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BN Prose: The Last Bastion of Hope by Jibola L



The clatter of the tea cup as my shaky hand settles in back on its platter is what jars me out of my reverie. What reverie? Weirdly enough I can’t tell. For me, this moment is like one of those random days when, you wake up and for the first few seconds, you don’t know who you are. Trying to remember what I was just thinking is like trying to catch the vapor rising off the surface of this cup. But like the shadows on the very edge of my peripheral vision, it fades away when I try to grasp for it. I am looking at the ripples in the coffee cup, and thinking nothing in particular. A question bubbles to the surface of my mind, and then it sinks right back. There is a scent that mixes with that of the coffee. I take a whiff of it, and it’s gone. I am still holding the handle of the cup, I stare at the hand I hold it with. The network of veins look like a map drawing of the creeks of the Niger. The skin over it is stretched like leather over a talking drum. This can’t be me. I’m–



The finger that snapped grabbed my attention. I look up suddenly. Ranti? I don’t feel like a Ranti. I start to look around for who snapped. Something about the eyes of the woman across the table from me, catches my attention. Her. Woman. The first thing I notice is her grey hair. It matches the tufts of hair on my forearms, and then contrasts with her black-as-night skin. Her skin looks like a crumpled scroll – the lines of her face like those on the squeezed paper, and the blackheads are like ink blots from a clumsy hand. Her honey colored eyes have that lustre of having seen too many battles. She stares at me, her gaze steady. There seem to be tear tracks on her face, or maybe it’s the lighting in the room.

For the first time, I look around. We’re in an alcove, and I sit facing what seems to be a larger room. I stand, the coffee and the strange old lady briefly forgotten. The need to explore this room is greater than the need to converse with this woman. I walk past the threadbare aubergine colored setee, the rug that looks like it has seen plusher days, the calendar on the far wall to my left with 24 marked on it with red ink. Something more important has caught my interest. I walk towards it. It’s a mantle — No, it’s a multi-level glass stand. I reach my hand for what caught my eye in the first place. It is a silver gilded picture frame. In it seem to be the happiest faces, frozen in time. It’s a young man and a woman, their arms around each others’ waists. Her head rests on his left shoulder and her gapped front teeth are apparent from her toothy grin. In the distance, behind them, there is what seems to one of the four legs of the famous Eiffel tower.

I drop that, and pick another. It’s the same man and woman. They look older but with a boy and a girl — the resemblance is uncanny. They look like an African Brady Bunch. Brady Bunch? Brady Bunch. Brady Bunch. I sigh hoping that it will all come to me. There are two other smaller picture frames with the two children, they are older and dressed in flowing wine colored garbs with a funny square shaped hat, that had a golden tassel, on their heads. They both grasped tubes the color of their robes with the happiest smiles on their faces. There were more pictures but the curiosity is gone.

I walk out of the living room, and try the first door to the right in the cramped hallway. It’s a bathroom. I feel no need to relieve myself but walk in anyway. Call it vanity, call it curiosity even, but I look at the mirror. The toilet is too small for me to jump back, but I do. I honestly do not recognise the face in the mirror. I touch the cold surface and then my own face. I run my hands over the lines — over the cheeks, frown lines and the crow’s feet. I pull at the extra skin on my neck, it somehow makes me think of a chicken. Then I realize, I am that man in the pictures — the happy man. Or rather I was. What happened to him – or rather, me?

I’m mulling over this as I slip out and I’m in another room. I can’t seem to remember which door I tried. There’s love in this room. It’s not the drawn curtains that shaft funnels of sunlight in, or the neatly laid bed. It’s the littler things. It’s the way the male and female shoes are arranged in no particular order at the multi-tier shoe rack under the window. It’s in the perfume, that hangs in the air, that seems to have followed me from the table I had coffee. It’s the books piled on one of the two bedside tables. There is yet another book, open on the bed. It’s bigger than the other three. I think I recognize one of the novels – The Notebook. All I remember about it, is a sadness that clutches at my chest. Light catches on something very close to the books. I walk over and pick it up. It’s a bracelet. I bring it closer so I can inspect it.

Then it hit me.

Some say it hits you like a tonne of bricks, others say it’s like an ice cold bucket of water poured over your head. I’m not sure how to describe it.

But it hit me nonetheless. I say it like this because I double over, like I’ve been punched in the gut. I try to take deep breaths and close my eyes to try to steady the room.

I remember.

I remember it all now.

I hold the 18 Karat gold charm bracelet with silver charms on it in my hands and clasp it tight as my old bones will allow. I grasp to it like it’s all the life I have. It has 21 of those little silver cherubs on hanging from the chain of interlocking gold links. I know this because I bought it.

