On Grief, Death, and Memories: Friendship and Sickle Cells
For Abu who lived. And lived well..
. . .
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
- John Keating, Dead Poets Society.
Saturday, 7:00pm.
We gathered in Duport Road at Thomas’ residence - over 20 of us from the Liberian Poets Society for a rehearsal of an upcoming poetry event. We could barely see one another’s faces as the evening crawled its way into darkness and enveloped us in black clouds. We sat in an open yard under a large tree, with dry leaves rustling and falling one after the next. Every so often, a heavy wind would rush by and whirl the leaves in the sky or pluck some off the stem of the tree. Overlooking the gathering was a low fence and crooked gate that alerted us whenever someone walked in. Noise and random conversations, jokes and laughter all swarmed the atmosphere. Then an audible voice rose above the noise and said, “next on stage is Abunic Sheriff and he will be performing the piece titled “Forgive me father, I’ve sinned.”
I’d known Abu months before that gathering, he wrote in total silence. I’d read his poems, and in his own words ‘Allah knows he was sick in all the poems he wrote.’ This time it was not a poem for us to read - it was a poem for him to read to us. A poem of pleas for forgiveness and desires of mercy. He walked on stage for the first time to perform a poem. He was trying to come out. To come forth. To belong. To live. To explore. To be. Yet when you looked through his eyes you could see the thousandfold perils he’d confronted through life and the ever lurking fears of the demons that lie ahead waiting for him. But he was alive and saying a poem. Poetry is therapy. Sometimes you find yourself between the metaphors and it’s a haven that gives you courage to truly express what you feel. It reveals who you are or, sometimes the experiences you are made of. As the poet Carl Phillips says, poetry is not only what reminds us that we are human, but it helps ensure that we don’t forget what it means to be so.”
. . .
To see yourself still yourself is a refuge man who have not been denied cannot know
- Ocean Vuong, On Earth we're briefly gorgeous
The first time I googled the word sickle cell I took away a brutal definition - short life span, temporary, incurable. It’s like living with a condition that gnaws at your very existence every time and you can do nothing about it. You see yourself drowning and no one can save you though everyone wants to. The air you breathe is the only lifeguard to stay afloat for a while but you know you will soon grow weary. You know the waves are powerful. You know the tides are strong. Then you see the storms raging high and your muscles start to lose grip slowly. Day after day. Nights without sleep. Discomfort. Fear. Before you finally perish with the tides.
I wondered if Abu ever googled that word or if he found a subtler and pleasant definition that encouraged him to live, to dream, to plan a future, or dared to even be. You don’t write about the dead like this! I tried to stop myself. Then I remembered Wittgenstein’s words: the limits of my language are the limits of my world. It is important to know and accept that the beauty of life is in death, endings, or goodbyes. Abu did not die as a footnote in the chronicles of contemporary Liberia literary arts, he departed as a headline that will cast its shadow across times. He etched his name in the sands of our time.
It is not a taboo to talk about how people leave, or the grief that comes along with it because of the memories we share. Life without death would be a dull hallowed journey. No spark. No cherishing moments of bliss and laughter since everything lasts forever. Infinite boredom. Lasting suffering and sham or drudgery. But for Abu, death became an escape from his nightmares. Not the kind of death that comes through suicide, but a death that come at its own time. It is death that makes life worth living; the impermanence of our existence. And knowing that there’s an end coming with each passing day, we remember to live our best before our lights go off - as Abu did.
. . .
Before Abu’s passing, in recent years I’ve come to terms with the commonness of death and the iridescence of grief. Abu wrote about these dark themes too. I don’t want to open our chat. It’s dark. Cold. And scary. When Clint died a year ago I opened our chats and read through the messages. I laughed and grieved simultaneously. Then I found myself engulfed in melancholy for a while. Last month I refused to join others at his gravesite for a memorial not because I did not care, but because grief is strong enough to overpower and draw you to a table for a dinner with depression - only you two. Clint had a prelaunch for three of his books. Abu recently published his poetry chapbook. Every time I attempted writing a poem after Clint’s death I grew scared that it would be my last memory. Now Abu’s. This is what grief does to you - it keeps you in a pod beneath the soil that you’re unable to sprout and see the sunlight again. Abu wrote about grief, about his ailment, about fear, about his long nights. In all those things we know we had a friend that tried to live as we all did. And he would say thanks for sharing, if he were to read this.
