Her: Hello, darling, I’ve just arrived in Lomé.
Me: Thank God. Not too tired?
Her: A little, but I’m fine. It went well.
Me: Great! Try to get some rest.
Her: Yes, I should, but I’ve just spoken to Roland (my older brother). He says he’s going to see Mom, because her health hasn’t improved.
Me: All right. But you could rest and go and see her tomorrow. It’s already getting late in Lomé.
Her: No, it’s fine. I can go.
Me: Go ahead then, and keep me posted.
After that conversation with my partner, who had left Montreal the day before, I lay back down to finish my nap. I had plans to go out that evening, Saturday, December 14, 2019.
I then got ready, went to pick up a friend, and we headed to the party. I was living in the east end of Montreal, on rue Viau. The party was in the south, on boulevard Bishop-Power, near Monk metro station, in Ville LaSalle. You will understand later why these details matter.
The party was going well. The mood was good-natured.
After the customary greetings, the courtesies and the drinks, our hosts invited us to sit down at the table. The buffet offered dishes as varied as they were succulent, which we savoured with great pleasure.
The atmosphere breathed Christmas: all the stops pulled out, an impressive range of spirits, elegant guests, simply so and without frills.
While we were helping ourselves, I stayed connected to what was happening back home through text messages. My partner Claudia, my younger brother Reginald and my older brother Roland were all online on WhatsApp. They were writing to me, keeping me informed and answering almost instantly.
That reassured me. I felt no particular worry. My mother had been living with diabetes for several years, ever since Gabon. She had been through relapses and, since her definitive return to Togo in 2017, a few further episodes. She was following her treatment, monitoring her blood sugar and watching what she ate.
In short, she was a diabetic who was aware of her condition and attentive to the reactions of her body.
That evening, my family told me they were at the Sylvanus Olympio University Teaching Hospital (CHU) in Lomé. Mom’s condition had stabilized under care, and her blood sugar was coming back to normal.
To me, that was reassuring.
In Montreal, the meal was over and one of the guests suggested a game of Monopoly. I knew the game by name only. We settled in, the rules were explained. I was following along, I understood, but my attention stayed divided, because I was still messaging my family in Lomé.
The game had barely begun when I got a call from my partner:
Her: Darling, are you all right?
Me: Yes, I’m fine. And Mom?
Her: She’s much better. The nurses say they’ve run out of strips to check her blood sugar. So Roland sent Reginald to fetch some from the house at Dad’s. He’s just left.
Me: How can a teaching hospital run out of blood-glucose strips? Pffffttt…
Her: I don’t know what to say. But I really do think she’s better. I’ve stepped outside to get some air in the hospital courtyard.
Me: All right. Either way, keep me posted.
Her: I won’t forget. Talk soon! Kisses!
Me: Thank you, darling. Kisses!
I believe those were the last words I heard from back home before I lost my beloved mother.
After that call, I went back to the table to carry on with the game.
Two truly curious things then happened.
First, shortly after that call, I had no further news from home. My partner was no longer answering. Neither was my older brother, nor my younger brother. The messages were not even being delivered any more; they stayed pending.
I stared at the screen without blinking. The messages would no longer go through.
It was as if, in a desert, the only sources of water had just been cut off outright, without warning. A radical severing.
It was in that state that I came across the WhatsApp status of my aunt Alice, Mom’s younger sister. She had posted a photo of my mother, with a crying emoji beside it. That was the first shadow of disaster to brush against me. I said to myself inwardly: if something were to happen to my mother, I do not want to learn it this way — and least of all from a status update.
I was deep in those thoughts, trying to call my brothers and my partner, when the second strange thing happened.
My phone rang. It was Jean, a very good friend; I would even say a big brother at heart.
Before recounting that call, it is important to say what kind of man he is. Jean is a Togolese brother I met in Montreal while working at Médecins Sans Frontières. We hit it off immediately. He is married to a woman of grace, Joëlle. Together they embody kindness, elegance, inner strength and piety. They are raising their three children in Christian values, with responsible attention paid to their education and their screen time. They are people who favour simple gatherings, at home, far from nightlife.
It was ten past midnight.
Jean: Hello Martial, how are you?
Me: I’m well, thank you. And you?
Jean: Great, all good here too.
Me: Thank God.
Jean: Joëlle and I were on our way back from an evening downtown. We thought we might drop by and say hello. We’re not far from your place.
Me: Oh! That’s kind of you, I would have liked that, but I’m not at home.
Jean: Is that so? Where are you?
Me: On boulevard Bishop-Power, in LaSalle.
Jean: All right, no problem. We’re not far from there either. We’ll come by.
In my head, something did not add up. When he thought I was at home, he had already said he was not far. And now, despite the forty minutes between my address and where I actually was, he was saying the very same thing. It was strange.
And besides, for Jean and Joëlle, who carry themselves with such self-respect, to travel at night, after midnight, all the way from the Rive-Nord, without warning — that was simply not their way of doing things. It was unthinkable, even.
After hanging up and turning these thoughts over briefly, I went back to the Monopoly table. But my mind was no longer there. I was waiting. Impatient. With no news from home.
It was my turn to play. I did not roll the dice.
Fifty minutes later, my phone rang again.
Jean: We’ve arrived. We’re in the parking lot.
Me: All right. One moment. I’m coming down…
I rose slowly, as though each step carried me a little further from the party, from the game, and from the illusion that everything could still work out. Without knowing it, I was also leaving a world in which hope still had the right to exist as I had known it.
What was waiting for me downstairs was not only going to answer my questions.
It was going to upend my life forever.
The rest in part two (link)…
M. Z.
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