Dust to dust.
Ashes to ashes.
So we will all return.
“Rest in peace, bros…Rest in peace, bros.”
Those were the words that came out of my mouth as I poured sand onto his body while he was given his final honour.
If you had told me exactly seven days earlier that I would be doing that, I would have bet my life that your prophecy was fake.
But I guess this shows the fickleness of human existence.
Today, you’re so healthy that doctors advise you to keep up your routine.
Tomorrow, you can be gone—leaving people confused and saying,
“I just saw him yesterday, and he looked so healthy.”
Seven days ago, on a bad Sunday, my mom walked into my room with a straight but emotional face and dropped the bombshell:
“Brother Lucky don die o.”
That Sunday—the first day of March 2026—was supposed to be a day of deep work for me.
When she walked into the room, I was sitting on my bed with AirPods on, listening to the classical piece “By the Deep Sea” by Federico Albanese. In my hands was Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill, which I was quietly reading.
The first word that came out of my mouth in response to her was:
“Finally.”
Why I said that is not something I’m willing to share now. But indeed, it was “finally.”
It felt like the strange breath of relief that comes when something painful happens—something you’ve long expected. A terrible thing, yet one that everyone somehow knew was coming. And when it finally arrives, reality settles in and acceptance begins.
I closed the book.
Still sitting on my bed, with the emotional music playing in my ears, I leaned
my head back.
Then the first tear rolled down my cheek.
Quickly another followed.
And before I knew it, I was crying like a baby.
The last time I remember crying like that was about eight to ten years ago. And it wasn’t because someone had died—it was because of the beatings I received from my mom.
Brother Lucky wasn’t just an uncle to me.
He was more than that.
I literally grew up under him. He watched over the small version of me.
He was the first—and really the only—big brother I had growing up.
He introduced my brothers and me to brotherhood.
He showed us the world and took us out to explore it.
He gave us the sense of childlike wonder that every kid deserves.
When childish playfulness turned into mischief, he chastised us.
He filled our childhood with stories, lessons, and laughter.
He filled my childhood memories.
To us kids, he was something of a fantasy—someone we wanted to become one day: someone who grew up and went out to explore the world.
Honestly, he did so much that I cannot possibly recall everything and put it all into words on paper.
But like Lucky’s mother—my aunty—kept saying while grieving:
“I thank you Baba God.”
Because Brother Lucky was indeed lucky.
He left this cruel, evil, and vile world early, in his thirties.
As I write this now, still listening to Federico Albanese’s “By the Deep Sea,” I have accepted the reality.
But accepting reality is one thing.
Living with it is another.
Living with the knowledge that you will never again see, hear, feel, or touch that loved one.
This was the first time someone truly close to me died.
I’ve known people—friends and acquaintances—who passed away. But this was the first time someone deeply close to me left this world.
So the experience was different.
And I learned a lot.
I only hope the lessons and reflections I take from this experience stay with me as I move forward—helping me become a better human being and, in whatever way I can, making the world a little better.
Ederigo, rest in the bosom of the Lord.