I awoke this morning to find my mother standing at the edge of my bed. This was normal for her, but she had this look in her eyes as if she had just stared into the face of nothingness and Obatala all at once (I shouldn't use that word; my teacher gets mad at me when I invoke anything non-Christian, but I have more on my mind right now). She did not say anything, she only gave me my things and sent me on my way to school.
My day, it was normal. I paused during lunch to think back to the look in mother's face, but I thought little of it at the time.
By the time I got home, I had just sat down in front of the TV when mother spoke the news.
"Amadi is dead," she said.
As my conscious mind processed this, I could feel, deep within me, all my happy memories begging to be let out. I wanted them to happen again, to live in them. Amadi lives across the street from us. He's like an uncle to me. He is the reason I feel so strongly for my beliefs; he believes religion is the most important part of human culture, and he has this way of speaking of Olódùmarè that makes you smile and think This man has seen God in ways no Christian or Muslim ever could.
That was offensive. I'm sorry.
I'm still grieving.
But I write for a reason. Amadi was found in his house last night with a noose. He died peacefully, even if I disagree with his methods. He did everything peacefully. He was a kind old man who would give every kobo he had if he thought it would make a difference in someone's life, whether it was the life of the men who threw stones at him for his beliefs, or whether it was the life of the girl across the street from him who wanted to afford her school textbooks.
I write to make sense of my feelings. Please, Eshu, help me make sense of this which you have given me.
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