Issue #29: Tayo - One Year On
It has been a year since my heart shattered into a million pieces. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was cleaning my bathroom, as is my routine when suddenly, the song blasting from...
It has been a year since my heart shattered into a million pieces. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was cleaning my bathroom, as is my routine when suddenly, the song blasting from the speaker connected to my phone was interrupted by a call. I dried my hands, picked up my phone, and answered the call I wish I never received.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello, Allen,” the voice began. “I’m so sorry. I heard your friend, Tayo, died this morning.”
My heart started racing. “Which Tayo?” I asked, my voice raised.
“Tayo Amosun. I am so sorry. I thought you already knew. I am—”. I couldn’t listen anymore, for it felt like my soul had left my body. I dropped my phone, dropped to my knees, and started wailing. I have never felt pain as intensely as I experienced that day. I didn’t believe he had died until I saw sent a video of him being interned the next day, wrapped in white sheets, according to Muslim rites. I never got to say goodbye to him.
It has been three hundred and sixty-five days of grief, each day a new initiation with pain. I have sat with my grief, dined with it, conversed with it, walked with it, and asked it questions. I have known it, yet understand that what I know is but a speck. I haven’t fully grappled with its immensity.
Grief still steals up on me. Some days it appears that the heavy clouds are parting to let some sunshine in, and suddenly, without notice, grief rains on my parade, dampening my mood. Countless times, I have found myself dancing to songs one minute and then being overwhelmed with sadness and tears the next, or I find myself taking a shower and suddenly, my eyes become filled with tears. Grief is no respecter of privacy; it doesn’t care whether you’re alone or in a crowd; it visits when it wants to visit.
I loved Tayo dearly. He was a friend that became a brother. It is why his passing hurts deeply. And I am reminded of that loss in many ways every day. I remember him when I open Netflix, and I recall that if we hadn’t spoken in a while, I’d change my Netflix password so Tayo would text or call me. It was one of the silly things we used to laugh about. I remember him when I want to listen to one of my favourite artists, Tay Iwar. I search for “Tay” on Spotify, and “Tayo Amosun” appears in the result. What was meant to be an uplifting music session turns quickly into a bittersweet one. I remember Tayo when I listen to amapiano and do the gwara gwara dance. He taught me how to do it. Tayo taught me a lot. While the value of being expressive with one’s feelings was impressed upon me by my parents, my mom especially, it was on the friendship playground with Tayo that I honed that skill. Ours was a friendship of transparency. I told him how much I valued and loved him, and he did the same.
It hasn’t all been sadness, though. I remember him sometimes and laugh at his silliness. He lived with me for a few months in 2017 after his Master’s degree, and I am grateful for that period. All we did was goof around. Uncharacteristically, I recorded a lot of our time together as if I knew our time together on earth would be cut short. It is these videos I call upon when I want to remember how jovial and full of life Tayo was. It wasn’t all banter, however. I learnt more about his kind heart, his patience, and his sternness. Tayo didn’t mince words when he thought you were being a fool.
I wrote this as a tribute and to share a few things about the Tayo I knew. Tayo, the fantastic dancer that won the best dancer award at his university preparation academy in Ogba. That boy could move like water. Tayo, the guy with a voice as sweet as honey. I wish I had agreed to his request that we record a song together. Tayo, the man who loved his family dearly. He loved his mom, wife, and sisters very much and ensured everyone knew it. Tayo, the man who always offered a word of encouragement for everyone. He knew the right things to say to uplift his friends’ souls. He had a large heart.
I miss him so much, but I hold on to the beautiful memories of him. He may have lived a short life, but it was a rich and impactful life, for Tayo touched many lives. May he continue to rest in peace.
Thank you to everyone that kept checking up on me. Thank you for the calls, text messages, and DMs. It has been the most brutal year of my life, but I keep soldering on.