The Reflection of Life

The last time I saw Obong Martin was in 2018 when he visited me in Surulere. We talked at length about his life—his late wife, his health struggles, and the time he spent in a coma. He told me he had been unconscious for four days and shared an eerie vision of seeing “dead souls” hanging in the ceiling. Perhaps we debated the meaning of this vision; I recall suggesting that life moves forward and doesn’t remain static. He credited his recovery to his mother’s prayers, describing her as a deeply spiritual and prayerful woman.

Obong’s life intertwined with mine in many ways. We attended Ojota Primary School and later Ojota Secondary School together. He was one of the “Agricultural Science disciples” groomed by Mr. Otunuga, alongside Eyitayo, Makinde, and Tosin. Most of them pursued careers in agriculture, though Tosin eventually veered into finance.

Obong once helped me secure an IT placement in Ibadan when I was studying agriculture. Like my family, his was large—father, mother, and eleven children. Such circumstances often stripped away the comforts of a quality life, leaving children to fend for themselves. Obong navigated these challenges with resilience, soaring as best he could, even if not like an eagle.

The end of a life often defines its story. It lays bare its struggles, vulnerabilities, and ultimate fragility. We take nothing from this world. No earthly treasure compares to the value of a soul.

Martins Obong, we might wish you had another chance at life, but time is granted only once. Rest in peace.

There he lay on the cold floor of a public space, lifeless. That’s where the police found him and carried him into their vehicle. On him, they found a phone. From the call log, they dialed a number that led to his younger brother, Ini.

When Ini received the call, he immediately recognized the voice as belonging to the police. Fear gripped him as he listened to the instructions. They asked him to come to the station to collect something. Uncertain and anxious, he decided to go with his uncle; he couldn’t bear to go alone.

At the Bode Thomas Police Station, they were directed to a certain room. There, they saw him—Imoh—lying still on the floor, cold and lifeless. His time on earth had come to an end.

I first met Imoh when we were both in Class One at Ojota Secondary School. Though he didn’t complete his education there, we remained friends. He lived on Ogudu Road and suffered from asthma. I had seen him struggle for breath many times. On difficult nights, he would rest his head on a desk or bench, battling for air. It was a daily ordeal that many of us take for granted.

That night, it seems, his fragile body gave in once more to the relentless battle. This time, it was the final struggle. The malfunctioning of his system, which had long complicated his life, claimed him at last. Imoh would have been 52 today, but his journey ended in 2021. The cold hands of death gave him no chance to say goodbye.

There is a day that awaits everyone. For some, it comes quietly and painlessly; for others, it is dramatic or abrupt. I am reminded of Viz Ola, another friend, who cried out in his sleep, startling the woman beside him. He asked if she had heard him cry out, and when she confirmed, he uttered, “Awon aye” (“The world”) and went back to sleep—never to wake again. Viz Ola was the only child of his aging mother.

Death, unlike the cycles we study in biology, has no resting phase. It is absolute. Life continues in another form, beyond the veil of this existence. Yet, life on Earth can be deeply challenging, filled with pain and disease for many. It is a tragedy to imagine such suffering extending into eternity.

Uwem Sampson