Chukwunonso
(Writer’s note: We had a memorial service on May 26 for Modestus Chukwunonso Chimezie, may he rest in peace, and this is a mix of what I wrote/said extemporaneously at the service.)
“Go to St. Thomas More.”
These were some of the last words I shared with my brother over Instagram messenger just a few days before his 29th birthday on November 17, 2022.
Five days later he died.
Tonight, we gather in St. Thomas More, where we grew up. Right there in the 3rd pew, off to the right is where we sat. Every Sunday. We went to school here. We grew up in the embrace of this Church. And now tonight, you all come to embrace us, to pray with us, and heal with my family in our pain.
We are from Aguata Local Government Area (LGA) in Anambra State in Nigeria. And, we have traveled a long way to be here. We found a home here in this church, far away from where we came, and in you we found a family.
It’s funny how God or the Universe (if you don’t like the G word) works. Even in our most desperate moments. There is hope.
At 2 AM PST on November 22, 2022, I got the call. I missed it because I was working. The detective from Prince George’s County Maryland left a voice message asking to speak with me by name for an unspecified reason. He never mentioned my brother, but immediately I was filled with dread. The other times my brother went to prison, I didn’t get a call. This was worse.
I didn’t call back immediately, it took me about 30 minutes to summon the courage to call the Detective back. It took him 30 seconds to share the news. “Emmanuel, I’m sorry your brother is dead.”
It was 3 AM in Seattle and 6 AM in Atlanta. Darkness threatens to suffocate us. I didn’t sleep that night. Shock is the purest form of caffeine. I paced, debated whether it was real, hid under the covers. After 7 hours I finally worked up the courage to call my Dad. Tears bathed my words much as they do now. But after hearing the news. He said what I most needed to hear.
“You did enough.”
To my father and to my mother, who left their family and friends in Nigeria to raise 3 children in a land that wasn’t their own. You did enough. To my dad who worked himself to the bone to put food on the table, showing us the value of hard work even as it cost us time together as a family. You did enough. To my mom, who would take us to the library every Saturday so we could get books and comics and movies that would allow us to travel farther in our imagination. You did enough. You have moved mountains for your children and the pain of losing one before he could reach his potential is unimaginable. You did enough. To my sister, who went with my brother to Nigeria for secondary school and sacrificed her dreams of going to a school like Asheville. Not to mention, always being there for each of us, even when you nurse your own pain. You did enough.
In that series of Instagram messages, just before he passed, my brother accused our family of exiling him and me of being a hypocrite that wasn’t there for him. I reread those messages recently and I won’t lie they stung. We traveled a long way together to be here. And there he was far from home, asking for help, looking for hope, and I refused to offer it to him.
I called the detective back again the next day to hear the details of how he passed. It was an overdose. He had been on a bender — partying non-stop since his birthday until he wasn’t and found himself in the ICU. The detective continued and reassured me that they did everything they could to keep him alive “We worked on him for 7 hours. They did everything they could for your brother. But to be honest with you, I don’t know if he wanted to keep going.”
The idea that my brother lost hope was more heartbreaking than his death. Part of me wished for a different scenario — maybe a fight he lost, anything but giving up. Because we members of the Chimezie & Nonye Okoye household do not give up. We never lose hope.
But the good priest here chose the reading for this service very wisely. Because hope is most important when it is darkest: “I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us…For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.” — Romans, Chapter 8
And in the same way, although my brother distanced himself from his family. His family never left him — both the one he was born into and the one he encountered on his own life journey. My dad just reminded me through his remarks that Chukwunonso had actually gone to St. Thomas More back in July and he had sat in the pew, off to the right where we would sit as a family.
The day I heard the news I got a Facebook Messenger call from a guy I had never met named Eric. He said he was my brother’s brother and he was. Eric had met my brother on the streets when they had both run away from their families. They took care of each other, got each other into and out of trouble. Much like me and my brother used to. Eric eventually moved back with his grandmother and invited his brother, my brother to live with them. And Eric’s grandmother treated Chukwunonso much like one of her own. Even far from home, God had surrounded Chukwunonso with family.
Now we are here, and we see the picture of a sweet innocent boy. This picture doesn’t capture the innocence that boy lost to the man he became. My brother was often not a good person. He was selfish. He hurt those he loved and those who loved him. He spent too much time in America’s “correctional” facilities without much personal correction. My brother was clever and creative. He figured out how to fix second hand games we got from Goodwill, how to steal cable so we could watch Dragon Ball Z after my parents fell asleep. He made music and loved to live life like a movie. Like the movies we used to write as kids. He was confused. He battled demons that I will likely never understand and hope that my own children never have to battle.
We are here because you all love my family and have accepted our pain as your pain in the hope that it might relieve us. Even for a bit. We are here because even in this night of grief, pain, and heartache there is still hope. We are grateful that we have been blessed to come here all the way from Aguata LGA to our home here in St. Thomas More. And we are grateful that we still have a ways to go.
Chukwunonso = God is Close. My parents know how to choose the names.
