TRIBUTE TO MY FRIEND PATRICK
The death of my friend and brother Patrick was a painful, slow and tragic death which shattered me and left me in stitches. Aside Patrick being an important friend to me, it is excruciating that he has died after the much suffering he had to endure. Like the proverbial dry meat, it has filled my mouth with grief and left me utterly speechless.
I first met Patrick on Facebook, where we became very good friends since we thought alike in many aspects, and he loved my writing and always made sure to say it. We had a deep love for our Igbo roots and even shared similar political views. Patrick lived in Port Harcourt, and so when he got to know that for much of 2017 and 2018, I was coming to Port Harcourt for the PHLS literary evening and Open mic, he began to come alongside Amara Agwuncha, my friend who is also his long-time friend. The first time I saw Patrick in 2018, I came to love him more because dude had a charming smile, and his photographs did not do him justice. He smiled unabashedly when we discussed, and he didn’t hesitate to let our camaraderie flow. On that day, he was holding an invoice of a building project which a contractor handed him. And Amara was complaining quietly about how some contractors are wicked because the man who had given Patrick the job was requesting an extravagant cut. Typical of the zoo, isn’t it? Anyway, we got talking. It was a lovely circle, the three of us when we had time to ourselves, usually in between and after the open mic events as we went home. We talked about books and our love for literature. Patrick prided himself as an engineer who loves poetry. Amara had always been a literature student, and she would talk about how the Owerri Library was more impressive than the PHLS library and all that. Each time I was coming for PHLS literary evening, I made it a point of duty to remind these friends of mine because they made it fun for me. Even our political arguments, because Patrick and I are Pro Biafrans and Amara isn’t. We argued, we disagreed, but this did not subtract from our friendship.
These two persons are so important and beloved to me. They have both told me lovely things about myself and about my writing which made me believe in myself more. And some of them, I can’t spell out verbatim, because to an extent, I would think I am narcissistic in what ought to be a tribute. There was great love and admiration in the friendship between Patrick and me. Since last Thursday, when I heard of his demise, I can barely remember our conversations as we both went home together without shedding tears, even how he used to pay both my fare and his. It was at times, like moving along with an elder brother. As I write this, I can barely hold back my tears.
I remember when I told Patrick I was coming to Obigbo and would love us to meet, and he agreed. And eventually, when I was around, Patrick had to cancel our meeting because he was sick. And of course, sickness is normal. But how was I to know that it was the beginning of the end? I remember our last meeting before I began hearing of this sickness; I had asked Patrick about work, and coyly, he told me there was nothing for now, but hopefully, there will be a lot soon. How was I to know Patrick that even as you appeared vibrant that day and gave me a lot of advice as we went home together that you were already fighting that ailment? I began to know the extent of your illness when each time I asked of you, you kept mentioning the illness and honestly, it wasn’t funny.
And despite all of these, in March when Patrick saw my post about Chigozie Obioma coming to read his second novel in PHLS and how I was going to be there, Patrick came around. I remember screaming when I saw him outside the event hall when I came out. But my happiness was diluted by the Patrick whom I saw, who had become a shadow of the tall, handsome engineer, full of smile. Patrick, I remember how you told me of everything that you had been going through and how no doctor had so far been able to decipher was wrong with you, or how the supposed food poison was affecting you, and how they were dabbling between a few kinds of prognoses, and how you had done over 12 HIV tests, all of which came out negative. I remember with pains how you narrated to me how you were tired of them passing tubes through both ends of your alimentary canal. How you had cried. And prayed. And done everything and it was as though it was all nothing, but most importantly, I remember how hopeful you were on the next meeting you had with the next doctor you were meeting at UPTH. I was happy to see you buy a copy of Chigozie Obioma’s The Fishermen and I remember telling you you’ll buy my book too. The book you have always encouraged me to write.
Things indeed changed. It is true that I have come less frequently and less frequently to Port Harcourt. And we were far apart. But dear Patrick, you were in my prayers. I remember holding midnight prayers, where I pleaded with God to save you for me. Honestly, all of these leaves me speechless and in stitches. I know there is more I could have done. I know I could have done better than the phone calls which only passed hints of your deteriorating condition. And two Sundays ago, where first I was startled from sleep by your thoughts and later again, in the afternoon, I had that premonition. When I called, and your line was unavailable, I left messages on your WhatsApp and all mediums, hoping you would reach me back. But as it happened, I will never hear from you again. I will never see your beautiful smile again, I will not hear your words of encouragement again, and I will not see you come watch me read my poems in PHLS again. I know I failed you, Patrick. I could have done much more, I know. But I love you, Bro. My love may be imperfect, but I believe you can see my heart now, and you can tell.
Patrick, you were beautiful, you were a gift to me. I will always remember all the good times. Thank you for coming into my life and making me believe in myself. I will remember you as a warrior who fought to the very last. I will not forget you. I will honour you in my stories and in their perpetuation of our shared passions. I love you, Bro, now and forever. Farewell into the light of God’s glory and that of our ancestors, where there is no pain. You live on in my heart Bro. I love you
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