I’ve thought about dying more times than I can count. I’ve thought about dying painfully and painlessly. I’ve thought of dying at a young age and I’ve thought of dying old. On some days, I think about dying the next minute or right in that time.

I’ve painted gory scenarios of my death. Once, while riding at the back of an okada in the express road, I imagined rods at the back of the green old van in front of us getting loose and piercing our heads with such force that it would form a perfect circle on our foreheads.

I’ve conjured peaceful ones as well, so you don’t think I’m weird. I’ve imagined dying while dreaming of the last thing that made me happy; my Mezie, lying on my bare chest, playing with my nipples, and telling me bad dad jokes. I’d be laughing as well, not because the jokes are funny
but because of how he tells them; serious and without a smile on his face.

My sister, Anwuli, will be the first to notice when it happens. She’ll call me but I won’t answer. She’ll shake me but I will not budge. And because she’s a doctor, Anwuli will check my pulse and feel nothing. She’ll check my skin and feel how cold I’ve become and she’ll know that I died way into the night. She’d try to compose herself as she tells my parents softly amidst tears, “Jidenne anwuola“. My mother will immediately ask her to shut up. My father will stare at her in disbelief. But when they get to the room I share with my sister and see me lying there lifeless with a smile on my face, they will see it is true. My mother will break down screaming my name. My father will shake his head and call it a tragedy. But I won’t see it as one. It will be the best last day of my life.

People say it is grief that has made me insane. You may, as well. I don’t know who you all think you are to define insanity. I am perfectly sane. Yes, I admit I was in grief when I mourned my Mezie for 3 weeks.
We married young and deeply in love. I was eighteen and he was twenty-three and accomplished. Neither of us knew life would give us just 2 years to be together. When I was called to identify my husband’s body, I broke into the many cuts I saw on his skin. I was a living corpse throughout the 3 weeks my husband slept in the mortuary. But once they put that beautiful gold plated casket 6 feet deep in the ground, I stopped grieving. My mother thought it’s unnatural for me to have woken up the next day, my face bright with make-up, wearing my expensive yellow lace Buba gown. She screamed at me to go back inside and wear any black dress. “Ara o na-emee gi!? Is madness doing you!?”. And you all think I’m mad. Who shouts at a grieving woman!?

My sister tried to understand why I stopped. She called it a defence mechanism against sorrow. She had said I was killing myself internally by refusing to feel the pain.

Me? Kill myself!? Hahahaha! And you all think I’m mad.

As I said, I’ve imagined different ways I could die. But never in my twenty years spent on this Earth did I think I’ll go this way. Before I tell you how I died, I hope you understand that I’m not a deranged woman. I’ve never been mad.

I’ll start by telling you that my Mezie never died. Whoever they put in that casket for the Earth to swallow and the worms to feed on was not my Mezie. While they put that stranger in there, my husband stood by my side and held my hand. Yes! He was there with me witnessing his imposter’s burial in his father’s compound. After all that display of emotions, some sad and some comical, the ceremony came to an end and I took my husband to our room.
“I knew you’d never leave me”, I had said as I looked at him. He smiled and kissed my neck. That was his way of saying he wants me and I gave him all of me as he took me with every deep thrust.

I did not tell my family that my Mezie was alive. Even after we left the village and my husband sat beside me at the back of our car, they didn’t know he was there holding me and making me laugh as he told his jokes.
“We need to take her to that doctor Emelia recommended. Or even that prophet in Asaba. Look at her laughing to herself. She is not even wearing
black!”, my mother complained to my father.
“Jide”, my father called me softly. “Aru odikwa gi? Are you alright?”
“Yes, daddy”, I replied giddily.
I could see concern reflected in my father’s eyes through the rear view mirror. My mother started crying. She could not understand. My Mezie was here with me.

I never imagined dying the way I died. You’d think dying in your
sleep is peaceful until you die in the arms of the one you love.
My Mezie had been with me for 3 weeks, laughing, playing, and making love to me. Everyone around me thought I was mad. I’ll be disappointed if you’re thinking that as well.

One beautiful night while we laid down on our bed wrapped in each other’s naked bodies, My Mezie told me that he was going on a journey and he didn’t think he would come back. I asked him where he was going and he said it didn’t matter unless I went with him.
“Remember our dream vacation”, he said. “Let’s go there and away from all this”.
The thrill of it! Just me and my Mezie. Of course, I said yes. You would have, wouldn’t you?.
So when he handed me the rope and said we should tie our necks to the ceiling fan, I did not hesitate. I didn’t even pause to ask him why. Which woman in her right sense would do that?

As we dangled on that rope together, my Mezie asked, “Do you know you’re dying?”

“I don’t care”, I replied softly, “Death cannot exist when we are together”.
He smiled as he kissed me, and then I let go of my body. You may think I am dead but I know I’m not.

Love conquers death, or so they say. I know that now. Do you?