I, Oluwarantimi Shogunle, bought this bracelet for my wife– my wife, Gbemileke Adesola Shogunle 45 years ago.

I know without turning that she’s there behind me. It’s not the sob that wracks her throat, or how the smell of her Chanel No. 5 fills the room with her feminine strength. It’s the awareness that comes with a companionship spanning decades. I feel her warmth as she wraps her arms around me. Her podgy flesh is soft as feathered pillows. I resist the urge to sink back into her warm embrace, knowing she can’t hold us both. She’s shaking, leaving a little dampness on my back.

I remember, I say finally. She nods, her head still on my back. Happy anniversary, I say again, stumbling over the words. She holds me tighter after I say that. I remember, I say again as if trying to remind myself. How long was I gone? I ask, not really wanting to know the answer. Like she read my thoughts, she said nothing. I slip out of her embrace and walk over to the bed. I swipe the big book on it to the floor. I’m flooded with a cocktail of emotions – sadness, anger, fear and helplessness.

I am wondering, with great fear clutching my insides, when will the next episode be? How long will it be for? How long till I finally crash over the abyss that I see yawning it’s depths right at the edge of my line of vision.

I lower my right hand from clearing the wetness on my cheeks when a sob snaps me out of my reverie. What reverie? It’s right on the edge of my consciousness but I can’t seem to remember. More importantly, who is this old woman? And why does she look so sad? Why is she crying? How did I get here? Whose bracelet am I holding in my left hand?

I look away from her, to the ground. I feel like her outpouring of emotion like so, is a private experience. I notice the big book, like a defiled maiden with its page spread apart like legs splayed in wanton disgrace. I lift it off the ground. I look at the title — Be The Last Bastion of Hope – Coping When A Loved One Has Alzheimer’s. I wonder who could be reading this? A shiver runs down my spine. The book opens to a random page in that manner that books do when they wish to share a secret with you. There’s a sheet of paper, with the most beautiful handwriting I’ve seen in my life, on it. I don’t who it’s from or to whom, but I am curious. So I read.


My husband, my lover, my companion and my best friend.

A thousand waters cannot quench our love. On this day, 45 years ago, you made me your wife. At the time, I thought it was the happiest day of my life, then you proved me wrong. You topped that in many ways I can’t even begin to describe. Is it the way you named your – at the time – fledging business after me? Or how you turned down the offers to work outside the country just because you never wanted to leave me for a second? Or is it the way you held my hand and urged me on soothingly while we had the twins? Through this journey, you’ve been my soul-mate and my companion. You were my strength when I felt weak. I fell apart when Mama died, but you put me back together. You never stopped loving and supporting me for one second. This thing, this challenge, is the most difficult thing we’ve had to deal with in our lives together. But I am not dismayed. I won’t lie, it hurts that sometimes you do not remember my name, or who I am. It hurts that you may not remember that today is my birthday and also our wedding anniversary, but I also know it’s not your fault. I will not give up on you. Everyone – the children, our families and friends – has advised that I release you to a nursing home, but I can’t. I know you’d never do that to me. You married a woman who you’d never hear say the words “I love you”. You learned sign language for me even when your friends ridiculed you for loving a disabled woman. You could have had any woman you desired but you chose me. You chose me first, so at this difficult time, I choose you. I choose to love you and never give up. I reaffirm my love to you at such at time as this and on this special date for us.

Happy Anniversary, Olowo ori mi.

I love you with a love that will never see death


Photo credit:
July is a special month for us at BellaNaija. This year, as we celebrate our 6th anniversary, we hope to bring something special to our dear readers. Today’s BN Prose is the fourth of five anniversary themed stories you would read this month. We look forward to sharing more interesting features with you.


  1. alicia

    July 24, 2012 at 11:16 am

    ugh*** didnt wanna stop, this is real love

  2. thomiey

    July 24, 2012 at 11:18 am

    Sweet, sweet. Love is abt sacrifice and till u do that, I think you are not in love. Thx Bellanaija

  3. Gbemi

    July 24, 2012 at 11:19 am

    one word: extraordinaire!!!!!!!!!!!

  4. funmz

    July 24, 2012 at 11:25 am


  5. DeMorrieaux

    July 24, 2012 at 11:32 am

    “At the time, I thought it was the happiest day of my life, then you proved me wrong. You topped that in many ways..”

    The best part.

  6. kovieparker

    July 24, 2012 at 11:45 am

    Beautiful! in more ways than one.

