Necessary Nonfiction
I remember the night the power went out mid-transfusion. The machines wailed like abandoned diek moduodore e pedo with the storm approaching dsrknsnd grey from God Minyonge.
A nurse lit her phone torch, steady as scripture, while another held my wrist and said “Breathe.”
That night I realized medicine is not science. It’s fashioned between fear and faith. A grieving dance where death leads and nurses keep stepping on its toes.
Nov 17, 2011.
My Cancerversary.
What an absurd calendar entry. A birthday without a cake. An anniversary without a wedding. A reminder that I once began dying and somehow forgot to finish.
That day, the doctor didn’t say fight. He said prepare. He said tell someone. He said this will change everything.
Nobody tells you anything about borrowed years; how loud clocks can become when time stops belonging to you.
I crashed into 2012 under surgical lights and morphine fog. A coma like a locked room with no windows. Then another. And another. Hospitals tried to keep me alive the way a leaking roof tries to keep out rain. I would wake up to strange ceilings and strangers calling my name like they were reminding me I still owned it. I never knew whether to thank them or apologize.
Living became a series of near-almosts.
Almost died.
Almost stayed.
Almost gave up.
Almost believed.
Cancer is not linear. It’s a matatu on Juja Road; stopping, reversing, overshooting and swerving toward ditches you never saw on the map. One month. The tumor softens. You dare to buy fresh tangerines. You answer messages. You think about next year.
The next week, your blood counts collapse and mortality sits on your chest like a toddler who refuses to get off. Hope is a recurring expense. Faith is bought in installments.
There’s a book I once read. Necessary Fiction. The second novel by Eloghosa Osunde, who also wrote the highly acclaimed debut Vagabonds!. The story explores the complexities of queer life in contemporary Nigeria, with a focus on chosen family, love and identity across generations. The novel features a large cast of characters, whose connections and histories are revealed in a nonlinear fashion through interconnected stories. A central element is a close-knit queer friend group in Lagos, which offers an intimate glimpse into their lives, joys and struggles.
It argued that stories fill the gaps between what is true and what is bearable.
However, this, what I’m writing, is Necessary Nonfiction. It doesn’t flinch, beautify or lie to make living easier. Things hurt for real. Fear has teeth. Survival is not metaphor but an invoice with no guarantee of receipt. Necessary Nonfiction is what we write because we are still here and that fact alone demands documentation.
Sometimes I think healing is a rumor we tell to get through the night. Other times, I experience my daughter’s banter and I know; rumors can save lives.
She once asked me why people die.
I told her, “Because life would be meaningless if no one missed us.”
She pressed her hand on mine, listening for meaning and whispered, “Don’t you dare go on me.”
I promised her nothing, except that I would try. Trying became my religion.
Every year since 2011, November 17 comes as a friend who knocks too loudly. It brings memories wrapped in body bags, beeping machines, coma-walls and the taste of survival in metal and dust.
Yet I celebrate.
Graciously.
Tenderly.
With gratitude that makes my life shake. This date is a monument to the version of me that refused the exit.
To the patients still waiting for dawn. I see you. To the nurses who hold wrists and command breath. I owe you. To the ones who didn’t wake up. I write so you are not forgotten. To the children whose parents are fading. You are the brightest grace against oblivion.
To you, my dear reader, witness, stranger and friend; thank you for lighting the torch when power fails.
If any line here has made your pulse hesitate, if you have a story that fears silence, walk with me into the next chapter. A memoir is coming home to you.
Order your copy from Nuria Bookstore.
— Buy a copy for yourself
— Buy one for someone who is unwell
— Buy one in memory of someone who fought
— Share it with anyone who needs a reason to stay
Your support is a purchase and participation in survival.
Help me turn Necessary Nonfiction into a proof that we live, ache, rise and root in our light.
Come celebrate a #Cancerversary that has kept me going.