November 29th, our queen goes home

Emmanuel Nicholas

On the somber day of November 29, we will confront the deeply emotional and heart-wrenching reality of bidding farewell to our cherished queen.

The earth will, in a profound and almost unfathomable way, open wide to embrace her earthly form, much like a gigantic hippopotamus enveloping a massive whale.

In that moment, she will depart from our sight, ascending to join the celestial choir, where she will partake in the eternal worship of the Almighty.

Oh, how difficult it is to let her go, this virtuous soul, with a radiant glow. Though farewell brings tears and hearts that ache, her spirit will linger, in love, we partake.

As we come together to bid her a heartfelt farewell, tears will inevitably cascade down, falling softly into the earth that will embrace her final resting place.

The dust of time will gently settle upon her kind and loving heart, now at peace. While a multitude of mourners will don expressions of deep sorrow, reminiscent of the delicate dew that graces the night, there will also be those who gather in joyful remembrance of her sweetest memories.

They will celebrate the legacies she has left behind, cherishing the impact she made in her time among us, even as she departs from our midst. Ah, the queen has returned to her heavenly home, embraced by the Lord!

In this deep and overwhelming loss, I frequently find myself reflecting on how we could somehow resurrect her spirit, yearning to turn our profound grief into a joyful commemoration of her remarkable life and the beautiful moments we shared.

My thoughts take on a somewhat dramatic quality, resembling a narrative filled with inevitable achievements and triumphs. Yet, I cannot help but wonder: where are the guiding figures, the prophets, and Apostles, who might illuminate our path through this darkness?

I find myself yearning for a miracle akin to the one that Martha and Mary experienced when they saw Jesus Christ bring their brother Lazarus back to life, even though many believed he had already begun to decompose. Is it too much to hope that Our Queen might return to us?

Many nights, I have stood by my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jesus passing by, yet my human eyes have never met the master. I have gazed at the sky, yearning to see him descend to Earth again, dreaming that I might be among the first to rush to Galilee and guide him back to Akwa Ibom State for the resurrection of our gentle mother.
Oh, can I Queen, return?

She embodied the very essence of hope for the countless orphans who had lost their way, serving as a steadfast pillar of support for the grieving widows who sought solace in their time of deep sorrow.

To the most impoverished members of society, she was a compassionate caregiver, dedicating her time and energy to uplift their spirits and meet their needs.

As a role model for the emerging generation, she set an exemplary standard, inspiring young minds to aspire to greatness. Her heart overflowed with love for the elderly, treating them with the tenderness and respect they so richly deserved.

In a world filled with challenges and uncertainties, she stood out as a mother figure, unparalleled in her devotion, a true mother among a billion souls.

Her attributes always melt my tender heart, then I recall a story told to us by a man in my community who fainted and was pronounced dead for over four hours. His family, enveloped in grief, pleaded for his life to return.

Suddenly, he sneezed and awoke, only to find tears streaming down the faces of those around him; some, in shock, fled through the windows
what a faithless people!

An hour later, he recounted a remarkable experience: how his deceased father had led him to the gates of a grand building, urging him to return, reminding him of his responsibilities to his children and aging mother.

Reluctantly, he walked back, feeling his soul re-enter his body before waking up to the world once more.

I journeyed to the village of Ikot Akpa Ekop, compelled by a deep sense of reverence and urgency, to locate his family compound where I could perform the sacred traditional prayers for the intervention of her late father.

With utmost sincerity, I implored him for the safe return of his cherished daughter, beseeching him to grant that she not be taken from us during this time of greatness and flourishing.

Oh, will the ancestors heed our heartfelt pleas?

‘Obong John Inyang, Daddy, can you send back your daughter? Remember her grandchildren who need her love and care, and her husband who longs for her presence by his side.”

In a quiet room, I completed my customary prayers, hearing nothing but the echoes of my voice. I reflected on how flames had scorched the whiskers of a tiger, pondering on the fate that awaited an antelope’s tail.
Oh, our virtuous mother is gone!

