When I was leaving their house in Regina, SK, Canada, on July 31, 2022, I was full of hope that Mercy’s health was improving. Her physical looks did not betray any sign of immediate danger. She was strong to attend her first son’s wedding, standing firm by her husband when he gave a long speech like a politician. About three months back when I called her husband, I spoke with her and her voice was strong; it exuded that kind of energy of a powerful fighter. Yes, she was powerful and strong to have challenged cancer for over 10 years.
Her mien was infectious. Always exuding the air of expressive attitude of a virtuous woman. Calm; respectful; and kind; I could hardly find enough adjectives to describe her personality.
Who can query the Creator? Neither can anyone ask questions over His decisions! But I am convinced that He allowed it for some reasons.
Our paths crossed in the early ’90s when her husband, Austin Agbonsuremi and I were working as Reporters in The Guardian newsroom. We developed closer relationship that went beyond colleagues. Indeed, the struggle for headline stories in the Guardian Express on the stable of The Guardian, strengthened our relationship in the newsroom. David Ogah was also in the fray; and we became inseparable threesome both inside and outside the newsroom.
With time, we began to exchange visits to our families. I was accompanied to Austin’s house for the first time by my late wife, Grace, when Mercy had the first baby. The reception was warm as we celebrated the arrival of a baby boy. From that moment, Mercy and Grace began to bond as if they grew up together. Even the movement of the Agbonsuremi’s to Abuja did not create any hiatus as both families kept tab with themselves.
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In all these years, I found Mercy to be a woman full of love and care. Nothing hurts her. She was always willing to support. Indeed, this was manifested in her motherly care she extended to my son when he pursued his academic life in Kitchner, Ontario, Canada. Mercy had been there with her children years before his arrival, and that gave the boy some sort of soft landing in a new and complex environment. He was always invited over to her place in Toronto to spend weekends with her family, and enjoy good Nigerian meals.
I could recall that during our late night telephone conversations with her, my wife would always remind her that she was Chuks “mother” in Canada. “So, always advise him, please. You are my eyes there o.” She would respond with some laughter: “No problems Ma,” in a voice of a disciplined mother. And she kept that promise even till her last days. Mercy and my son were like mother and son. I observed that they have special greeting slangs that some could hardly interpret.
“Malee!” Chuks would greet. “Area,” Mercy would respond with motherly smiles radiating her oval face. And they would exchange pleasantries in their own unique style. The young man will definitely miss her, especially as she can no more stand in as his “mother” at his wedding in Canada.
I also recall how she hosted us at the last moment we shared together in Canada last July. My son and I flew from Toronto to Regina, an over three-hour journey, to attend her first son’s wedding. The wedding held on July 23. On 24, the family hosted all their friends who had travelled from different parts of the world to attend the wedding. This was beside the treat the family gave to us on the eve of the wedding at the beautiful lounge in their estate.
Mercy was everywhere, serving all “mountain” of poundo yam. Kola Olagbodiyan and his wife were there; Nosa, another Guardian colleague was there also and a host of other Nigerians resident in Canada. Those that came from the US had left. Expectedly, we had enough to eat and drink. But as their guests were checking out of the hotel to return to their destinations the next morning, she had prepared a bedroom for me to stay extra seven days with them.
“Buddie,” as we call ourselves, “my wife said I should bring you to the house. We have planned that you will stay with us for another seven days,” her husband dropped the message with a note of finality. “Let your son travel back to his job. Afterall, you are in Canada to rest,” he reminded me. I had no choice than to oblige. Straight, he drove others to the airport; thereafter, we settled at their apartment.
All through the period, we would talk about life generally, reminiscing on our beginning; we talked about my loss and its implications to my future; we talked about her health, a condition that was between hope and despair. I noticed that at times, she was transfixed by the pain in her face. Before we returned from our routine morning walk, breakfast would be waiting for us.
Mercy, sleep well in the bossom of the Lord. I pray He will grant your soul mercy, peace and eternal rest.
But more importantly, Mercy kept her faith in God. The condition did not diminish her faith any bit. She was prayerful. She belonged to some online prayer groups; we also shared some prayers at home. We had hope that all her pains will translate into testimony. But the Ominipotent God eventually translated her into glory.
Who can query the Creator? Neither can anyone ask questions over His decisions! But I am convinced that He allowed it for some reasons. At least, that Mercy deserved to go home and rest from the pains and agony of battling the monster called cancer for over a decade. She had fought a good fight, no doubt.
Mercy, sleep well in the bossom of the Lord. I pray He will grant your soul mercy, peace and eternal rest. Until we meet again at the feet of our Lord Jesus Christ, good night.
May God grant the family and friends you left behind the strength to bear this huge loss.
