By Francis Ewherido
In the 80s, I just loved Osita Osadebe’s hit song, Osondi, owendi. I never really knew the meaning until around 1986 or 1987 when the legend came to the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, to perform. I just had to attend the show, but before the day, I decided to find out the meaning of the song to enable me to enjoy it more. I was kind of subdued when I was told that Osondi, Owendi means “it pleases some and displeases others,” or “one man’s meat is another man’s poison.” It can also be interpreted to mean some rejoice while others mourn. I was subdued knowing the meaning. It was at variance with the sweet melody I enjoyed so much. Anyway, I still went to the show and thoroughly enjoyed myself. But the meaning has continued to remind me of the irony of life.
This week was a mixed bag. The DP of my old friend’s, (more like a sister) WhatsApp sent shivers down my spine. I reached out to her, but she did not respond. But the story that the DP inferred was not good. The DP was the photo of a friend’s late wife, who happens to be her brother-in-law, and my friend’s daughter who recently got married. I was too scared to probe further, but I had no choice. She still refused to take my calls. I got frustrated and called my friend directly. He was apparently devastated and it showed in his voice. He lost his daughter, a young and intelligent young lady, a graduate who became a chartered accountant at 23. He lost his dearly beloved wife in August 2019. It was a tough loss for him because the family was well bonded. Now the daughter has followed her mother in the same August barely four years later (I am withholding the family name because the family has not formally made any announcement). I did not know what to say. You know, it is easy to quote bible verses when you are consoling the bereaved. When it hits you, you forget the same bible verses.
I remember when my father died in 1988 and my mother went berserk. One of our very close family friends, who is more like a daughter to my mother, was among those who were with my mother. Some years earlier, her very promising husband had died in an accident. My mother was one of those who stood by her to help her cushion the effects of the sudden loss of her husband who was in his early 40s at best. She was now consoling my mother, but my mother was inconsolable. “Mama, it is me, Felicia, consoling you o! You remember you were also the one who consoled me when my husband died.” But my mother did not notice her presence.
These days, when I console bereaved people, I do not preach any bible. I do not do long talk. I am okay with simply expressing my condolences and allowing the bereaved to breathe. Bereavement is hell. You can easily become an irritant with long talks. Too much preaching can also make the bereaved say in her mind, “why you no go run your mouth? If e happen to you, you go know how far.”
I was still on that when the news broke of a young doctor, Oghenevwaire Diaso, who died in an elevator accident. I was immediately saddened because I know what it takes to bring up a child to be become a graduate. Diaso’s life was blown out before blossoming like a candle in the wind. Ab initio, it was apparent that her death was caused by negligence and gross dereliction of duty. In Nigeria, ethnicity has become a heightened issue, but there was no ethnicity in this matter. It was just pure negligence and dereliction of duty. But it did not take time before it was established that she is Urhobo from Ewhu, my hometown. That was when I called my mother. Once I mentioned the family name, she confirmed that they are not only from Ewhu, but Ekrunrophori, my maternal grandmother’s quarters. My mother knew Diaso’s grandfather very well because they grew up together there. At this point, the loss became more personal.
I was still on this when my high-flying young friend, who is more like a daughter called me on Saturday morning. I was surprised she was calling me with her Nigerian number. Normally, the very level-headed and respectful Tega would call me from the US before coming to Nigeria. After the short pleasantries, she said, “uncle, I know you will not be happy to hear it from somewhere else. My daddy is dead.” I was momentarily thrown off balance. Then I expressed my condolences. She was unbelievably close to her father, Sir P. O. Ejegbavwo, but I told Tega that in spite of her closeness to her father, she must steel herself and be a comforter and pillar to her mother. “You can cry your heart out when you retire to the room, but not when you are with your mum.” The parents were very close.
On July 21, a friend I met on Facebook, Princewill Ejogharado, celebrated his eldest daughter at 36. Three days later, he made another post announcing the death of the same daughter, Maudlyn Ejogharado-Nana, a mass communication lecturer in Ogwashi Uku, Delta State. What a world!
Death of a loved one scares me. Why shouldn’t I be scared? I left my father to write my degree exams. In the midst of preparing for exams, he died. He never saw me graduate. I spoke with my late brother, Sen. Pius Ewherido, for over an hour. It was getting late and he said he was going to call our mutual friend, after speaking with me. That would be almost midnight. I told him to call our friend and I would call the next day to continue our conversation. About 45 minutes after we spoke, he had a stroke. I did not know until the next day. Our discussion was never concluded because he died a few days later. About 19 months later, I got a call that my eldest brother, Aloysius Ewherido, suffered a stroke. He died the next day. My sister-in-law, Patricia, came to Lagos to spend time with us. A very wonderful woman, you always felt her presence in the house, especially in the kitchen. One morning, she came to me. “Bros, I wan go back to Effurun.” Wetin you dey go do? Stay small now.” I pleaded, but she was adamant. That was the last time I saw her alive. I travelled to Delta, saw Moses, my brother-in-law. The next time I saw him was in the mortuary. I can go on and on. Losing a loved one is traumatising. I sincerely sympathise with all the families above and all bereaved people. I have nothing to tell you. I leave you in the hands of God, the comforter of the afflicted and the bereaved.
Why the title, Osondi, Owendi? As I was sending condolence messages this week, I was also sending congratulatory messages to those who had new babies, celebrated birthdays, got appointments and had other reasons to celebrate. As the bible says, mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who rejoice. But truly, life is osondi, owendi.