The grave diggers stood ready with their shovels, indifferent to the legacy of the virtuous woman whose resting place they were preparing.

Oh, death—when will humanity triumph over you and achieve everlasting life? Such triumph feels more like a tale whispered under the moonlight or a Halloween fantasy rather than a tangible reality.

The preachers, dressed as if for a luncheon, harboured deep compassion in their hearts. They mourned her loss but continued to spread a message of hope, believing that one day, mankind would conquer death.

The singers struggled to dance to the beautiful melodies they created, weighed down by sorrow. The immense pain of loss rendered their bodies still, unable to move with the rhythm.

They dance like a man who has lost his thoughts, as their steps never match the music; some move left while others wave to the right, creating a choreography of chaos.

The children she left behind could not bear to look at the long box that contained their mother’s remains, tears streaming down their cheeks as the reality of losing such a wonderful mother left them vulnerable.

They made an effort to walk, their movements unsteady and uncertain, reminiscent of young maidens experiencing the pains of labour for the first time.

They seemed utterly defeated, much like a commander who had suffered the catastrophic loss of their entire battalion. The pallor of their faces resembled that of delicate flowers wilting under the relentless heat of the sun.

In their lamentation, they mourned the absence of their mother, wondering who would now provide the comfort, guidance, and care that they so desperately needed.

Oh, virtuous mother, can you see their pains and return?

Pastor Umo Eno, the father of the family, found himself engulfed in profound sorrow at the passing of his beloved queen.

A king, stripped of his queen, experiences a deep sense of abandonment, akin to that of an orphan wandering alone, deprived of solace and warmth.

While he endeavored to convey an image of strength and resilience to those around him, within his heart, he felt an unsettling fragility.

He managed to put forth a smile, but beneath that facade, sadness and grief clung to him, lingering like a heavy mist. In his attempts to summon words of encouragement and fortitude, his thoughts became overwhelmed, much like a sailor struggling against the relentless tide, sinking deeper into despair.

He attempts to conceal his tears behind dark glasses, but they flow freely despite his efforts. He clenches his teeth, embodying the strength of a lion, mourning the woman of his dreams and the comforter of his kind heart.

Oh, can our Queen truly remember the love you both shared and grant life a second chance?

The guests assembled, robust men of considerable stature, yet their dark goggles obscured their sorrow, their expressions mirroring the weighty atmosphere that enveloped them. They raised their voices in song, hymns resonating in the air, yet tears cascaded onto the hymn books cradled in their hands, blurring the very lyrics they sought to honour.

It is a profoundly moving sight to behold men weeping, for such displays of vulnerability reveal the depth of a loss that can never truly be replaced. Take, for instance, Pastor Umo Eno, who wept openly, his sorrow resembling that of a child.

The anguish of losing a devoted and loving wife is akin to the harrowing experience of plummeting from the summit of a great mountain into the depths of a dark valley.

The women formed circles of mourners, their emotions overwhelming as they mourned the loss of an advocate who tirelessly fought for their well-being.

Oh, a virtuous woman is gone. Her Excellency, Pastor (Mrs.) Patience Umo Eno has left us. But, please, Jesus Christ, come and perform the miracle you did for Lazarus, and bring Patience Umo Eno back to us.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, November 29 came to a close. A large gathering of clergy led her coffin to its final resting place in Ikot Expene Udo. Tears and wails filled the air, each person lost in their sorrow, providing no comfort to one another as they grappled with their profound grief.

“Dust to dust,” the preacher intoned solemnly as the casket was lowered. Meanwhile, the children, still filled with hope, pleaded for just a little more time, wishing desperately for their loved ones to return to them.

“Oh Death, when will we conquer you? When will you spare us from your grasp? We were meant for immortality, yet you have stolen our right to everlasting life.”

In their mourning, they saw their Queen, carried now by angels in a golden chariot. “You were a virtuous woman,” the Angels whispered.

“From this, we can judge that you are a saint. Pray for your husband and children, for one day, dear mother, we will conquer death.”