That afternoon, I was at the gate before Dad honked for me to open it. Mom had said I shouldn’t call to tell Dad she was back. I couldn’t wait to see Dad and Sarfoa’s reactions.

Sarfoa threw herself at Mom and held on like she was never going to let go. She hadn’t even let Dad park the car before she was out of it and screaming, “Mummy! Mummy!”

Dad got out and stood by the car and watched them. I’d have given anything to know what he was thinking. Sarfoa was saying something to Mom but Mom’s gaze was on Dad. She looked afraid.

Dad took a step and then another and then he was also running just like Sarfoa had done and then his arms were around both Mom and Sarfoa, and Mom’s face was buried in his neck and everyone was crying. Even me who was still standing by the open gate.

I saw the look on Mom and Dad’s faces when I went downstairs that morning and I just knew.

“I’m so sorry,” Dad said to me and hugged me.

I didn’t think I had any more tears left in me. I thought I’d cried them all out, but apparently I hadn’t. I’d spoken to him at midnight Ghana time. He’d had pneumonia the week before but he had been receiving treatment for it. He’d even joked about how he would have pounded yam with proper soup (not the watered down versions that Ghanaians called soup) when he was discharged. And just like that three hours later he’d died. Brother Emeka had told Dad he’d passed away in his sleep.

I was in my room later that day when Dad knocked and walked in.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said stroking my back and arms.

“It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

“How can you not be angry?”

“It makes it easier when you see death as the doorway to a new life. Remember Paul? He said we don’t have to grieve like the rest of men who have no hope. And because Jesus died and rose again, all those who die in Him will one day rise again. God understands what it is to lose someone you love. He lost His own son. And that is where it gets better for us as Christians, because of Christ’s resurrection, death is not the end. We will see all those we love again, every single one of them and that is our hope.”

His words made me feel worse. I cried even harder.

“When someone dies young, we who they leave behind grieve and hurt because of they lose out on a lot things; growing up, graduating, getting a job, getting married, having kids. We feel they were cheated because we think they didn’t live enough. But when someone dies young, all God is concerned about is whether or not they died in Him. And that applies to everyone who dies, not just the young. As for me, I pray that I die at God’s appointed time but I’m not concerned with how old I’ll be when it happens. And that’s why though I hurt over Ntiriwa and Chidi, I still have hope that one day we will meet again.”

I sang at the first service. I hadn’t sung in church in almost a year, but it felt right like I was honouring Chidi and that felt right. I couldn’t stop the tears. As I sang the words to the song, the heaviness and the anger disappeared but in its place was a quiet, confident, assurance that all would be well again, that someday I would see Ntiriwa and Chidi again in a place where they would be whole, in a place with no death or sickness or disease or poverty.

I broke down in the middle of the song and the choir came up behind me and took over. Pastor and Mrs Kwakye were at my side before Dad and Mom could get to me. Almost everyone was in tears. Mrs Kwakye led me to her pew. She kept her arm around me all through the service. Dad didn’t preach the sermon he’d prepared. Instead he spoke about our journey on this earth and life after death, and he spoke about Chidi’s unwavering faith which he said was comparable to Paul’s.

Many people in the congregation cried as he spoke. After the service some of the students from KICS waited behind and offered condolences.

When we got home Afua Gyamfua and Kwaku Duah were waiting for us. They’d heard Chidi had died and they’d come to offer condolences and to apologise for the way they had treated me.