For Dare Amuda, that intelligent friend for whom there would never be a replacement, snatched away from our affectionate grip by the cold hands of Death.
The air of sorrow fills me like an inflated balloon
Where do I begin to recount this tale
Of a flower that withered before its full bloom?
Was it not just yesterday
That we sat at this table together
Laughing, chatting, as spoonfuls of rice
Took jolly rides into our mouths?
When I looked into your eyes then
Calm as the still waters
I did not see death
How come they are now shut
Never to see the light of the day?
Ah, your chair has gone cold
And where you used to lie
Flourishes an audacious vacuum
How do I recount this tale
Without tears streaming down my face
Like the rush of cascading waters?
Is this the weight of grief
This stinging heaviness of my heart?
Are you truly gone
Only to now cross my path in fantasies?
Today, I have a thousand questions
Would you come to that room in Tedder
Where we discussed life and philosophy
Citing great minds, books and trivialities?
Would you, the son of Amuda?
Over and again, shame on word
That supposedly potent emissary of the gods
As it hovers over your lifeless body, useless.
Here, memories of you are an endless album
Of smiles and truth
Of stark contrast to the world
For you were different
In thoughts and hopes
Mukaila, you stood apart
In words and deeds
Where do I keep these memories?
How do I grapple with your absence?
How do I deal with this gaping hole in my heart?
They say you were hit
By a hit-and-run driver
That you struggled with agony
Not giving up without putting up a good fight
You fought well, Ogundare
You fought well