Life’s for the living so live it, or better off dead
-Passenger
. . .
In 2019 I met Korpo, I don’t know how but fate conspired in some way for us. We didn’t make much of our relationship besides dry texts until 2020, the year of lockdown and social distancing. The barriers meant we had to have endless phone calls and texts for most part of our days under lockdown with long conversations ranging from family life, to books we were reading, and everything else that came handy. Sometimes you meet people you become an open-book for - you allow them to read the depths of you and even make commentary. She lived in Johnsonville and I stayed in Matadi, distances apart. However, she started coming to Matadi at her sister’s place where we could see each other often, sit for long talks before the 3pm curfew, and have ice cream. Abu texted me casually one time “hey, you’re stealing my best friend from me and I’m jealous.” Then we laughed about it. And I responded “why if I’m her boyfriend or she decides to have one, you know the person rightfully deserves more of her attention than you do, right?” The silence was audible. Perhaps, it dawned on Abu at that moment that the one person in whose bosom he found peace and comfort may someday not be there as much as she could. Despite this, she still managed to give a lot. When she traveled to Europe for school, I knew things would change. Maybe our relationship the months before she left was a warning to Abu, a harsh one that said, the people who support you to stand poised and upright could be removed from under your feet and leave you suspended. It happened not because she wanted to - but I’ve learned how to take solace in the word fate for things that happen and I can’t find enough words to explain.
I didn’t talk to Korpo for the first two weeks after Abu’s passing - it was intentional. I know what she felt because we all know she carried Abu inside her heart wherever she went. The first time I met her she couldn’t stop talking about him, how he was misunderstood by the community he belonged to, and how she wished she could help more besides the therapy she provided. In his chapbook, there’s a poem there for her. And a dedication too. I know Korpo can’t remember how their last embrace felt because it’s been months, but the words from those poems will surely eat their ways into her heart. Korpo and Abu’s friendship reminded me of the fox and the boy in The Little Prince: “To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…” And they both were - unique for each other.
I read Roland Barthes’s Mourning Diary the other day, the book he wrote each day for a year after his mother’s death detailing his struggle with grief and the pain of loss. “I have known the body of my mother, he writes, sick and then dying. Barthes’s mother did not die from sickle cell, but Abu did - and each moment to his final demise was like fire burning through his bones. Grief is a difficult thing to process because some losses are irreparable - time doesn’t heal anything. In fact, time reminds you that the moment is lost. That the person is no longer here. That the embrace cannot be experienced again. That the text cannot be replied. Whenever I think about the grief of Abu’s death I know we’re many that share the pain at different levels of intimacy, interests, and experiences. This is not my singular sorrow; I’m at a lower level of the pyramid. But when I think about my friend Korpo who's somewhere at the top of the pyramid, preparing for transition into college, and what this means for her, it scares me the most. I know she must be going over their memories or processing trauma and grief - building a relationship that you know is transient yet you go ahead anyway. That was love and being human.
I don’t know what last memories she holds, how concrete or visible in grasps it is, but memories of the people you love and lost are not always pleasant. It sometimes haunts you like a ghost clawing its way down your throat at 3am.
I remember the last things Abu and I talked about were Playstation, the weight of our living, and the last book he requested from me was Eric Nguyen’s “Things we lost to waters” - now Abu is one of those things. We lost him too.
They said you came looking for me, I did not drown. I was the water.
- Jo Nketiah
. . .
