A Light Through Pain

For the sake of this story, I’ll call my late cousin “A.” She was more than a cousin to me—she was my sister, my confidant, and my dearest friend. A grew up in Maiduguri with her parents, siblings, and step-siblings, all living together in a large family house.

Despite coming from a big family, A possessed a quiet strength and serenity that left an indelible impression on everyone she met. Life for her was never easy; she was born with sickle cell disease, and the cruel cycle of crises became her constant companion. Barely a month would pass without her enduring another painful episode.

Yet in the midst of her suffering, A remained incredibly strong. She was a kind, caring, and deeply loving person who never let her illness darken her spirit. She never quarreled or fought with anyone; instead, she always extended kindness and patience, even during the most challenging times.

A found joy in life’s simple pleasures—losing herself in the words of the Quran, reading books, and relaxing with movies that allowed her to escape, if only for a little while. She had dreams, too. She yearned to attend university, but despite finishing secondary school long before I even began mine, she faced years of frustration trying to gain admission.

Together with her mother, A tried every treatment available—both medicinal and Islamic remedies—but nothing seemed to ease her suffering. For a long time, she harbored one particular wish: to visit her aunt in Abuja. She would often plead with her mom to let her go for just a few weeks, but her mom, out of concern, would hesitate—fearing that A would become a burden if she had a crisis while staying there. Eventually, after years of gentle pleading, her mother agreed. A was ecstatic; for her, this trip symbolized a freedom she rarely experienced.

The day before her journey, A was struck with an intense crisis. She called me, asking me to come over. When I arrived, she whispered that she was in terrible pain and asked if I had any painkillers, wanting to hide her condition from her mom so she wouldn’t be stopped from going. I could see the determination in her eyes as she tried to push through the agony for a chance at this trip.

A traveled to Kaduna the next day, but her condition worsened after standing in the rain. Once she stabilized, her aunt insisted she continue to Abuja, where she would be more comfortable and better looked after. Soon after arriving, another crisis struck, and she was hospitalized. Tests were run, some results came back, while others were pending. She was discharged and stayed at her brother’s house to recover. Her mother kept urging her to return home to Maiduguri, but A wasn’t stable enough to travel.

The crises returned with unrelenting force. She was readmitted to the hospital, and the remaining test results revealed devastating news: her platelet levels were dangerously high, putting her at extreme risk of stroke. The doctors warned her brother that she could suffer a stroke at any moment. But A, ever the warrior, fought her way back to health once more and was discharged on a Friday. Her flight back to Maiduguri was booked for the following Tuesday, and she eagerly looked forward to going home, filled with a new lightness and joy.

On Monday, A spent most of the day resting. She slept deeply, as if gathering strength, and kept to her room. Later that evening, her sister-in-law went to check on her, only to find A unresponsive. She called her husband, and together they rushed A to the hospital. Her aunt was notified, and so were we. We all anxiously waited for news, hoping against hope. But despite every attempt to resuscitate her, A’s battle was finally over. We lost her that day. She slipped away, leaving us with a silence we could not fathom.

When I arrived at the hospital, there lay my sister—my beloved cousin, A—her body cold, lifeless. Touching her hand, I could feel the chill of death slowly spreading, and a numb disbelief gripped me. How could this beautiful soul, so vibrant with life and resilience, now be reduced to what they called “the body”? My world shattered at that moment. It didn’t feel real until they carried her to her final resting place and returned without her.

We lost A in 2017, yet it feels like only yesterday. Her memory lingers, forever fresh, like an ache that never quite heals. I often find myself mourning her, crying for the pain she endured and the battles she faced. Yet through my grief, I find comfort in knowing she is now free from pain, in a better place where suffering cannot touch her.

The upside, if one can be found in such profound loss, lies in the lasting impact she made on all who knew her. A’s legacy lives on in the quiet strength she showed us, in the kindness she extended even in her darkest moments, and in the way she taught us to face life’s challenges with grace and resilience.

Her story reminds us that true strength often comes wrapped in gentleness, and that even in the midst of great suffering, one can still touch others’ lives with love and light. While A may be gone, her spirit continues to inspire and guide those who knew her, showing us that even the briefest of lives can leave an eternal impact on the hearts they’ve touched.