19 Mar 2009 |
|
Martins flipped through the dailies nodding his head to Sade’s soft music ‘By your side’ playing in the background. His friends often teased his recent habit of never taking good time to thoroughly read any newspaper he spent his penny on. His sudden captivation engrossed and glued to the last seven pages of The Paragon was an unusual one. As he flipped through, he is left more confused as to whether he was digesting politics, economic and social matters as against obituaries left, right and centre. The sweet melody of Sade’s lyrics turned sour in his ears. Martins screamed and yelled aloud, banging vigorously against the wall with his fists. The length and breadth of his bedroom felt the impact. He tried so hard to restrain the temptation of maintaining eye contact with the photo frames that lay upside down on the bedside table, yet found himself unconsciously reaching out his fingers to Bellama’s photo. She was such an innocent child, the carbon copy of her mother’s beauty and style even in her youthful stage. ‘If only I was there to protect her’, he whispered with a hoarse voice. Martins was about to go on another wet guilty trip all by himself. ‘It was my entire fault. I blame myself’. Martins sobbed bitterly burying his head in between the pillows. One would wonder what paralysed the manliness of a tough cookie like Martins. The most talked about amongst his friends as the icon for hard hearted. Even a sharp edged knife pierced at his side wouldn’t have caused him to break down into tears like a child. ‘Not to imagine that she was still recovering from a recent traumatic and bitter encounter with robbers? The memories remain so fresh in my head. It feels like yesterday but has been three years down the lane.’ He uttered those whispers beneath his breath as he gasped between the sniffs. With the feeling they are no more by my side; he replayed the 30th day of October, 2005 vividly in his head. The biting wit was, as he moved on to the next pages, it was yet another series of obituaries. A generation of youngsters in their prime, between the ages ten to seventeen years, all wiped out. His dirge was published in The Chimp newspaper to mark the 3rd year memorial service of Bellema. Martins went on reading through the elegy, his own words constructed and written by him. ‘A young star snatched by the ugly claws of death. Do I say to God be the glory, with regrets we announce the death of Bellema West who passed away on the 30th of October, 2005 on her flight aboard Briso airlines back home for the holiday?’ He began to reminisce that day. The big bird missed the runway; hit the culvert dispersing its consignment over a huge distance of 1000meters. Without a doubt, the precious human cargo never arrived the oil city. Death played a fast trick on him, stealing away the good fortune Bellema stored up for her generation and more to come. Martins whispered the words slowly beneath his breath, as he continued to read through those lines. ‘Am I speaking to myself?’ he asked rhetorically. He was now loud enough to hear himself. ‘I wish it indeed was a trick. This deep cut that has left a lasting scar in the hearts of many. It remains for me an un healing wound that reopens just at the glance of any child in her early teens. Do parents live to bury their children or the other way round? Life is just an unfair place full of its unjust judgements. How does one explain the game of love cut short by the fiery claws of untimely death? It’s unexplainable. A country with its developmental pattern structured to slight the citizens’. Martins realised he had really been talking to himself in the past 2 minutes. He sought to write down his feelings as another article for publication. ‘Who knows it could touch somebody highly placed?’Martins expressed his wishful thinking. In his words again, he continued to write................................. I barely had an idea of what was about to happen. If only my intuition hadn’t failed me that day. I focus on my goals and aspirations in life. There’s this pursuit right in front of me. I remember that day clearly like today as I scribble down my thoughts. My heart is pained. There’s this sharp pain slicing through every fibre of my being. Why must these memories stick? I remember that sudden loud bang that ushered thick clouds of smoke into the sky. My heart skips a beat even at the slightest thought of that sound. No, it’s not what I am thinking. What fell off the sky? Could it be a hot-air balloon or another bomb explosion in the military cantonment? Even God seating on his throne must have wondered who sent those missiles to his people on October 30th, 2005. Little angels, innocence, presidents of nations, CEOs of organisations, ministers of the faith, Nigeria’s next inventors, all trapped in flames. I thought I could hear Bellema’s cries amidst the confusion. An irreparable loss, she’s gone with the wind and gone way too soon. This little one had daddy’s dreams bottled in her. Mummy’s emblem in her absence; I thought she was God’s replacement to me for the death of my soul mate and wife, Bellisma during child birth 13 years ago. Let me speak for another father who lost his first son. For him, he was that growing up little daddy. I am confused now. I found in my palms the photo frame of my lovely child. How did this get to me? Was he also aged 13 years? Let’s imagine death mistook him for a full grown man. I would like to think so for one reason and that is, mistake. His classmate asked aloud in simplicity, ‘why did God let the devil do this?’ Bad things happen to good people. My pen has come to a compulsory halt. I lay on my back, with face up to the ceiling. I feel those warm tears rolling down my cheeks from the corners of my eyes. I am in dire need of one to help figure out why these tears are uncontrollable. If only someone would take out time as to the reasons. I must write. Yes, I will continue to write amidst the wet pages of my book. I am a ready writer even as my tears smudge the ink from my wet pen. Now those days pass by like every other day. No one mentions anything. It’s disheartening that the government doesn’t owe us, the parents of this futile incident any explanations. Just speculations and rumours. where is the black box? Many unanswered questions I ask on behalf of my daughter in those flames. No statue or memorials for the loss of a nation’s foundation. No holidays set aside to ponder, in honour of the gone soldiers. Brave soldiers, who fought against the biting sting of death, even in death. How short can a nation’s memory be? Now, I remain a victim left to suffer my loss and pains all alone. What wrong did I commit to have scheduled my only daughter on this trip? Was I wrong to have trusted in the aviation industry of my beloved country Nigeria? Perhaps, they just needed the last bloody air crash to put down an authorised foot on the revamping of the aviation industry? I console myself with the fact that I lost one even though; she was all I lived for. A whole part of me is disappeared. What are the right words to comfort the parents who lost all three of their children aboard that same flight? Or the President and staff of Loyola Jesuit College had lost 60 children? For doubting Thomas’ like me, our convictions were strengthened in the consolation message of the school’s President letting us know that we had done the best for our kids. Truly, it was glaring that the Nigerian system, aviation industry, the nation as a whole had let us down. Have the lessons of this great irreparable loss been learnt by the so called giant of Africa? My beautiful daughter was still in her blue uniform with little or no physical damage when I identified her. Doctors say she died of suffocation. No ambulances were there when it crashed. Stories have it that, a truck was used to carry bodies of the injured and the dead together. I know Bellema would have survived if not for a nation’s carelessness. This might well have led to the avoidable death of some of those seriously injured. To think that some bodies were never positively identified? I seat and compare my dear country with little London barely six hours away. Survivors at the crash land of flight BA038 from Beijing at Heathrow airport reported that rescue team came to them 5mins after crash landing. The Department for Transport's Air Accidents Investigation Branch immediately launched an investigation to reasons for the crash. Is there value for human life in Nigeria? This must not happen again. No one must taste these marks of pain I carry. I am still hurting. In the words of a great poet; Sliced twice on the inside Two thrown dice, what sour ride? Mistake already made ‘Miss Kate’ can’t fade Miss sure through all did wade Mishap, farewell she bade Is this how I am rewarded for my citizenship? Those children were the lost hope of Nigeria. They were the Titans; a people of exceptional importance and reputation. Children, who were already set on the right path to becoming the future leaders of a new Nigeria, but for their short lives. I dare to challenge friends of Bellema, age mates, classmates and school mates out there, try to keep the hope alive. Her death mates didn’t die for nothing but an exchange for significant change in a new era. It was indeed a Crash of the Titans. The Titans are gone with the wind. The onus now lies on you.
Written By Mma Labelle Onyemelukwe in loving memory of 60 LJC students who died aboard Sosoliso1145 on Saturday December 10, 2005.
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
# 
Your Comments
Please make The Square an enjoyable experience for everyone by refraining from gratuitous ad-hominem contributions, defamatory comments and off-topic posting. Such posts will be removed.