Oumaru came back to Liberia for a brief vacation before leaving for studies in the US and contacted me. He asked that we meet as a community of writers to play soccer and I mobilized a few others, Abu included. During the match he kept the pace. Though not fantastic, he was not the weakest player. We laughed at him for walking off the field and leaving us short of one player. Yes. We laughed at him for fun. We made Abu feel like a normal person and drilled him through normal jokes. He did not dwell on empathy. We did not fill his world with sorrow and melancholy. Empathy sometimes becomes a sickness that eats away your strength and imposes dependency syndrome on you. So yes, we laughed at him when he fell off on the ball the same way we laughed at Gabriel. He strived to stay strong and contribute to the team’s success. I was proud of him - that he was living the few years of his life the best way possible and making every moment count. Living with sickle cell is living in pain. It is living in constant terror. I did a bit of research again and found out its hereditary. God! Why are some humans’ victims of genetics? Why do biological processes conspire to make life miserable, and brief for others? Why don’t we have a cure yet? What can we do besides being pillars of strength and praying silently that our friends stay with us longer? So many questions that night after the soccer match.
Again, I remind myself today that this grief is not entirely mine. But how do you ignore grief when it persistently sleeps on your subconscious? How do you accept death knowing that it could wait a little longer? How do you live happily when life has been utterly cruel to a friend for the brief years he lived? How do you learn to bask in the sunshine after seeing that the sun sometimes sets at midday? How do you rest at night quietly when nightfalls are nightmares and moments of pain for others? How do you learn to forge bonds and relationships with people knowing that all these things are temporary and the memories are going to haunt you longer than you can imagine? None of us had the moment to say goodbye to Abu. But maybe death is not a goodbye. It’s the gateway to a home-calling where we belong.
. . .
We talked about you, about us, about testing the waters; then we went against the current and drifted - Abunic Sheriff
. . .
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.
- John Keating, Dead Poets Society.
Saturday, 7:00pm.
We gathered in Duport Road at Thomas’ residence - over 20 of us from the Liberian Poets Society for a rehearsal of an upcoming poetry event. We could barely see one another’s faces as the evening crawled its way into darkness and enveloped us in black clouds. We sat in an open yard under a large tree, with dry leaves rustling and falling one after the next. Every so often, a heavy wind would rush by and whirl the leaves in the sky or pluck some off the stem of the tree. Overlooking the gathering was a low fence and crooked gate that alerted us whenever someone walked in. Noise and random conversations, jokes and laughter all swarmed the atmosphere. Then an audible voice rose above the noise and said, “next on stage is Abunic Sheriff and he will be performing the piece titled “Forgive me father, I’ve sinned.”
I’d known Abu months before that gathering, he wrote in total silence. I’d read his poems, and in his own words ‘Allah knows he was sick in all the poems he wrote.’ This time it was not a poem for us to read - it was a poem for him to read to us. A poem of pleas for forgiveness and desires of mercy. He walked on stage for the first time to perform a poem. He was trying to come out. To come forth. To belong. To live. To explore. To be. Yet when you looked through his eyes you could see the thousandfold perils he’d confronted through life and the ever lurking fears of the demons that lie ahead waiting for him. But he was alive and saying a poem. Poetry is therapy. Sometimes you find yourself between the metaphors and it’s a haven that gives you courage to truly express what you feel. It reveals who you are or, sometimes the experiences you are made of. As the poet Carl Phillips says, poetry is not only what reminds us that we are human, but it helps ensure that we don’t forget what it means to be so.”
. . .
To see yourself still yourself is a refuge man who have not been denied cannot know
- Ocean Vuong, On Earth we're briefly gorgeous
The first time I googled the word sickle cell I took away a brutal definition - short life span, temporary, incurable. It’s like living with a condition that gnaws at your very existence every time and you can do nothing about it. You see yourself drowning and no one can save you though everyone wants to. The air you breathe is the only lifeguard to stay afloat for a while but you know you will soon grow weary. You know the waves are powerful. You know the tides are strong. Then you see the storms raging high and your muscles start to lose grip slowly. Day after day. Nights without sleep. Discomfort. Fear. Before you finally perish with the tides.
