My name is Tinny Adeola Inemesit. I'm Nigerian, through and through—born of a Yoruba woman from the vibrant west and an Effik man whose roots run deep in the southern waters of our nation. Growing up, I was the baby of the house, the only girl among strong-willed brothers and gentle uncles who always made me feel like I was surrounded by warriors. My mother? She was the sun. The woman who could settle a household storm with just one look and had prayers for every pain, every decision, every meal. She was everything.
But this… this is not about a happy girlhood. This is a confession. A weight on my chest that no therapy, no European air, no perfect photograph can lighten. I found out too late. That's the truth. I found out too damn late that my mother had cancer. Stage 4, terminal. And she knew. She knew for years.
I didn't.
I was gallivanting across Europe. Studying here, brunching there, tasting life in ways I had only dreamed of when I was growing up in Calabar. I was working hard too, don't get me wrong. But it was the sort of "working hard" that convinces you that you're building something important—something worth the distance from family. Something worth the missed calls, the late replies, the "I'll visit soon, I promise" lies I told my mother too many times to count.
And then, I came back. By some miracle—or maybe it was a tug of the spirit—I decided to return home. It was a casual family get-together. One of those loud, laughter-filled gatherings where you have to shout to hear your own thoughts. My uncles were there. My brothers too. Daddy, as ever, quiet and observant, watching the younger ones carry on.
It was all going so well. Mum insisted on making swallow, even though we told her not to stress. But you know African mothers—especially Yoruba women like her. "Let me just make small ewedu and amala," she said, smiling that half-smile that always made me feel like a child again.
She called me to the kitchen.
"Come and join me, jare. Don't go back to obodo oyinbo and forget how to cook," she teased. I laughed, feeling oddly warm. I hadn't cooked with her in years. And then... it happened.
I don't even know how. Maybe I was clumsy, maybe it was the nerves of being around her again after so long, or maybe it was some cosmic design I still don't understand. But I knocked the kettle of hot water off the stove. It splashed on her hand.
The scream was short but sharp. She winced, and I saw pain flash in her eyes—real, blinding pain. It felt wrong, unfamiliar. My mother never flinched. Not for anything.
We rushed her to the hospital. Everyone panicked. Daddy was already on the phone before we left the compound. My elder brother kept rubbing her back in the car, whispering "you'll be okay, Ma" like a prayer. I was shaking. I couldn't stop.
The burn was bad, yes, but manageable. They treated her and she was discharged after a few days. Relief washed over me. I told myself it was fine. But then… then the letter came.
It was a medical report—some follow-up test results they'd run while she was there. I remember sitting on her bed, holding the paper, my hands trembling as I read it.
Stage 4 cancer. Aggressive. Long-term development. Immune system compromised.
I didn't understand. I didn't want to understand. I ran to her room, waving the paper, confused and breathless. She was so calm. So heartbreakingly calm.
"I didn't want to ruin your life with this," she said quietly. "You were living. You were shining. I wanted you to have that."
The selfish part of me screamed. How could she hide this? But another part—the one raised by this same woman—understood. She was a mother. That's what mothers do. They carry pain so their children don't have to.
After that, it all unraveled. She was admitted again, this time for cancer treatment. But her body was already weary. The disease had crept through her bones like a thief in the night. Her smile weakened. Her voice dimmed. She still made jokes, still asked me to plait her hair, still told Daddy to pray louder because "God doesn't hear whisper-prayers." But I could see it.
I could see her leaving me.
We tried everything. My father poured money into treatments. My brothers flew in pastors, doctors, herbalists, anyone who claimed they had hope in their hands. My cousins stayed up with me night after night, holding me when I couldn't breathe, when I couldn't sleep, when all I could do was weep.
And yet, nothing prepared me for the night she passed.
The house was too quiet. Daddy wasn't praying anymore. My youngest brother stared at the wall. And I… I just kept expecting her to call my name. "Adeola," she used to say, "you're my miracle child." But the miracle never came. Or maybe it did, in the time we had left.
I'm not the same. I see the world differently now. I see how thin the line is between presence and absence, between laughter and loss. I see how fragile time is, how guilt can wrap around your chest like a serpent and make it hard to breathe.
I live with that guilt now. The guilt of not being there. The guilt of not knowing. The guilt of spilling that water. I know—deep down—I didn't cause the cancer. I know that. But the timing... the circumstances… it still haunts me.
She never blamed me. Not once. Even in her pain, she comforted me.
But I battle with faith now. I question everything. How can a God so loving take someone so kind in such a cruel way? I know people say "she's in a better place." But I wanted her here. I needed her here. I still do.
This confession isn't to ask for sympathy. It's to release what's choking me. To say to anyone reading this: visit your family. Call your mother. Ask the uncomfortable questions. Don't wait for a tragedy to reconnect.
Because I waited.
And by the time I came home, I came home to a goodbye.