When the Earth Carried Her to God

I was on a call with my maternal grandmother few days back, and as always, she wrapped me in the warmth of my roots, singing eulogies of my background, weaving praises like a skilled griot passing down history. In the midst of her melodic words, she called me "Ọmọ Iya Alalubosa."

That name—Ọmọ Iya Alalubosa—is a title I wear with pride, a name given to me by the extended family of my father’s household. It carries weight, wrapped in memory and lineage. Iya Alalubosa was my father's grandmother (may she rest easy). I lived with her for a brief yet unforgettable time when I was very young—so young that my parents were still trying to find their footing in life, occupied with work and the demands of youth.

I cannot say for certain if I was sent there for the holidays or if there was another reason, but what I do know—what I remember with an unshakable certainty—is that I bonded with her in a way that even now, the entire household teases me about. They would laugh and say I was her shadow, always clinging to her wrapper, always following her every move as if the world outside of her embrace did not exist.

And then, one day, she was gone.

Not gone as in a trip to the market or a visit to a neighbor’s house. No. Gone.

But I did not understand it. I was still in the same house, still waking up to the same voices and the same morning bustle, yet something was missing—she was missing. I asked my parents. I asked my uncles, my aunties, even the household help, “Where is Iya Alalubosa?”

They told me, gently but firmly, that she had gone to greet God.

It made perfect sense to me. A woman as kind, as loving, as wise as she was—it was only natural that God would invite her for a visit. But then, a question formed in my little mind, innocent and sincere:

"When is she coming back?"

They all hesitated not to know when she'll be back.

And so, I waited. I waited because I missed her. I waited because I was sure visits, no matter how long, always ended with a return. But in the days that followed, something puzzled me. I saw them lower a large, white-wrapped figure into a deep, yawning hole in the earth. I watched in silence, confusion resting heavy on my small shoulders.

Maybe this was how people went to see God. Maybe they wrapped themselves up, lay very still, and let the earth carry them to Him.

It wasn’t until I grew older, when the innocence of childhood gave way to the understanding of life’s harsher truths, that I realized she was never coming back. That the wrapped body lowered into the ground was not just anyone, but her.

The heart of a child is a beautiful thing—naïve, untouched by the sharp edges of reality, wrapped in love and ignorance. And for the longest time, mine believed in the possibility of return.

But some journeys have no road back.

And that, I learned, is what we call death.