GENERATED BY META AI
The room was quiet. Olamide sat still engulfed in his own thoughts. He laid there on his small bed, gazing at nothing in particular. Upon waking that morning he had the dull ache in his chest. Outside, one could hear the sound of busy traders, the too-loud horns of driver's impatience as they rushed to their places of work, and the cries of kids as mothers dragged them to their schools. But inside his room, everywhere was as quiet as his life right now. For Olamide, time was frozen, frozen back to the time where his mother was.
He knew what day it was. He didn't mark it on any calendar. He didn't need to, it was forever etched in his brain. There were no balloons, no cakes, no morning songs humming from the kitchen. But he knew. The pain he felt in his chest told him. That soft dull ache that lingered there continued to reminded him of what he no longer had.
It was her birthday.
“Mummy would have been forty one today”
He whispered quietly, desperating wishing the hands of the clock would somehow turn back.
He looked around the room—too neat, too quiet. His aunt had tidied everything the night before. Even his school bag was already packed and standing by the door. But none of it felt right. Birthdays used to be noisy.
In the time before Her birthdays always started with her soft laughter. She would wake up early before the sun would come up and sing happily in an off key voice that sounded terrible, waking us all up in the process.
“Get up! Get up! Bobo, We have birthday pancakes to fry!” She would say in an excited tone.
Although it was her birthday, she would always carry him along making it feel like it was his too.
He smiled fondly remembering the way she would always pour too much syrup while making the pancakes. How the kitchen would smell of cinnamon and ketchup. And how she would let him run around her kitchen pretending he could fly with her scarf around his neck.
She never needed gifts. Never expected surprises. She said being surrounded with her loved ones was the best gift she could ever ask of
Back then, the house was filled with her—her laughter, her care and love and most of all, her endless stories.
Olamide released a breath. The silence threatened to swallow him in it.
He searched under his pillow and brought out an old photo he always kept with him as he slept. It was a picture of him and his mother. She had one arm wrapped around him, and the other holding a spatular like a wand. Their faces were covered with flour. That day, they tried to bake a cake. It came out half-burnt and sugary, but she said, it was amazing .
His throat constricted, Tears threatened to flow down his eyes. He hadn’t cried in weeks, not since the funeral.
He remembered the last birthday she celebrated. It was a simple one. She was dressed in a little yellow dress and her lips had icing smeared all over them, she had some cake. Her voice was less stronger that year, but her laughter didn't change. She danced happily in the kitchen, even though her body shook. She didn’t let him see the pain.
After her death, everyone kept on saying, “She is now in a better place” But no one ever asked how he was doing. No one explained how difficult it would be without her.
A knock on the door broke thought process.
His Aunt Ijeoma entered, “You’re awake.”
He nodded while wiping his eyes quickly.
She looked at him closely and sat next to him quietly.
“Remembered, didn't you?” She said in a low voice.
He nodded yet again.
The silence stretched between them for some minutes then he asked suddenly, staring up at her.
“Do you miss her?”
Her eyes softened. “Every day.”
Olamide held the photo tighter.
“I’ve been thinking”, he whispered, “what if one day, I forget the sound of her voice, Or the way she usually smelled when she hugged me?” He said, his voice cracking slightly.
“You won’t,” Ijeoma said gently, rubbing his back with one hands.
“Those things stay. They may not be loud as before, but… they stay like background music.”
“Like the songs she used to play every morning on speaker?” He said with a small smile
“Exactly.”
“I still hear them sometimes. When it’s really quiet.”
She wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “Then you’re doing it right. Remembering her.”
He gently rested his head against her, feeling the lack in his chest was still there, but warmer. Also less lonely.
He eventually found his way into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of the zobo. He drank it slowly like what his mother always told him, "If you rush sweetness, you will miss it."
He took one more look at the photo and said softly, "happy birthday mama."
There was no reply. No music. No laughter echoing from the hall. But somehow, he felt her in the warmth of the juice. In the syrupy taste of memory.
In the time before, she had been the sun of his world.
But now, even in her absence, her light still reached him.
And he knew—he would carry it always.
