Three years ago, I lost a very good friend.
He committed suicide.
He had been trying to reach out to me for a number of days, but I was not available.
When I finally called him back one morning, he said he was just trying to say hi. We exchanged pleasantries and ended the call.
1

In the afternoon, I had a call from his number. When I picked it, it was his younger sister who was living with him.
"Brother XYZ has died," she told me tearfully.
"What?" I was aghast.
"He commented suicide."
And she ended the call.
I was devastated. My mind was awhirl.

The following morning, I traveled to Lagos. When I got to his house, his corpse was still on the mattress it was found on. A coffin had been sent for, and the undertakers were around.
When I saw the suicide note, it seemed to be addressed specifically to me. The words were...
3

...arranged in the argumentative form that was common to our regular philosophical disputations. In the note, he was essentially arguing why he had to end his own life, and pleading for understanding in case the reader doesn't agree with him.
I stood there, lost in thoughts.
4

Then it was time to put him in the coffin. I bent and assisted the undertakers, and helped select a cloth for him.
Then we carried the coffin to church for a 'semi-service' (remember, burying a suicide victim is not something a church is comfortable doing).
5

After church, I and a number of colleagues from our university days carried the coffin to the cemetery, and buried him.
We talked about him as a person, and the fact of his suicide. Even though it was nice to see old school mates, it was, in all, a very depressing occasion.
6

I thought about him over and over again.
He was a brilliant, creative and nice guy. But he was always broke. His suicide essentially rested on his becoming tired of having to depend on others for everything, including being constantly turned down by those who could help but...
7

... didn't.
He was a very good writer, but the vicissitudes of life didn't encourage his literary genius. While he was comfortable, he wrote an anthology of several poems. Unlike me who could hesitate for ages, he was always prompt to put down his thoughts. Besides, he was a...
8

... really good-hearted person, always trying to understand people and excuse their wrongs.
He was also struggling with mental health issues and sometimes had no money to buy drugs.
I saw him bloom and wither,
But he held up his head and never allowed anyone to pity him.
9

I keep asking myself: What difference would it have made if I'd been able to speak with him those days leading to his death? How much financial assistance would have kept him focused and creative, and not contemplate suicide?
#Please, give attention to people around you.
End