  7. saphyah

    July 24, 2012 at 12:03 pm

    very touching…… Love is indeed a beautiful thing:-)

  8. bonny

    July 24, 2012 at 12:11 pm

    wow wow wow.she is even deaf or dumb.dis is love

  9. D Pretty

    July 24, 2012 at 12:12 pm

    *CRYING* Beautiful piece Jibola

  10. smiley

    July 24, 2012 at 12:14 pm

    Really inspiring! Unconditional love o

  11. love

    July 24, 2012 at 12:26 pm

    Love it

  12. PD

    July 24, 2012 at 12:31 pm

    i pray they find a cure for alzheimer disease……touching story!

  13. ohwlahdoonie

    July 24, 2012 at 12:37 pm

    *more tears*
    *sob sob*
    beautiful piece.

  14. lolypop

    July 24, 2012 at 12:57 pm

    Bravo! Dis is a masterpiece!

  15. portable-oge

    July 24, 2012 at 1:02 pm

    awww,am so touched emotionally,tears spilled down my cheeks,may we all find love as beautiful as this in our lives,amen!

  16. sandra

    July 24, 2012 at 1:05 pm

    crying deeply from my heart, wonderful piece, wooooooooow

  17. purplepearl

    July 24, 2012 at 1:13 pm

    Wonderful story. Love it

  18. MizV

    July 24, 2012 at 1:36 pm

    Awww! this is beautiful. Definitely brought tears to my eyes

  19. Kiz

    July 24, 2012 at 1:49 pm

    * i love you with a love that would never see death*
    very deep indeed. well done Jibola

  20. dammiedee

    July 24, 2012 at 2:49 pm

    awwww, this is so sad. very intense and so deep. this brought more than tears. well done jibz

  21. Lizzie

    July 24, 2012 at 3:28 pm


  22. Kiah

    July 24, 2012 at 3:35 pm

    amazing…as always.

  23. efe

    July 24, 2012 at 3:38 pm

    Deep one


    July 24, 2012 at 4:58 pm

    Love is so beautiful!

  25. ida

    July 24, 2012 at 7:02 pm

    beautiful story indeed.

  26. Princess of Zion

    July 24, 2012 at 8:00 pm

  27. Yu gi oh

    July 24, 2012 at 8:26 pm

    True love

  28. Joseph Tom

    July 24, 2012 at 9:40 pm


  29. Gold digger

    July 25, 2012 at 8:07 am


  30. St_Gothica

    July 25, 2012 at 9:57 am

    Having Alzheimer’s is my biggest fear but you just made it a little less frightening. For that I say thank you.

  31. Joey

    July 25, 2012 at 11:25 am

    Nice piece.

  32. Toyosi

    July 25, 2012 at 12:13 pm

    Please may we have a happy story?

  33. Mz B

    July 25, 2012 at 1:16 pm

    This is a story! so wonderful, i loved it. Although I kind of sensed the fact that he had Alzheimers, the suspense was still nice and i was looking forward to getting to the end so I could see how it all played out. This is true love, the part that touched me was the fact that he chose her with the infirmity that she had and then she chose to do the same! wonderful

  34. PenPikin

    July 25, 2012 at 2:05 pm

    Haiy! Jibola L: fluid. The synovial fluidity of the writer’s wrist amazes me and i was, at a point, viewing the whole setup in 3D. I confess to being in awe of this brother. Grace And Grease, man!
    SUB: I naturally am inclined toward enjoying the tragic side of life more. Sod’s Law applies. Some story!

  35. am a 'she'

    July 26, 2012 at 3:43 pm

    nice piece..i beleive a love like this still exists…

  36. Chysom

    July 27, 2012 at 4:16 pm

    Gosh.. Whoever this writer is, u sure can play with words!

  37. KittTatt

    July 27, 2012 at 6:59 pm

    I cried *sigh*

  38. Asheley

    July 29, 2012 at 12:50 am

    Cant stop da tears. this is indeed,lovely…

  39. Folake

    July 29, 2012 at 8:07 pm

    This is too touching a story. Thank God I didn’t cry as Jibola would have me do in most of his stories. I pray 4 a love like this. He loved her even with her disability too deep Mehn! U sure can play with words good job my dear.

  40. purpleSTAR

    August 2, 2012 at 8:49 pm

    Beautifully written. Lovely story line

  41. olubukola

    August 7, 2012 at 1:05 pm

    …The Notebook

  42. Hey

    September 18, 2012 at 5:07 pm

    Why is it signed “Kikelomo” at the end when that wasn’t mentioned as the woman’s name in the story? Her name went something like Gbemileke Adesola Shogunle.

  43. bee

    July 22, 2013 at 12:57 pm

    Good question……was wondering the same thing too

  44. Cryztalz

    October 29, 2013 at 7:33 pm

    Awwwwwwww….dis is d nicest, most touching piece i eva read. Well done writer.

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