I wondered if Abu ever googled that word or if he found a subtler and pleasant definition that encouraged him to live, to dream, to plan a future, or dared to even be. You don’t write about the dead like this! I tried to stop myself. Then I remembered Wittgenstein’s words: the limits of my language are the limits of my world. It is important to know and accept that the beauty of life is in death, endings, or goodbyes. Abu did not die as a footnote in the chronicles of contemporary Liberia literary arts, he departed as a headline that will cast its shadow across times. He etched his name in the sands of our time.
It is not a taboo to talk about how people leave, or the grief that comes along with it because of the memories we share. Life without death would be a dull hallowed journey. No spark. No cherishing moments of bliss and laughter since everything lasts forever. Infinite boredom. Lasting suffering and sham or drudgery. But for Abu, death became an escape from his nightmares. Not the kind of death that comes through suicide, but a death that come at its own time. It is death that makes life worth living; the impermanence of our existence. And knowing that there’s an end coming with each passing day, we remember to live our best before our lights go off - as Abu did.
. . .
Before Abu’s passing, in recent years I’ve come to terms with the commonness of death and the iridescence of grief. Abu wrote about these dark themes too. I don’t want to open our chat. It’s dark. Cold. And scary. When Clint died a year ago I opened our chats and read through the messages. I laughed and grieved simultaneously. Then I found myself engulfed in melancholy for a while. Last month I refused to join others at his gravesite for a memorial not because I did not care, but because grief is strong enough to overpower and draw you to a table for a dinner with depression - only you two. Clint had a prelaunch for three of his books. Abu recently published his poetry chapbook. Every time I attempted writing a poem after Clint’s death I grew scared that it would be my last memory. Now Abu’s. This is what grief does to you - it keeps you in a pod beneath the soil that you’re unable to sprout and see the sunlight again. Abu wrote about grief, about his ailment, about fear, about his long nights. In all those things we know we had a friend that tried to live as we all did. And he would say thanks for sharing, if he were to read this.
Life’s for the living so live it, or better off dead
-Passenger
. . .
In 2019 I met Korpo, I don’t know how but fate conspired in some way for us. We didn’t make much of our relationship besides dry texts until 2020, the year of lockdown and social distancing. The barriers meant we had to have endless phone calls and texts for most part of our days under lockdown with long conversations ranging from family life, to books we were reading, and everything else that came handy. Sometimes you meet people you become an open-book for - you allow them to read the depths of you and even make commentary. She lived in Johnsonville and I stayed in Matadi, distances apart. However, she started coming to Matadi at her sister’s place where we could see each other often, sit for long talks before the 3pm curfew, and have ice cream. Abu texted me casually one time “hey, you’re stealing my best friend from me and I’m jealous.” Then we laughed about it. And I responded “why if I’m her boyfriend or she decides to have one, you know the person rightfully deserves more of her attention than you do, right?” The silence was audible. Perhaps, it dawned on Abu at that moment that the one person in whose bosom he found peace and comfort may someday not be there as much as she could. Despite this, she still managed to give a lot. When she traveled to Europe for school, I knew things would change. Maybe our relationship the months before she left was a warning to Abu, a harsh one that said, the people who support you to stand poised and upright could be removed from under your feet and leave you suspended. It happened not because she wanted to - but I’ve learned how to take solace in the word fate for things that happen and I can’t find enough words to explain.
I didn’t talk to Korpo for the first two weeks after Abu’s passing - it was intentional. I know what she felt because we all know she carried Abu inside her heart wherever she went. The first time I met her she couldn’t stop talking about him, how he was misunderstood by the community he belonged to, and how she wished she could help more besides the therapy she provided. In his chapbook, there’s a poem there for her. And a dedication too. I know Korpo can’t remember how their last embrace felt because it’s been months, but the words from those poems will surely eat their ways into her heart. Korpo and Abu’s friendship reminded me of the fox and the boy in The Little Prince: “To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…” And they both were - unique for each other.
