The sun had just begun to set, casting a longer shadow that lined up towards the east. Faint music that played from a distance, birds in the sky sang, low frequency noise came from neighbours compounds while her's was painfully silent, even though the footsteps, voices, and laughter from her children who had all returned to their lives earlier that day seemed to still linger in her mind.
Eight days had passed since they buried her husband. A whole week, yet the memories of his graveside, the empathy from people that made her shed more tears, still clung to her. She had only empathised with others in the past, she had never felt it that real, never even imagined that it could happen to her. To support her through every step, her children had taken time off from work and traveled to the village. Even after the burial, a few of them had remained, to keep her company during the initial difficult days.
But now, they had all gone back one after the other. That Sunday morning, her last daughter, Yewande, had boarded the first bus back to Lagos. Before leaving, she had left a long goodbye hug as if the feelings could continue after, but regardless, she had to go and prepare for Monday resumption, and the awaiting life she had outside the village.
Now she was really alone for the first time in her seventy two years. Slowly, she got up and moved toward the archaic radio that was resting on the window shelf. It was a black box with a damaged knob that was still functional despite all the years, a memory from her late spouse. Together, they would listen to evening programs, hymns, and call in shows. It was their little way of connecting to the world beyond their village.
Her fingers shook while she twisted the knob, a static buzz from the radio cuts through the silence in the room. She found the familiar channel, the one her husband always listened to. She carried the radio and went back to the recently renovated mid-century chair she was sitting on, waiting for something to stir her heart. But nothing did. Not the music, nor the voices. Everything felt like a mockery of what used to be. She turned it off almost imminently, making the room silent once again.
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She lifted her head and focused her eyes on a picture frame on the wall, slightly crooked from years of hanging. It was a family portrait taken decades ago. Her husband looked so young and strong, just as he was when he first walked up to her, seated proudly with their five children gathered around. How time flies though as she leaned closer, everyone looked younger including herself.
At that time, the children used to be so noisy, always arguing, laughing, and running around the house. She remembered when she would scold them for being too loud after Sunday services, and complained that she could not enjoy her afternoon nap. But now, she would give anything to hear just one of those arguments again.
She thought further, their slow departures. First, it was Bode, her eldest son, who left for the university. Then Folake followed, and one after the other, they all left, taking a piece of the house’s noise with them, until only she and her husband remained. However, she did not feel lonely at that time because he was always around. She confides in him always, he was her companion, and partner in every endeavor. The children would only return for short visits, but his presence filled the silence. But now he was gone.
The situation weighed on her chest like a fresh wound for the first time. That would be her first night to sleep alone. No husband, relatives, or even children would be available to sleep under the same roof with her. The emptiness was suffocating. It felt as though her husband had died all over again.
She leaned back against her chair, fixing her eyes on the ceiling, and listened to the tick of the clock. And every second that passed by, the house grew bigger, and emptier. For the first time, she understood that her life had split into two, the years with him which would forever remain a memory, and the long stretched days ahead that she must now endure alone.
