"It's in the other aisle," she said.
I was 7, holding her hand too tight in that dusty supermarket in Ibadan.
She was looking for custard. I wanted sweets.
"Later," she said, eyes scanning shelves. "It's in the other aisle."
I didn't know those 6 words would follow me for 20 years.
Today I'm here. Standing in Shoprite, Lagos. Alone.
My cart is full of things she used to buy:
Peak milk. Indomie. That cheap body cream that smells like childhood.
The PA system says "Cleaning in aisle 4".
My heart stops. Because aisle 4 was her aisle.
Aisle 4 is where she taught me to squeeze tomatoes to check if they're ripe.
Aisle 4 is where she let me hold 3 things only, no more.
Aisle 4 is where she last said "It's in the other aisle" before the cancer took her voice.
I'm crying in public now. Old woman beside me asks if I'm okay.
I smile and say "Yes ma, I just remembered something."
Because how do you explain to a stranger that grief hides in supermarket aisles?
That custard she never found? I found it last week.
Bought 3 tins. Put one on my table. One in my bag. One in her old cupboard.
It's still there. Unopened. Because some things aren't meant to be consumed.
Some things are meant to remind you that love doesn't expire.
That Auntys don't really leave. They just move to the other aisle.
And sometimes, if you listen close enough between the freezer hum and cashier beeps...
you can still hear them say "Be careful, my child. It's in the other aisle."
Let me ask 👇
Where does grief hide for you? In which "aisle" do you still find them?
