Survivor's Guilt
Prose by Ubong Johnson
My mother has me visit her newly widowed sister, Auntie Marara, in town thrice every week because I am good company Aunty loves.
Auntie loves that I ease her loneliness and make her happy with my chattering. That I smile like a child even though I just turned seventeen.
When we sit to talk, I imagine that she wishes evening never comes. That way, I won't have to leave.
“Don't leave today.” Auntie always says: “Please, sleep over.”
But though these words sadden me, and I wish I could stay a little longer with her, I can't oblige. I have to leave; return to my mom in the village and help take care of my baby brother.
Today, when just after doing the dishes I walk into Aunty's room to tell her, as usual, that it's time to leave, I can sense that this isn't just her usual crying about her husband and the things she sees when I'm gone. It's more. Strangely so.
I will ignore the urge to probe, though, and mumble: “Oh, you know I have to leave. Please, don't cry.”
Then, I will leave.
My mind doesn't let go of Aunty Marara all through the drive back home. As if it can sense her neighbors will call my mother's phone in two days to say Aunty is gone.
As if it can tell her suicide note will read: “I am gone to meet my child. My husband. I wasn't meant to survive that accident.”
Auntie loves that I ease her loneliness and make her happy with my chattering. That I smile like a child even though I just turned seventeen.
When we sit to talk, I imagine that she wishes evening never comes. That way, I won't have to leave.
“Don't leave today.” Auntie always says: “Please, sleep over.”
But though these words sadden me, and I wish I could stay a little longer with her, I can't oblige. I have to leave; return to my mom in the village and help take care of my baby brother.
Today, when just after doing the dishes I walk into Aunty's room to tell her, as usual, that it's time to leave, I can sense that this isn't just her usual crying about her husband and the things she sees when I'm gone. It's more. Strangely so.
I will ignore the urge to probe, though, and mumble: “Oh, you know I have to leave. Please, don't cry.”
Then, I will leave.
My mind doesn't let go of Aunty Marara all through the drive back home. As if it can sense her neighbors will call my mother's phone in two days to say Aunty is gone.
As if it can tell her suicide note will read: “I am gone to meet my child. My husband. I wasn't meant to survive that accident.”
About the Writer
Ubong Johnson is a doctor-in-training and storyteller. He is fascinated by the possibilities of storytelling. He plays four musical instruments and sometimes sings well.
