that it was still dark. Several other people were clustered around, some asleep, others sitting and staring into space. The putrid scent of alcohol and cigarettes clung to the air like a leech, refusing to come off.

“Why are you awake?” I asked, returning my gaze to my brother.

“Because it is Christmas.”

“Okay?”

He remained silent, obviously lacking an answer to my obvious question. His inability to answer must have upset him, because the next thing I saw was tears in his eyes.

I climbed to a sitting position and looked at him worriedly.

“What is wrong?”

He refused to answer, instead giving the tears permission to fall. I stayed there, glued to the floor, staring at the only family member I have in the entire world.

“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to pacify him. “Merry Christmas.”

He turned to me and smiled. I smiled back in return.

“Today will be different," he said. “It is Christmas.”

We had spent the last ten Christmases together, and it had never been different, so I wondered what he thought was going to be different about the day. It wasn’t until later, when his body was laid down into the cold ground, that I realized just how different that Christmas was.

Finally, he was free. He got a gift.

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered, trying in vain to hold back the tears.