Nobody was in the mood to joke today, which was strange.
Because if there was one thing this table was good at, it was turning almost anything into laughter.
Today was different. The waiter served the coffee almost immediately after they all arrived.
Nobody touched it.
Emeka was the first to speak.
“I saw another RIP post this morning.”
Nobody asked who.
It almost didn’t matter anymore. Lately, it felt like every week there was another one.
Another young face.
Another caption that began with:
“Life is so unpredictable…”
Another comment section filled with,
“I still can’t believe it.”
Shola stared into her cup.
“I don’t know if it’s because we’re getting older…”
She paused.
“…or because it’s actually happening more.”
Nobody rushed to answer because they had all felt it.
Not necessarily the loss itself but the feeling that life had quietly become more fragile than they remembered.
“I used to think serious illnesses belonged to older people,” Atim said softly.
“You know… the kind of things adults whispered about.”
She looked around the table.
“Now it’s people our age.”
Musa nodded.
“Last month, my coursemate at the university posted a photo of him on the sickbay in the hospital. He has been diagnosed with cancer and needs support.”
The table fell silent.
Norma looked out the window.
“I don’t know when it happened,” she said.
“But somewhere along the way, we stopped talking only about weddings and job promotions.”
She smiled sadly.
“Now there are hospital visits.”
“Fundraisers.”
“Memorial posts.”
Emeka sighed.
“I hate how normal it’s starting to feel.”
After a while, Atim asked quietly,
“Do you think we’re afraid of death…”
“…or are we afraid that we’ve been living like we have unlimited time?”
Nobody answered.
Shola finally broke the silence.
“I’ve started calling people back.”
Everybody looked at her.
“I used to say, ‘I’ll call later.’”
She smiled faintly.
“Now I think… what if later doesn’t come?”
Norma nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about that too.”
“We postpone a lot.”
The trip.
The apology.
The medical check-up.
The prayer.
The conversation.
The rest.
We assume there will always be another Monday.
Another birthday.
Another chance.
Maybe there will.
Maybe there will not.
Musa looked around the table.
“I don’t think conversations like this are meant to make us afraid.”
He smiled gently.
“I think they’re meant to remind us that being alive is not something to postpone.”
The table felt silent again. You could hear a pin drop.
Outside, the café was as busy as ever.
People laughed.
Cars honked.
Life continued.
Inside, they all sat quietly, each thinking about someone they wished they could call, or hug, or thank.
Let’s talk.
Has losing someone, or watching someone your age go through a serious illness, changed the way you think about life?
Or do we only remember how fragile life is when grief visits us?
Editor’s Note: This conversation was written with compassion for everyone carrying the weight of loss or walking alongside someone facing illness. If this topic feels close to home, I hope you find comfort, not fear, in these words.
“Do you think we’re afraid of death or are we afraid that we’ve been living like we have unlimited time?”
I have a friend who calls herself Immortal. Some people would argue with her that there’s nothing immortal about her, that she’ll die like the rest of us and all. She’ll just be laughing at them. Never stressing herself to argue with you.
I asked her why she chose the name Immortal. She told me it’s never about the length of life or death but about the quality of life. That she doesn’t postpone anything. That if she dies today, she’ll be happy that she tried to do the thing she ever thought of doing. That she can never think of leaving life like it’s ending tomorrow.
With this, I don’t really know what I’m scared of. I think I’m scared that young and sudden death would be normalised.
I secretly pray that I live up to 200 years being very healthy and impactful.