Goodbyes From a Distance

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I feel strange if you ask me. Losing someone who is family but who you didn’t really know.

My uncle died in December, and now today, they’re burying him in Kogi State. I’ve heard so much about him, about the things he did, the kind of man he was. People speak of him with reverence, with love, like he was someone everyone looked up to.

But the truth is, I didn’t know him that way. I didn’t share those memories with him; I didn’t grow up with him. He was more like a name in the family, but distant.

Now, I’m left with a flood of questions.

How do I feel about his passing?

Am I supposed to feel this deep sorrow, this ache that others around me seem to be carrying so easily?

There’s almost this pressure, a silent expectation, to feel something grand, to join in the mourning. But my heart doesn’t quite know how to react. I feel something, yes, but it’s not the raw, intense grief I see in others.

It’s more of a quiet sadness, the kind that comes with the knowledge that a person who could have been part of your life is gone, but who never really was.

I think about my uncle and wonder what it would’ve been like if I had known him better.

What if we had spent more time together, had conversations that weren’t just small talk at family gatherings?

Would I be feeling more connected to the loss?

Would I understand the grief others are carrying with them today?

I know that death has a way of making people seem bigger, more significant than they were when they were alive, and maybe that’s part of what’s happening here.

His death made me realize how little I truly knew him and how time slipped away, how we all grow distant without even meaning to.

Family in Nigeria, is a powerful thing. There’s this strong sense of duty, a feeling that we must be there for each other, no matter how far apart we’ve drifted.

Today, my uncle’s children, his siblings, his friends, are all mourning him in a way that feels foreign to me. I don’t have that deep connection with them either, but we share a history, a bloodline, a past that ties us together.

And somehow, even though I wasn’t close to him, I know that his passing is a reminder.

A reminder that time is short.

That we don’t always get to spend the moments we wish we could with the people who matter, and that one day, you’ll find yourself standing at a funeral, feeling the weight of the people you never got to truly know.

It’s strange, because I don’t know whether I should be crying or trying to hold myself together. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to feel this deep loss or if my emotions are meant to be reserved for when someone closer passes away.

But I realize now that grief isn’t something that can be measured by how close you were to a person. It’s more than that. It’s a moment that makes you look at your own life and your own relationships.

Maybe, in a way, my uncle’s death is a reminder to reconnect with the family I’ve lost touch with. To call, to visit, to ask about the things we should have talked about long ago.

Today, as they bury him, I’m reminded of the fragile nature of life. How things can change in an instant, how we can get so caught up in our own worlds, and in the end, we’re all just trying to make sense of the time we have left.

Maybe, for me, the grief isn’t loud or overwhelming, but it’s there. It’s in the quiet moments when I think of what could have been, of the relationships that could have been nurtured, of the time I didn’t spend with someone who shared the same blood. And that, in itself, is a kind of loss.

But today, I stand with my family, even from afar, and I acknowledge the loss, not just of my uncle, but of the space we allow between us when we take time for granted.

The loss is in the missed chances, the things left unsaid, and the time that slips through our fingers.

So, even though I didn’t know my uncle as well as others did, his death has become a small nudge, a reminder of the bonds I need to strengthen, of the family I need to reconnect with, before it’s too late.

It’s not about grand gestures of grief; sometimes, it’s in the quiet reflection, in the moments of thought where we find meaning in the loss, however personal or distant it might feel.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Idowu Ajisafe
May you rest well in the arms of Jesus in heaven. Though we didn’t share much time together, your passing has reminded me of the importance of family, of love, and of time.

My condolences to your children, to your siblings, and to everyone who knew you deeply. May God comfort us all during this difficult time.

Rest Easy, Uncle. You’re loved.