Stubbed Toes

On remembering, forgetting, and losing people

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Dear Bolu,

Your mind is elsewhere—perhaps on the rice that's starting to burn or the dying notes of your phone's ringtone. It's the food you're cooking. It's the call you can't afford to miss. You make haste, presumably in full control of your mind, body and extremities. The road ahead is clear and easily navigable, or so you think. You've been through this path time and again, what could possibly go wrong? You live here after all. You hurry. And in your hurry, a chair or a table extends one of its idle limbs. Or perhaps the foot of a door or a wall slides imperceptibly in your way. In either case, the result is the same—your toe crashes into a still object. The pain is immense. You might hurl a few curse words at the guilty object. You might groan and wonder how you've wronged the goddess of fortune. You're mad. You're hurt. But hopefully, it's not too severe, and you're able to limp quickly enough to save your rice (and cooking gas, of course) or pick up the phone call.

I like to think we've all gotten our toes into accidents similar to the one described above, and the resulting pain can be pretty significant. It's an experience that is accompanied by specific frustrations. First, we are annoyed that this mishap has put us a few seconds behind in our race to arrive at our desired destination. Secondly, we are not pleased with the fact that we have no one to blame but ourselves for the accident. The chair didn't actually extend one of its limbs, did it? No, I don't suppose it did. We were simply not careful enough to notice the obstacle in our way. Well, mishaps happen and as long as pieces of furniture continue to possess limbs, and man continues to be bipedal and ever forgetful of the food he is cooking, he will always suffer pain from stubbed toes.

I find this anecdote of stubbed toes useful in drawing a parallel between stubbed toes themselves and the experience of losing an acquaintance or a long lost friend. They are not very dissimilar, I think. We spend our lives remembering people and forgetting them. By remembering someone, I mean having them occupy a tangible space in our lives and interacting with them. They are more than a memory to us and we are involved with them. By forgetting someone, I mean relegating them to a memory instance or to nothing at all. They are not in our lives, but rather in the periphery or completely non-existent to us.

We remember people, and we forget them. Do you know how many people you've forgotten about? Try scrolling through your contacts list for a bit. I'm sure you'd find some contacts on your phone and be confused about who they are or who they could possibly be. "Who is Sola MOG?" "Who is Shade Year 3?" "Who is Pickup Guy?" "Who is Sarah Room 203?" "Who is Alfa 2 Odds?" You may figure it out after a while, but that just goes to show you that we really do forget people. And it's not often the case that we forget them because they hurt us, stole our precious Nike slides or Crocs, cheated on us, lied to us, gave us fake fixed games, oversalted our food, or disrespected us. No, the forgetting happens almost organically—for whatever reason, we interact with them less and we stop thinking about them.

I don't think we can do without forgetting people. We grow. We attend different schools. We switch teams. We change workplaces. We pivot to new careers. We move abroad. When these changes happen, we can't always take all the relationships we previously had together with us. We remember the ones we take along and forget the ones we leave behind. The man who made noodles for us on those tiresome school evenings and on whom we could rely upon for a tasty meal, a fair price, and a decent conversation. The hairstylist that always made sure we looked nice even when we were on a budget. The driver at work who became to us, an escape from the pressures of the office, choosing instead to treat us to the latest gossip, stories about his old life, and recollections from the time before we joined the company. The quiet, reserved classmate we were grouped with that was immense to the success of a project. The teacher or lecturer we were especially fond of because, perhaps, of his build or her curious glasses. The neighbours we played Super Mario and soccer with. The women we loved and left. The men we kissed and lost. We forget these people.

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

It's all quite sad. For some period in our lives, we have meaningful, genuine relationships with these people but we end up forgetting about them. In the same manner, they might also end up forgetting about us. Although they're not foremost on our minds, they somehow remain part of us, part of our story, and part of the path we've taken. They're as distant from us as our toes are from the seat of our consciousness. Did you know that your toes are the furthest thing on your body from your head? At infancy, the distance between your toes and your head is not so much. This is when we are close to these people. We see them every day and talk to them frequently. As we grow, however, our heads move further away from our toes. Similarly, as we take on new experiences and challenges, we move further away from these relationships.

And someday you're idly scrolling through Twitter or checking out WhatsApp statuses, expecting to see things you've seen before, yet somehow hopeful that you'd see something surprising. The internet never disappoints so you really come across something surprising. But this time it's not a meme or a skit, a soccer highlight or a twerk video, a clip from Grey's Anatomy or a throwback picture, an elegant poem or one of Seneca's nuggets. No. This time it's just a plain, black, blank picture. It's a hastily written eulogy. It's a sea of tears and a swarm of tearful emojis. It's a quote about the despair that accompanies loss. It's a question asked of the heavens—or of whoever cares to read—on the reason good people meet their end too soon. It's a defeatist resignation to the futility of endeavour. It's the picture of the deceased. It's someone you once shared a room with. It's someone you once shared laughs with. It's someone you shared your life with. And you've just found out they're gone.

You try to ask how it happened. Was it an accident or some illness? Was it an overdose on life's orgies or a willing departure from the world as we know it? The answer doesn't change anything but you insist on finding out perhaps because it gives you something to blame for their demise. Or perhaps because the cause is possibly one more thing you can try to avoid to stave off your inevitable death. You've just found out they're gone. It's unexpected, like a stubbed toe. It's painful, like a stubbed toe. It makes you pause for a moment, like a stubbed toe. You hurl curses at the cause of their deaths—the terrible state of the nation, negligence of professed professionals, the goddess of fortune—like a stubbed toe. Your world doesn't stop though. It's just a stubbed toe, isn't it? You limp on. You remain steadfast.

We remember people and we forget them, and it's pitiful that it can't be helped. Yes, we lead busy, distracted lives. It's why our rice gets burnt sometimes. However, I believe we can do better with remembering people and I think that's what birthdays are for. They put an upper limit of one year on hearing from people we once shared our lives with. They are convenient and important reminders of our toes that could someday, without warning, get stubbed. So send birthday messages to people you've forgotten about. Say a word of prayer for them.

Also the next time a chair extends one of its limbs to cause you pain, or some other trifling mishap happens, shoot someone you've forgotten about a Hello or a Hi text. There are many such people on your contact list. They'd appreciate it. For just as we have toes that could get stubbed, we are also, to others, toes that could get stubbed. So why don't we try a bit harder to remember people, dear friend?

Fin.

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P.S:

This letter is in memory of our stubbed toes—the ones we've heard about and the ones we'll never hear about.

Cover Image Credit: Alyssa Stevenson on Unsplash

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Write you soon, merci !

- Wolemercy