I read Roland Barthes’s Mourning Diary the other day, the book he wrote each day for a year after his mother’s death detailing his struggle with grief and the pain of loss. “I have known the body of my mother, he writes, sick and then dying. Barthes’s mother did not die from sickle cell, but Abu did - and each moment to his final demise was like fire burning through his bones. Grief is a difficult thing to process because some losses are irreparable - time doesn’t heal anything. In fact, time reminds you that the moment is lost. That the person is no longer here. That the embrace cannot be experienced again. That the text cannot be replied. Whenever I think about the grief of Abu’s death I know we’re many that share the pain at different levels of intimacy, interests, and experiences. This is not my singular sorrow; I’m at a lower level of the pyramid. But when I think about my friend Korpo who's somewhere at the top of the pyramid, preparing for transition into college, and what this means for her, it scares me the most. I know she must be going over their memories or processing trauma and grief - building a relationship that you know is transient yet you go ahead anyway. That was love and being human.
I don’t know what last memories she holds, how concrete or visible in grasps it is, but memories of the people you love and lost are not always pleasant. It sometimes haunts you like a ghost clawing its way down your throat at 3am.
I remember the last things Abu and I talked about were Playstation, the weight of our living, and the last book he requested from me was Eric Nguyen’s “Things we lost to waters” - now Abu is one of those things. We lost him too.
They said you came looking for me, I did not drown. I was the water.
- Jo Nketiah
. . .
Oumaru came back to Liberia for a brief vacation before leaving for studies in the US and contacted me. He asked that we meet as a community of writers to play soccer and I mobilized a few others, Abu included. During the match he kept the pace. Though not fantastic, he was not the weakest player. We laughed at him for walking off the field and leaving us short of one player. Yes. We laughed at him for fun. We made Abu feel like a normal person and drilled him through normal jokes. He did not dwell on empathy. We did not fill his world with sorrow and melancholy. Empathy sometimes becomes a sickness that eats away your strength and imposes dependency syndrome on you. So yes, we laughed at him when he fell off on the ball the same way we laughed at Gabriel. He strived to stay strong and contribute to the team’s success. I was proud of him - that he was living the few years of his life the best way possible and making every moment count. Living with sickle cell is living in pain. It is living in constant terror. I did a bit of research again and found out its hereditary. God! Why are some humans’ victims of genetics? Why do biological processes conspire to make life miserable, and brief for others? Why don’t we have a cure yet? What can we do besides being pillars of strength and praying silently that our friends stay with us longer? So many questions that night after the soccer match.
Again, I remind myself today that this grief is not entirely mine. But how do you ignore grief when it persistently sleeps on your subconscious? How do you accept death knowing that it could wait a little longer? How do you live happily when life has been utterly cruel to a friend for the brief years he lived? How do you learn to bask in the sunshine after seeing that the sun sometimes sets at midday? How do you rest at night quietly when nightfalls are nightmares and moments of pain for others? How do you learn to forge bonds and relationships with people knowing that all these things are temporary and the memories are going to haunt you longer than you can imagine? None of us had the moment to say goodbye to Abu. But maybe death is not a goodbye. It’s the gateway to a home-calling where we belong.
. . .
We talked about you, about us, about testing the waters; then we went against the current and drifted - Abunic Sheriff
BIO:
Bill Ivans Gbafore is a writer, poet, and essayist and a member of the Liberian Poet Society (LPS). He is the 2020 winner of the Rotary Club of Monrovia National Essay Competition, and recently emerged 5th place in the African Philanthropy Network Annual Youth Essay Competition.
Bill Ivans Gbafore is a writer, poet, and essayist and a member of the Liberian Poet Society (LPS). He is the 2020 winner of the Rotary Club of Monrovia National Essay Competition, and recently emerged 5th place in the African Philanthropy Network Annual Youth Essay Competition.
