The girls and I are sitting outside with Priscilla, trying to engage her in conversation so she wouldn’t be too consumed by her father’s death. Inside the living room, her mother, the widow, continues to scream and wail. It’s triggering, especially for me, which is why I suggested to the others that we convince Priscilla to leave the room. I’m glad they agreed.
We’ve shared our condolences repeatedly, so now we just sit in silence with Priscy, as we like to call her, until Kesewaa finally breaks the quiet.
“I didn’t think I could get over the death of my brother. I know what you’re going through; it will get better,” she says.
“My favorite uncle died three years ago. I’ve never cried so hard in my life,” Mamle adds. Slowly, the girls begin to share their stories of loss.
I’m so moved by their confessions that I barely notice when it’s my turn.
“Have you ever lost anyone close to you?” Adepa asks.
I fumble for a response before finally saying, “My grandmother died when I was about 11. I barely knew her.”
They nod. Mamle mentions how lucky I am, and we fall back into silence with Priscy.
But I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t say that the closest I’ve come to losing someone wasn’t a person but a dog. I want to tell Mamle that I’m the unluckiest of us all because, unlike them, I never had the chance to mourn openly. I can’t talk about it freely, because if I do, I’ll be ridiculed.
I remember the day Mama brought Hope home. He didn’t have a name then. When I was asked what we could call him, I said, “Hope.” There’s no story behind it, maybe it was because our first dog had been called Peace, and I thought Hope was a natural continuation of that theme.
Peace had been a troublemaker. When he got lost, it didn’t hurt much. If anything, I was relieved I wouldn’t have to keep running away from stray dogs that Peace always seemed to antagonize on our errands.
Hope was different. He was calm, quiet, and gentle. I’d even describe him as generous. He let me bathe him. He never stole, not from us or the neighbors.
Every day after school, he would meet me halfway down the street, almost as if he knew I was nearby. He was overprotective, growling at boys who got too close. When I went away for a few days, he would wiggle his tail and whimper excessively when I returned. I knew he loved me, maybe because I never yelled at him like my siblings did. Or maybe it was because I secretly fed him proper meals instead of leftovers, or searched for and picked ticks off his skin. I scratched his back and played with his fur, unlike my family, who called him “the beast” and insisted on keeping their distance.
I was in my second semester of freshman year when Hope died. Nobody bothered to tell me until I came home for Easter. When I arrived, there was a strange emptiness I couldn’t place. I greeted everyone but still didn’t feel truly welcomed.
“Where is Hope?” I finally asked.
“Oh, Hope? He died,” my brother replied nonchalantly.
“He died? What do you mean he died?”
“What kind of question is that? The animal died.”
“And nobody thought to tell me?”
“A dog died, and you want us to announce it? Why? Is it a human being?”
I was too heartbroken to continue the conversation. I retreated to my room and cried.
They told me he had choked on a bone my oldest sibling gave him from leftover soup. They said he didn’t bark in his last days, he just lay there, yelping and drooling excessively. He couldn’t eat or drink until he died.
Nobody thought to take him to a vet. They didn’t think he was worth the care or attention. I know I would have intervened if I had been home. And if Hope thought about me as he lay suffering, he probably told himself, “Adele will come home soon, and she will help me. This will be over soon.”
I should have asked about him during my calls home, but I didn’t. It’s almost as if my love for him stopped the moment I left. I’m sure I broke his heart.
Hope has been gone for 12 years. I don’t talk about him, but he’s someone I loved deeply and lost painfully. I try not to think about what he went through; it makes me angrier at my family. It makes me see them as unkind, heartless, and unloving.
“Adele… Adele!”
Mamle’s voice and a tap on my shoulder bring me back to the present. I’ve been gone….how long, I don’t know.
“Are you alright? You’re crying.”
Yes, I am. I quickly wipe my eyes and brace myself.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I just feel very sad for her mother.”
“Aww,” they say in unison.
Priscy gets up and walks toward me, crying. I can’t help but join her in tears.
