Widowhood

 

(Mid-August, 1963)

It was a bright, mercilessly sunny day. A young boy stood beneath the heat at the train station, his skin cut (bololo) reflected the Sun. He was flanked by his mother and older sisters, all gathered to see his father (Mr. Ajoke) off to London. Courtesy demanded they escort him to the station, where he would board the train bound for the international airport.

Ade was eighteen. He squinted as beads of sweat slid down his temples, his once light complexion now darkened by the sun. Restlessness crept into his bones. He stepped away from the entrance of the train compartment where his father was still searching for his seat and moved into the shade.

That was when he saw her.

Romoke.

Even the brilliance of the sun fell short when compared to her smile. She stood at the entrance of another train compartment, dressed in a white bùbá and wrapper, her dark skin glowing, her beauty unmistakable. What Europeans would readily call a true African beauty. She was with her mother, waving at someone who had already boarded a different compartment.

Something stirred in Ade.

He glanced down at himself. His heels were white with dust. His orange agbádá—hurriedly thrown on—was visibly dirty. His mother had rushed him from splitting firewood at home. His lips were cracked; the August break had come with stubborn dryness, the rains on an unannounced sabbatical.

“Adeeee!” his mother called sharply.

He flinched. “Ma?” He tore his gaze away from Romoke.

“What are you staring at? Carry Baba’s travelling box into the train!”

Embarrassment burned his cheeks. Romoke was looking at him now. His mother’s voice, loud and unapologetic, never seemed to reserve itself for appropriate moments. Though his skin burned with heat, his belly turned cold.

He lifted the box, positioning it just right to block her view of his dusty legs. Always look your best; you never know who you’ll run into, they said. Too late.

Romoke looked away as her mother tugged her back, careful not to step onto the bogie. Ade climbed into the train with the box. When he returned, she was gone. He frowned, disappointed.

---

The next time he saw her was in church.

She sat two rows ahead of him, dressed in white again—serene, radiant, almost angelic. A calmness surrounded her, one no lake could rival. Ade stood up three times to drop his offering, just to watch her lips move as she sang hymns, just to make her notice him. But she remained focused on her hymnbook; either too shy or too engrossed to look away.

That Sunday, Ade looked his absolute best. He wore shiny, pointed crocodile shoes (so called by his sisters) a black suit sent by his brother-in-law from London, and his father’s treasured cologne. Confidence swelled in him, only to collapse when she didn’t look back.

Or so he thought.

He returned home moody, seated beside his endlessly chatty mother in the back seat of the car. That evening, he attacked his only chore—chopping sticks; with unusual aggression. Still, one thought comforted him: they attended the same church.

---

Two days later, his heart leapt into his throat.

There she was again, wearing that same brilliant smile. It was then he noticed how short she was, not that he minded. Unfortunately, fate mocked him. He was back in the same dirty orange agbádá, from the first time she saw him. His legs in a worse state than before. He tried hiding his toes in an old, battered pair of slippers that silently begged for mercy.

He was returning from his father’s plantation, a bunch of plantain balanced on his shoulder, having spent the day setting up scarecrows. He prayed for the earth to open and swallow him, but Mother Earth offered no such kindness.

Romoke was close now. She smiled warmly, a woven basket resting against her hip, clearly on an errand like him.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted politely, her eyes briefly scanning him.

Ade tried to respond, but his voice failed when her gaze dropped to his legs. She quickly looked away.

An eyesore.

That day marked a turning point.

---

Ade resolved never to appear untidy again.

He learned more about her, how suitors from different parts of the country wore out her parents’ doorstep, seeking her hand in marriage. Her father insisted she must graduate from college first.

The challenge ignited something fierce in Ade. He worked tirelessly, seizing every opportunity to rise and become prominent. When he returned, he discovered Romoke was already in courtship with another man. Still, he refused to be discouraged.

He visited her family with generous gifts, humbled himself, and slowly earned their trust. He befriended Romoke.

They took long walks through town. He never spoke of wealth or status; she never cared for such things. Despite her beauty, she wore her heart openly: kind, hospitable, charitable to the poor, and endlessly compassionate.

Ade kept his hands to himself, his emotions carefully guarded. In time, he won her heart.

When he was certain, he took her to the very train station where they first met and confessed his love.

She smiled and confessed something of her own.

“I noticed you long before that day,” she said softly. “I knew you’d be at the station. That’s why I looked my best.”

She laughed. “You were the talk of the town. My cousins spoke of you endlessly. Everyone wanted to be your friend. You were handsome, and you came from a noble family.”

“Were?” Ade teased.

They laughed. Then they cried—when he went down on one knee.

“Will you marry me?”

---

They had five beautiful children. Four girls and a boy. Romoke filled Ade’s life with light and laughter. She was his joy, his peace, his crown.

That young man—so deeply in love, whose world revolved entirely around Romoke—that man is me.

Today, March 11, 2005, I stand over Romoke’s grave. It has been three years since cancer took her from me. Many have tried to comfort me, but none compare to the Queen of my heart.

Ìfẹ́ mi — my heart. 

Àyànfẹ́ mi — my beloved.

 Ìfẹ́ ọkàn mi — the love of my heart. 

Ẹni tí ọkàn mi yàn — the one my heart chose.

 Adùn ayé mi — the sweetness of my life. 

Òyìn — my honey. 

Ẹnikejì mi — my soulmate. 

Odòdó mi — my flower. 

Ayọ̀ mi — my joy. 

Ẹni bí ọkàn mi — my very heart.

 Egungun mi àti ẹran ara mi — bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh.

Ìyá àwọn ọmọ mi — the mother of my children.

Today is your death anniversary. I am here again, as always. Not once have I missed it. It is not your fault that you broke your vow to grow old with me. Even in death, you still hold the reins of my heart.

Ah, Romoke… I love you beyond reason. What have you done to me?

My mother, my kinsmen, even our children, they all urge me to marry again so I may find comfort. But how can I?

Ah! Romokeeee… Romokeeee… Romokeeee!

---

ORATOR:

Widowhood is not reserved for one gender. It is a sorrow deeper than losing a parent or a friend: a hollowing pain.

Accept that some circumstances are beyond your control, and allow yourself to move forward. Do not feel guilty for choosing life again; the vow was “Till death do us part.”

You deserve to be loved and comforted again. But protect the family you already formed before beginning anew.

Mourn fully, but know when to release the bond.

They have not ceased to exist. They only live on another plane. Unseen, untouched, yet alive.

One day, you will meet again.

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