Welcome! If you're yet to subscribe, kindly do so with this button. Also, remember to leave a like and a comment.
Dear Bolu,
Your friend walks up to you to express his sincere sympathy because perhaps he's been in your shoes before or he has read a popular book or seen a movie in some ambient cinema about the tragedy of our insufferable souls. He says he's sorry, not out of guilt because it wasn't his fault—he had no hand or feet in your mother’s death. But he's saying it in a frantic, trembling sequence of words because he almost completely sees and feels your desperation. He says he's sorry and that you can rely on him for anything. He says it with unmistakable genuineness and an invisible cloak of calm that guards against and keeps at bay, the welling spring of sadness within him. You see this as a one-man pity party through your fancy-coloured glasses already rendered useless by the unsettled mist in your eyes and the terrible heaviness in your heart. You tell him you don't want his pity and he asks you what you want. Again, he's fiercely fighting his fragilities in hopes that it will, in some conceivable, realisable way, make you feel any better. But therein lies the problem. You don't know what you want. You don't know what will make you feel better. You're like debris floating in space timelessly and aimlessly. Lost. You're not quite sure what you want. If you were handed a list of a thousand options, you couldn't muster up the sanity to pick one. You're lost, like Milton's Paradise. Lost.
I wonder what prompts life to remind us of the inevitability of tragedy. I wonder whether there is a timer or a countdown clock somewhere that is never too late to contrive and manifest an event in our delicate lives that would leave us lost—not in wonderment as one would be while watching a space odyssey—but in despair. I wonder if there is some buffet of misfortune in some banquet of pain that we've all been invited to and are obligated to attend if we'd like to keep our precious lives. I wonder if on the walls of the corridors that lead to the banquet there are inscribed—in words too familiar to be mistaken and colours too evident to be ignored—the great tragedies of mankind. I wonder what the criteria for getting one's life story on those walls are. I wonder if the loss of your innocence in another's thighs features on this historical wall. I wonder if the rapid continuous decline and overall diminishing optimism that characterize this colossal nation can be seen on this wall. I wonder what makes a great tragedy. I wonder if death is the ultimate tragedy. I wonder then if tragedy is a burden to be borne only by the living as those who are gone do not feel the tragedy of their own departure. I wonder if tragedy necessarily accompanies attachment. I wonder if the intensity of the attachment varies strongly and dependently with the intensity and tragicness of the tragedy. I wonder if love, being in some measure the ultimate attachment, is the recipe for the most devastating and unwelcomed tragedy. I wonder then, if the opposite is true, that we heartily wish for the tragedies that befall those we loathe.
I wonder if the lights in these banquet halls are lights or simply holes in a shroud of darkness. I wonder if the chandeliers hanging from the space above us—like drool from a toddler's mouth—are a conscious attempt to decorate this madhouse or a convenient invitation for us to hang what's left of our improperly configured bodies. I wonder if the music reverberating all around us is composed specifically to lure us into a hallucinatory trance that eases our anxiety about the tragedy ahead of us and allays our apprehensions about the feast of pain before us. I wonder if we'd be asked to dance with deathy dancers and if they'd give in opposite measure, pain that is equal to the pleasure gotten from dirty dancers. I wonder why we have to be masked at these gatherings. I wonder why the masks that accompanied our invitations were designed to mimic happy faces. I wonder if all we get to see when we gaze upon fellow guests are masked depictions of a cheerful fellow hiding underneath, a human being in unfathomable distress.
I wonder who the host of this depressing gala is. I wonder who finds pleasure in convening a faux mandatory engagement where pain is the order of the day and chaos, the night. I wonder who sent invites to us all in envelopes full of empty promises, on a chilly weepless night, and via a violently whipped chariot. I wonder who thought it pleasant to drag us out of our dreamy fantasies into the reality of loss, where the wind is bitter on our dry, cracked, bloodied lips. I wonder why they had no respect for the season and never got—and even if they did, they never respected— the memo that Christmas is the season to be jolly. I wonder why they force us to be their welcomed guest when we are playing host to the time of our lives. I wonder what their deepest motivations are. I wonder why they're never quick to take a break and forever hesitant to give us one.
Well.

Pardon my despairing wonderments. It's simply very often the case that tragedies try to squeeze out every single ounce of joy we have, and I thought it'd be worthwhile to put up some resistance. I find these wonderments a bit ridiculous, and there's a fair bit of pleasure to be derived from ridiculing that which brings tears to one's face isn't there, dear friend?
As far as tragedies go, we're often told how to handle them if we were related to the affected person. We're often told how to process loss and navigate the stages of grief when a friend, sibling, child, parent, or acquaintance passes away. That's great and helpful and necessary. Not much word is often said, however, about we who are friends—or related in any personal way—to people who have lost a loved one. Yes, it's tough for the one who has lost someone and it'd be stupid to downplay the accompanying pain, but it's not always easy for us who are close to them either. Be there for them. That's all we're told to do. If your friend has lost someone, try to be there for them. But that can be hard sometimes.
"Folasade just lost her mom".
You're close friends with her but not with her mom. You hear the news and it alters your mood even if it's just a bit. You may choose to give her space. Noble, right? It could be. But it could also be that you don't have the courage to be with her. You may be scared. You may be unwilling or unable to see your friend broken. Perhaps you have buried emotions you don't want to exhume and confront, or there are relics of your past you’re inadequately equipped to combat, and therefore, unwilling to revive. Perhaps you're simply unsure of what to do, and you're taking the easy route—doing nothing at all. Perhaps it's just the convenient thing to do. But say you decide to reach out to her. Do you send an SMS? Do you put a call through? Say you do either, you're not quite sure what to say to her. Do you ask her how she's doing? Is that sensitive or insensitive? Do you say you're sorry for her loss and she can rely on you if she needs anything? That seems like a standard thing to do but it very often leaves you feeling like you're not doing enough because she'll probably say she doesn't need anything. You may want to pay her a visit, she may say she needs some time to herself. You know it's not about you at all but you can't help but feel somewhat inadequate. A friend could be suffering, and there's little you can do about it. It's not always a good place to be. In fact, it never is.
There's no shortage of tragedies in life. They come, and they keep coming. For us, for everyone, they come. They are hard on us, and our loved ones sometimes get caught in the crossfire. And I’m not sure what can be done about it, dear friend.
Fin.
Thanks for reading! I’m delighted you made it here. If you liked this issue of Dear Bolu, you can sign up here so that new issues get sent directly to your inbox.
If you really liked it, do tell a friend about it.
Also, remember to leave a like or a comment!
Write you soon, merci !
- Wolemercy