“If I Die Today, At Least Una Go Remember Me” – The Last Words That Still Echo
That evening reminded me why I always say real life is not a movie. No special effects. No rewind. No second take.
It was one of those typical Lagos nights when the power is out, and everyone comes outside to breathe.
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July heat, thick air, generator noise from afar, children playing in the compound, people scrolling their phones, gossip floating around like smoke. Just normal life.
Emeka was already tipsy when I saw him. I’ve known him for years. Loud guy. Big heart. Always joking. The type that makes any compound feel alive. He had started with beer, then moved on to palm wine, and by sunset, he was already feeling like the main character in a film.
“Omo, today I fit do anything,” he laughed.
I laughed too. We all did. That was his brand.
But experience has taught me something after years of watching people: when alcohol meets ego, logic leaves the building. Every time.
Our compound had a flat roof that people used for drying clothes and catching the breeze at night. Emeka climbed the ladder like he was about to perform a concert.
“I go show una say fear no dey my body,” he shouted.
Ifeoma, his girlfriend, stood below, already tired.
“Come down, abeg. This is not funny.”
But crowds can be dangerous. Phones came out. People were recording. And once an audience is watching, pride becomes fuel.
From the way he was moving, I knew this was not a joke anymore. I’ve seen enough accidents in Lagos to know when things are about to go wrong. That quiet feeling in your stomach. That warning your brain sends.
“Guy, come down,” I said.
He laughed. “If I die today, at least una go remember me.”
That line hit me differently. Real life is not supposed to sound like a movie script.
He ran.
Not confidently.
Not calculated.
Just drunk courage.
And then silence.
No shouting. No drama. Just shock.
When we reached him, I already knew. You don’t need medical training to recognize when life has left. His body was still, his eyes unfocused. That moment stays with you. It teaches you something no book ever will.
The compound changed after that.
No more rooftop hangouts.
No more jokes about flying.
The ladder was locked.
The children stopped playing there.
Sometimes, tragedy becomes the lesson people never wanted but desperately needed.
